Dylan's Daddy Dilemma

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when Dylan heard a door open and close, and then the telltale sounds of Henry all but running down the stairs to the restaurant’s kitchen. Dammit all. What was that kid up to?

Sitting, Dylan wiped the grit from his eyes and contemplated his next move. The kid couldn’t be more than four or five, tops, and the kitchen wasn’t exactly childproofed.

He stood and followed Henry’s trail, taking the stairs two at a time, thoughts of sharp knives and gas-burning stoves filling his heart with dread. When he entered the kitchen, he stopped and waited for his pulse to return to normal. The kid was standing in front of the commercial refrigerator, his sandy-brown hair spiked and mussed from sleep, with the door wide-open. He was staring at its contents so intently he seemed oblivious to Dylan’s presence.

“Morning, Henry,” he said. “Hungry, I take it?”

The boy startled, sending a tremor through his thin, almost bony body. “You scared me! You shouldn’t do that. Mommy says it’s not nice to scare people.”

“Sorry, kid. But you probably shouldn’t be exploring on your own.” At least, not in a room filled with an abundance of child-safety hazards. If Dylan hadn’t been awake, anything could have happened. He shoved that thought far into the abyss—the boy was fine, after all—and asked, “Does your mom know you’re down here, or is she still sleeping?”

“I told her and she said she’d get up in five minutes, but she didn’t.”

“Ah.” And that, Dylan knew from his own childhood, was equivalent to receiving permission to go ahead and do as you pleased. “Well, I bet your mom is more tired than usual.”

“Right, so I ’cided to let her sleep.” Henry finally turned to look at Dylan. “She was sad last night. I thought if I made her breakfast, she’d smile. I like it when she smiles.”

Unexpected emotion gathered in Dylan’s throat. He swallowed it down, nodded and knelt in front of Henry. “That’s a fine idea. Mind if I help? I’d like to see your mom smile, too.”

“Don’t know,” Henry said, his tone solemn. “Do you cook good or bad?”

“Um. Neither, I guess. More like somewhere in between.”

Narrowing his eyes in contemplation, the tyke tapped his chin with the practiced seriousness of a fifty-year-old business magnate in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation. “I guess it’s okay if you help, but I’m in charge. It was my idea.”

“True. Though, you do realize that being in charge is a big responsibility? Maybe we could agree to be partners?” Dylan ruffled Henry’s hair. “What do you say?”

“I know what foods Mommy likes and what she doesn’t like,” Henry pointed out, expertly avoiding both of Dylan’s questions. “Do you know what foods she likes?”

“Other than bread and coffee, nope.”

“Then I should be in charge.”

Sensing this conversation could continue ad nauseam unless someone gave in, Dylan took the fall. “All righty, then, you call the shots and I’ll cook.” Pleasure at winning gleamed in Henry’s eyes, and Dylan forced back a chuckle. “Does you mom like eggs? Peanut-butter toast? Oatmeal? Or—”

“Nothing with peanut butter! She hates peanut butter because she’s...she’s—” Henry curled his bottom lip into his mouth as he searched for the correct word “—allergic! Gives her itchy bumps and makes her cough. She wouldn’t smile then. So, no peanut butter.”

Amused, Dylan nodded. He distinctly remembered Henry stating that his mother had eaten a peanut-butter sandwich for breakfast the prior day, so he doubted she was allergic. No sense in arguing with the guy in charge, though. “You’re right. Coughing and itchy rashes don’t typically make people smile. How does scrambled eggs and toast sound?”

“Okay, but not good enough.” Henry stubbed his toe into the tile floor. “I want her to smile a lot. And be really happy. So something better.”

“Something better, huh? What about—”

Before Dylan could finish his sentence, the back door to the kitchen opened, sending a blast of cold air into the room. His mother. Had to be. In all likelihood, Haley had already spread the news about his overnight guests. And no way, no how, would Margaret Foster set aside her curiosity or her concern until she’d deemed nothing was amiss.

Thank God, too. His mom could cook up a storm. Better yet, once she learned of Chelsea’s unfortunate set of circumstances, she would be more than happy to help.

“Hi, Mom,” Dylan said as he heard her soft-footed approach. “Perfect timing. We’re trying to decide what to make for breakfast, and it’s a tall order. We could use your input.”

Margaret’s concerned expression transformed into a cheerful smile the instant she realized a child was in attendance. She unbuttoned and removed her coat, which she hung on one of the wall hooks, saying, “Then it’s a good thing I decided to come right over. What are we trying to accomplish with breakfast? Other than no more empty tummies, that is.”

“We want to make my mommy smile,” Henry said. “And I’m Henry. I’m four! And I slept upstairs last night because our car wouldn’t turn on no more.”

“It is so nice to meet you, Henry! I’m Margaret, Dylan’s mom, and we’ll come up with the perfect breakfast.” Then, with a nod toward the still-open refrigerator door, she said, “Tell me, though, are you two trying to cool the kitchen or warm up the fridge?”

“Both, actually,” Dylan said, moving out of his mother’s way. “We were in the middle of conducting a science experiment on how fast temperatures can change. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

“Nope, that isn’t right.” He cast those innocent eyes of his on Margaret and, with an impish grin, said, “I was looking for food, but then he asked me a bunch of questions. I forgot about the door and he didn’t tell me to close it. He’s the grown-up, though, so it’s his fault.”

“Hey! You’re going to get me in trouble!” In a completely spontaneous movement, Dylan picked up Henry and swung him around in the air. Little-boy giggles along with Margaret’s surprised laughter poured into the room, and Dylan’s heart...well, it friggin’ soared.

Really wasn’t a better way to phrase the sensation.

When he set Henry safely on the floor, he said, “I’m not so grown-up that my mom can’t ground me...or worse. She might look and act all nice and sweet, but she’s tough.”

Margaret sniffed, reached behind them to shut the refrigerator door. “Had to be tough, raising boys like you and your brothers. Trouble, all three of you.”

“And Haley was a princess?”

“Haley was about the same trouble as the three of you combined, and yes, she is and always has been the princess of the family. But that,” Margaret said with a pointed look at Dylan, “wasn’t due to me or your father. That girl was spoiled rotten by you and your brothers.”

Yeah, well, true enough. Haley’s entrance into the Foster family had been met with spectacular awe, enormous love and fierce loyalty from each of the Foster brothers. She was theirs to care for, to protect, to teach and to guide. Reid, Dylan and Cole had taken their role as her big brothers to heart. They still did. Probably always would.

It was, Dylan realized with some shock, a type of affection not so different from what he’d just experienced with Henry in his arms, hearing his high-pitched, happy-as-all-get-out giggles. But that was an emotion typically only connected with family.

Certainly not with strangers.

Loud warning bells went off in Dylan’s head, which he flat-out ignored. Henry was a cute kid, and really, who didn’t enjoy the sound of a child’s laugh? Dylan closed his eyes and pushed out a breath. He’d shared a fun moment with Henry. That was it.

“Are you feeling okay?” Suddenly, his mother’s cool palm was pressed tight against his forehead. “No fever, but you’re paler than normal.”

“I’m fine.” Dylan opened his eyes and smiled. “Promise. Just tired.”

“Hmm. If you say so.”

“I do.” Though he’d be better once he got everything back on track. He’d start with the junkyard. “I need to make a quick phone call. Can you help Henry with breakfast?”

“Of course.” Margaret retreated a few inches and gave him another once-over before focusing on Henry. “Pancakes or waffles? Which do you think is the most smile-worthy?”

“Waffles!” Henry said without a second’s hesitation. “With blueberries and syrup and lots and lots of whippy cream and bacon. I love... I mean, Mommy loves bacon!”

“Excellent choices, but maybe we’ll go light on the whippy cream,” Margaret said, pulling on an apron and tying the straps around her waist. “Let’s grab a chair and move it to the sink, and you can be a big help by cleaning the blueberries. I’ll show you how.”

Dylan made his way toward the main restaurant and bar area, waiting until the last possible second before exiting the kitchen to say, “I should only be a few minutes. And later this morning, if we can get everyone over here, I’d like to set up a family meeting.”

“It’s already set,” Margaret said, her voice a tad too bubbly for Dylan’s peace of mind. “Everyone will be here shortly, so don’t go running off anywhere.”

Her statement made him pause. “Why’d you call everyone so fast?”