She was so baffled she couldn't make her way around the words and into a sentence. "But it's not—you're not…" She paused, did her best to pull her thoughts together. "You didn't come over here to take care of Simon."
"No, I came over to yell at you—which you already know, which is why you're annoyed. But I can yell later. I imagine Simon's got the bath-and-bed routine down. We'll do fine. Finish your slipcovers," he said as he started out of the room. "We'll fight when we're both done."
"I don't—"
But he was gone, and already calling for her son.
It was pretty tough to stick to an offense with a man who figured her out that neatly. But still. She started to go after him, then stopped herself. Simon was already launching into his "five more minutes" plea.
Her lips quirked in a very smug mother's smile. Why not just let Bradley get a taste of the nighttime ritual of convincing a nine-year-old he needed to wash and go to bed? Odds were the man would throw up his hands in defeat long before it was done. Which meant he would be too frazzled to worry about arguing with her—or lecturing her about going off on her own that morning.
Which she'd had a right to do, she reminded herself. More, she'd had an obligation. But she just didn't have the time or inclination to get into all that tonight.
So, Simon would wear him out, he'd go on home, and she'd have a quiet evening to finish her work and plan her strategy for the next few days.
Plus, she decided as she walked back to the sewing machine, she might just get the slipcovers knocked out.
She listened to their voices, the odd harmony of man and boy, then set up for the next running seam. One of them would shout for her when they hit impasse.
She heard laughter—maniacal on Simon's part, and smirked. Figuring her time was going to be very limited, she concentrated on the task at hand.
She lost track of time, and didn't surface until she realized just how quiet her house had become. No raised voices, no barking dog.
Concerned, she pushed away from the machine and hurried to the bathroom across the hall. It appeared that a very wild, very wet war had been waged. Towels were sopping up some of the water on the floor, and there was a skim of froth in the tub, telling her Simon had opted for bubbles along with the convoy of plastic vehicles and army of plastic men scattered in the tub.
Bradley's suit jacket hung on the hook on the back of the door. Absently, she took it off, smoothing the bump the hook had put in the collar.
Armani, she noted when she glanced at the label. That was surely a first. Italian designs didn't generally hang on her bathroom hook.
Carrying it with her, she walked toward Simon's room. She could hear him reading—his voice taking on that weight it did when he was sleepy.
Careful to be quiet, she peeked in the door. Then simply stood, staring, with the suit jacket clutched to her heart.
Her son was in bed, on the top bunk. He wore his Harry Potter pajamas, and his hair was shiny from its shampooing.
Moe was stretched out on the bottom bunk, his head on the pillow, and already snoring.
And the man whose jacket she held was up in the bunk with her boy, his back braced against the wall, his eyes— like Simon's—on the book.
Simon was nuzzled up against him, his head resting on Brad's shoulder while he read Captain Underpants out loud.
Her heart simply fell. She didn't try to stop it, wasn't capable of launching any sort of defense. In that single moment, she loved both of them with everything she had.
Whatever happened tomorrow, she would always have this picture of them in her mind. And so, she knew, would Simon. For that single moment, she owed Bradley Vane more than she could ever pay.
Not wanting to disturb them, she eased back and slipped quietly down to the kitchen.
She put on coffee, got cookies out of the jar. If he was going to yell at her, they might as well be civilized about it. When they were finished, and she was alone, she would try to think clearly once more. She would try to figure out what loving Bradley meant.
Because she was listening for him, she heard him come down the little hall. She reached for the pot to keep her hands busy, and was pouring the coffee when he came in.
"He give you much trouble?"
"Not especially. You finish the sewing?"
"Close enough." She turned to offer him the mug, and her heart bobbled again. He was barefoot, with the sleeves of his beautiful blue shirt rolled to his elbows. The cuffs of his pants were damp.
"I know you're angry with me, and I guess you think you've got some reasons to be. I was going to be angry back, and say all these things about running my own life and doing what I promised to do."