Dance Away with Me(24)

He’d added additional lighting, shelving, and a big purple velvet couch. He’d set up the computer workstation he’d used for digital art projects, which ranged from creating wall-size stencils to designing giant light shows he’d splashed on skyscrapers. But the graphic manipulation that used to engross him had lost its allure. He needed to do something else. Something—

How the hell was he supposed to figure that out with all this chaos? He might as well be back in Manhattan.

He thought of Bianca’s bedroom downstairs. The Widow Hartsong didn’t strike him as a fanciful person, yet she’d understood. He wasn’t sure he liked that. No, he was sure.

He didn’t.

*

Morning came too early. Tess stumbled downstairs, Wren in the crook of her arm. Ian emerged from the back bedroom as she finished giving Wren her bottle. With his untidy flannel shirt and jeans, he looked as though he belonged in these mountains—as big and rugged as the landscape around them.

“Coffee,” she croaked, before he could say a word. “And don’t speak to me. I was up with her three times last night. I hate her.”

“That would explain why you’re kissing the top of her head.”

“Stockholm syndrome. I’ve fallen under the spell of my captor. It’s a survival strategy.”

His grunt might be his version of amusement, but she doubted it. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make coffee.”

She’d never heard a more begrudging offer. “I hate you, too. You’ve had a full night’s sleep, it’s not even seven o’clock, and you’ve already been outside.”

“Somebody has to keep the country safe for democracy.”

Had he made a joke? He’d left for the kitchen, and she couldn’t tell.

The long dining table occupied the north side of the open living area. Its heavy, rough-hewn top had been thickly varnished to guard against splinters. The contrast between the white beadboard on the walls and all the dark wood—the table; the shiny, wide-planked floors; the bookcases set under the windows—made it a cozy winter space, but it would also be a cool retreat on the hottest summer days.

He carried two coffee mugs in from the kitchen, set hers down, and seated himself at the far end of the table, a good eight feet away. If she weren’t so cranky from her rotten night’s sleep, it would have been funny. “Oh, right,” she drawled. “You still believe girls have cooties. Once you’re in sixth grade, you won’t mind us so much.”

His mouth ticked. “I’ll move closer as long as you promise not to talk.” He slid his mug to the middle of the table.

“Don’t do me any favors.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I need to borrow one of your flannel shirts. Mine aren’t big enough for both Wren and me.” Trav’s sweatshirt would have been big enough to drape around them both—the sweatshirt saturated with Bianca’s blood and dumped so unceremoniously in the hospital trash can. She pulled herself together. “And FYI, you’re going to have to start taking over at least one of the nighttime shifts.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“I’ll show you.”

“Not necessary.”

“Very necessary. You can touch her, you know. None of this is her fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.” He carried his mug back to the kitchen.

She followed in his path, coming up behind him. “Catch!”

He whipped around, his hands instinctively reaching out. She gently set the tightly wrapped baby in his arms.

“What the—”

She backed off. “I need to brush my teeth, take a shower, and I’d like to use the toilet without a baby on my lap. You’ll have to cope.”

“But—”

“Deal with it.”

As she marched away, Wren began to cry. Tess hesitated and then forced herself to keep going. Wren had just eaten. There was nothing Tess could do for her that North couldn’t.

“I hired you!” he called after her.

“Consider this a government-regulated rest break.”





Chapter Six




Half an hour later, showered and shampooed, Tess returned downstairs. Ian had barely moved. He stood by the kitchen window only a few steps from where she’d left him. Wren was crying, and instead of walking her, he held her as if she were a grenade about to detonate. Any hopes she’d had that leaving them alone would break the ice around his heart disappeared.

“I’m not doing this,” he said stonily.

“I see.” She went over to the counter to pour herself another cup of coffee. Wren looked like a mouse in his big hands. His frown became a thunderstorm as Wren worked herself into a full frenzy. He thrust the baby toward her. “I have to get to work.”

She tucked the baby in the crook of her arm and began to readjust the blanket only to stop, her hand stilling on the soft fabric as she was struck by the possibility that she’d gotten it all wrong, right from the beginning. She went after him. “Wren isn’t yours, is she?”

He paused in his path from the kitchen. “What makes you say that?”

“If she were your baby, I don’t think you’d ignore her the way you have.” She followed him into the living area. “Although, considering your generally unpleasant disposition, I could be wrong.”