Sweet Trilogy: Sweet Talk / Sweet Spot / Sweet Trouble

“You got an A on your math test? Good for you. Uh-huh. Tacos for lunch sound good. The mall?” He glanced at Claire, then back at his daughter. “Yes, we can talk about new jeans.”

He signed as he spoke, watching the light in his daughter’s eyes, both pleased and grateful that she was so happy, so normal. He’d been terrified to be a single parent—sure he was going to screw up completely. But maybe not.

He watched as she told about meat loaf and cookbooks and how Nicole had moved to a chair, then Amy dashed off to tell Nicole that he was here.

Which left him alone with Claire and unable to ignore her much longer.

“Thanks for looking after her,” he said.

She smiled. “She’s wonderful. I had a great time. She’s a lot of fun to be with. So sweet and friendly. She’s very patient with my lousy signing.”

Claire moved her head as she spoke. Her long, blond hair fell over her shoulders, catching the light, making him think about burying his hands in that hair, of feeling the silky strands against his skin as she bent over him, took him in her mouth and—He swore silently and pushed the erotic image from his mind.

“You’re getting better at signing,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice his sudden erection. He took a couple of steps to the left so he was partially concealed by a club chair. “What is mutant?”

“Oh.” She looked at the floor, then back at him. “We were talking about my hands. They’re large, with long fingers. Freak hands, really. It’s good for playing the piano, though. I have a great range. Years ago, serious pianists would cut the tendons between their fingers to give themselves a greater range.”

“Nothing is worth that.”

“You’d be amazed what some people will do to be the best. It’s a serious business with a lot on the line.”

It was just playing the piano, he thought. How serious could it be?

“I bought a cookbook,” Claire said, changing the subject. “My very first meat loaf is in the oven. I’m not much of a cook, so this is a big deal for me.”

“Cooking isn’t that hard. You’ll get it.”

“We’ll see. When I went to use the oven, it was pretty complicated. There were three choices. Regular bake, convection bake and pure convection.”

“When Nicole remodeled, she had a convection oven put in. It cooks faster and hotter, with a fan circulating the heat. You get more even results. In a regular oven, you can’t stack cookie sheets and expect everything to cook evenly. In a convection oven, you can. You have to change the temperature and the cooking time if you’re using a conventional recipe and a convection oven.”

“How?”

“I don’t have a clue. Our oven is regular, so I bake the old-fashioned way. There are cookbooks that can help with that.”

“Maybe I’ll give it another week of practice before I head into that world. It’s a little complicated for me.” She tilted her head slightly. “You really use the oven?”

His arousal had eased, so he moved around the chair and sat down. “I bake a mean brownie. My chocolate cookies are okay, but that’s because there’s a recipe on the chocolate chip bag. I can bake a cake, although I usually order them from Nicole and I’ve never tried pie.”

“Impressive,” she said. “A renaissance man.”

“A single father. Shanna left when Amy was three months old.”

He’d been beyond terrified. Being a dad had been scary enough, but being both parents had been unimaginable. He’d barely slept the first year. Between reading everything he could get his hands on, dragging Amy to the pediatrician if she so much as sighed too heavily and grilling mothers for information, he’d driven everyone crazy. But they’d survived and once Amy started walking and signing, things had gotten easier. At least she could tell him what was wrong.

“How could your wife do that?” Claire asked, her eyes darkening with confusion. “Leave her child? A baby is a miracle and Amy is so amazing.”

“It was Shanna’s choice to go,” he said, not trying to hide his anger. He’d never missed the woman, but Amy needed her mother. “She doesn’t come back and visit. Amy deals.” Because she had to.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “She’s missing out. Amy is a wonder. I can’t believe how well she talks.”

“She goes to a special school for deaf children. In addition to signing, they focus on speech and lipreading. It was hard for her at first, but she’s getting it. But there’s some controversy in the deaf community about the practice.”

“Lipreading?”

“And speaking. A large portion of the deaf community believes they have a viable culture that should be respected. That they aren’t handicapped, just different, and that they shouldn’t have to learn to communicate the way hearing people do. But I worry about Amy’s life when she’s older. All her family is from the hearing world, so she’s going to have to fit into it some way. I want to make that as easy for her as possible. Learning to speak so people outside the deaf community can understand her is part of that.”

He stopped talking. “Sorry. I get carried away.”

“Don’t apologize. She’s your daughter. Of course you care. It’s just all so interesting. Thank you for trusting me with her.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

They stared at each other. Tension filled the room. The wanting returned and with it, Wyatt’s temper. Rather than walk around with a hard-on, or snap at someone who didn’t deserve it, he stood.

“I’m going to grab Amy so we can get home.”

“I’ll go get her.”

He watched Claire walk out of the room.

She moved with an easy, graceful stride, he thought, then wanted to hit himself in the head. He had it bad. More than bad. He was also going to have to find a way to get over it and her. She might not be as awful as he’d first thought, but there was no way he was getting involved with her. She was a complication he didn’t need, even if she was a woman he desperately wanted.

NICOLE SHIFTED in the chair. Sitting up was the next step in her healing. She had muscles that had to be retrained. So far she was making excellent progress, although it felt incredibly slow to her. The pain was less, she wasn’t as tired and the doctor had pulled out the stitches the day before—a wildly painful moment she didn’t want to have repeated. She should be pleased.

Yet what she felt was restless. She hated that the bakery was doing so well without her. Logically she knew her business could survive without her for a couple of weeks, but emotionally she hated that everything hadn’t fallen apart.

The phone rang and she grabbed it. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

Nicole recognized Jesse’s voice and hung up.

The phone rang again. Nicole picked it up. “Go to hell,” she said, her voice low and angry.

“Wait. You have to talk to me.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

Jesse began to cry. “I want to know how you’re doing.”

Nicole was unmoved by the tears. Jesse could turn it on like a faucet when it suited her.

“I’m recovering from the surgery, if that’s what you’re asking. Of course, having my heart ripped out by my sister and my husband is going to take longer to fix, so I don’t have an update on that.”

Jesse winced. “You’re still mad.”

“Um, yes. You must be stunned to realize I haven’t gotten over the fact that after everything I’ve done for you, how I’ve supported you, taken care of you, tried to do everything I could to make your life better, you still wanted to stab me in the back. I’ll give you credit, you did a hell of a job.”

She refused to actually feel any of the emotions swirling inside her. Better to stay in her head, be sarcastic, because anything else would rip her open so far, she would never recover.

“You hate me,” Jesse said with a sob.

“With every fiber of my being.” Nicole hung up.

Her heart pounded in her chest and she hurt all over.

She hated this… all of this. Hated what Jesse had done, hated Drew, hated her body for betraying her and hated herself for giving a damn about her baby sister.

Nicole turned her attention back to her book. She wasn’t actually reading the words, but she was willing to pretend. It was better than facing the emotional devastation of her life.

The house was silent and she was alone. Solitude pressed down on her, stealing her breath. She closed her eyes against the pain, but that didn’t stop the tears from running down her cheeks.

CLAIRE PARKED in front of Wyatt’s house. As she took in the two-story building, the big windows and wraparound porch, she tried to tell herself she was excited about spending time with Amy, nothing more. That the weird sensations flitting in and out of her body didn’t have anything to do with seeing Wyatt.

He’d called an hour ago and asked her if she could watch Amy while he ran off to an unexpected meeting. She’d agreed, then had been surprised to find herself looking forward to seeing him.

“It’s only for a few minutes,” she told herself as she locked the car and walked up the path. “Then he’ll be gone and I won’t have to think about him.”

She wasn’t sure why he was on her mind at all. Okay, yeah, he was good-looking, in a rough, manly sort of way. She liked how he was with his daughter and how he’d gotten over judging her based on all the stuff Nicole had said. But it was more than that.

Right now, standing on his porch, she felt a flutter in her stomach. It was almost like the nerves she felt before she performed, but different. There was a different level of excitement. Something that—

The front door opened and Wyatt motioned for her to enter.

“That was fast,” he said. “Thanks for doing this. I would have dropped Amy off, but it’s her bedtime in an hour and I don’t like to mess up her schedule on a school night. I have this client who’s driving me crazy. I’d tell her to forget it, but I took the job, so I’m going to get it done right. Damn work ethic. It gets me in trouble every time.”

He was smiling as he spoke. There was humor in his dark brown eyes. She found herself staring into them, as if she could… What? Get lost there? How weird was that?

“She’s fed and she doesn’t get much homework yet, so that’s not anything you have to deal with.” He glanced at his watch. “Let her watch TV another thirty minutes, then she can get ready for bed. She’ll get changed and brush her teeth by herself. Maybe you could read a story with her, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“I would love to,” she said honestly. Spending time with Amy was easy. She’d always wanted kids and being around Wyatt’s daughter helped fill that empty part of her.

“Great. Thanks. I really owe you.”

He was smiling again. Had he always been so tall? He was much taller than her, and more muscled than most of the men she knew. He also dressed differently, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt rather than a suit or anything designer.

“Claire?”

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

She blinked and looked away. “Sorry. I was thinking about something. I’m fine. Go meet with your client. I’ll take care of Amy.”

“Thanks.”

He touched her arm. It was nothing—a light brush of his fingers. But she felt the contact all the way down to her toes. It made her want to lean in to him and… And…

Then he was gone. Before she could even figure out what she wanted. A kiss? What would a kiss with him be like? He was probably the kind of guy who liked to be in charge, which was okay with her. It wasn’t as if she had a ton of experience and someone needed to know what he or she was doing. Better him than her.

She heard running footsteps on the hardwood, turned and saw Amy racing toward her.

“Hi!” she said, then braced for impact as Amy threw herself into her arms.

“You’re here,” Amy said, looking up at her and smiling. “I’m glad.”

“Me, too. Your dad left instructions.”

Amy wrinkled her nose.

Claire laughed. “Hey, they’re not bad. You can watch TV until you have to get ready for bed. Then we’ll read a story together. I think that sounds like fun.”

Amy signed, “Okay,” then asked, “Do you want to see my room?”

“Sure.”

The eight-year-old took her hand and led her through the house.

Claire had a first impression of large rooms filled with light. Hardwood floors stretched throughout the house. She saw a big dining room, a study that she would guess Wyatt used for working at home, a huge kitchen, a downstairs bath and a media room that had more equipment than she’d ever seen at a theater.

A wide curving staircase led to the second story. Amy’s room was the first bedroom on the left—a bright, open space with a window seat, a bed covered with pillows and stuffed animals, a child-size desk and a big bookshelf.

The walls were pale lavender, the comforter a floral fabric of various shades of purple. A big dark purple rug covered most of the hardwood floor.

Claire turned in a slow circle. “Hmm. I wonder what your favorite color is.”

Amy laughed, then took her hand and pulled her onto the window seat.

Claire was shown favorite dolls and stuffed bears, several board games and a dozen or so books that all looked well-read. Then Amy opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out a framed picture.

“My mom,” she said, handing it to Claire.

Claire wasn’t all that excited about seeing the former Mrs. Wyatt, but didn’t know how to politely decline. So she took the picture and braced herself for someone extraordinary.

Shanna Knight was beautiful. A stunning blond with short, layered hair and a smile that could sell toothpaste. She had pretty features, a perfect mouth and a gleam of mischief in her eyes. No wonder Wyatt had fallen for her. But why had he let her go?

“She’s very pretty,” Claire said.

Amy took back the picture. “She’s in Thailand.”

Claire couldn’t have heard that right. “Where?”

Amy finger spelled the word. It was Thailand.

“What is she doing there?”

Amy shrugged. “I don’t know. She left when I was a baby. Daddy says it’s not because I’m deaf, but maybe it is.”

Amy both spoke and signed, so Claire wasn’t sure she understood everything the girl said, but she caught most of it.

What was she supposed to say? That it was all right? It wasn’t. She couldn’t imagine someone simply abandoning her husband and newborn daughter, yet that is what had happened. Even if Shanna and Wyatt had come to hate each other, wouldn’t the other woman still want to be closer to her child?

It was a sad situation. Families shouldn’t be torn apart. She knew that from firsthand experience.

“Nicole said her mom died,” Amy said. “Your mom, too?”

Claire nodded. “Nicole and I are twins.”

Amy’s eyes widened. She signed, “For real?”

“Uh-huh. Fraternal.” Claire spelled the word slowly. “We don’t look alike, but we were born on the same day.”

“I want to be a twin,” Amy said with a grin. Her smile faded. “Or have a brother or sister.”

Claire wondered if Wyatt was seeing anyone. At the thought of another woman, she felt instantly edgy. “Your dad could get married again.”

Amy frowned as if she didn’t understand the word, then clasped her hands together in front of her. “Married?”

“Sure. People marry,” Claire made the sign, “again.”

Amy wrinkled her nose. “Daddy does not have girlfriends.”

Wyatt didn’t date? Why was that? Had he been so crushed by losing his wife? Claire didn’t want that to be the reason. Not that there was any really great reason for a man to stay single for all these years. Of course it was possible he saw women that Amy didn’t know about. He could be seeing a dozen right now.

Something else she didn’t want to think about.

“You could date him,” Amy said.

Claire opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Do you like Daddy?”

“He’s, um, very nice.”

Claire was grateful when that seemed to be the right answer. Amy put the picture of the beautiful Shanna back in her drawer, then took Claire’s hand.

“Come on,” she signed.

Claire followed her back downstairs, into a big living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. But what got her attention wasn’t the view or the well-decorated space or the fact that this was obviously one of those rooms people had but never used except when special company came over. What had her heart thudding faster and faster and her chest tightening was the black upright piano in the corner.

Amy signed something that was probably a version of “play it” or “can you play it.” Claire didn’t respond. Instead she moved closer to the piano, staring at it with a combination of fear and longing.

She hadn’t played in nearly four weeks. Not since that disastrous performance where she’d panicked and had been unable to breathe. Where the world had been reduced to her fear and the certain knowledge that whatever talent she had was lost forever.

She touched the smooth surface, then pulled back her hand. Even without sitting at the keys, she could imagine the music. The sound would fill the living room and spill out into the rest of the house. It would grow and bend and surround until it was inside of her, causing her blood to pump and her heart to beat.

She ached to hear the sound, to breathe in the music. She didn’t need sheet music, she knew so much by heart.

There were symphonies inside of her. Movements and choral pieces, light opera, show tunes, concertos. Millions of notes. She could look at a page and know how it was going to sound. She could hear everything without even playing, but she missed the feel of the keys, the music that was able to flow through her.

Blessed and cursed, she thought, trembling as she placed her hand on the shiny black surface. This was her life and without it, she was nothing. At least that’s what she’d always been taught. She was here to find out differently.

She thought of the dozen or so messages from her manager. Lisa was nothing if not persistent. But Claire had ignored every one of them. She didn’t want to get sucked back into that world. Oh, but she missed the music.

Amy gave her a little shove toward the bench, then walked over and stood with her hands on top of the piano.

“Play,” she said.

Claire took another step toward the bench. Immediately she found it difficult to breathe. Her chest tightened until she was sure she was going to have a heart attack. She would die right here, in Wyatt’s living room, scarring his child for life. She couldn’t do that. She should just walk away.

Instead she forced herself to take that last step, to sit on the bench, to open the cover and stare down at the keys.

She was breathing hard, sucking in air that never seemed to fill her lungs. She shook so much, she couldn’t possibly play. Without wanting to, she remembered the looks of horror and disappointment as people had gathered around her. They’d issued a statement saying she’d collapsed from overwork. Not that she had been afraid. Not that she might be crazy.

Because she knew the panic was all in her head. That she was doing it to herself. If she couldn’t fix that, wasn’t she, by definition, insane?

“Play,” Amy said again.

Claire nodded slowly. Ignoring the fear and the way her chest seemed to be collapsing on itself, ignoring the trembling and the knowledge that she had lost this forever, she put her fingers on the keys.

Something simple, she told herself. Something for a child.

She began to play one of Bach’s lullabies. The melody flowed from her with an ease that astonished her. She remembered every note and never stumbled. Music filled the room, surrounding them. Amy stood, her eyes closed, her hands pressing hard on the piano.

Tears burned in Claire’s eyes. She’d missed this, she thought sadly. Had missed playing. Even when she hated it more than anything, the piano was a part of who she was.

She played and played, losing herself in the sound, safe with her audience of one—a child who could only feel the music and who couldn’t hear a single note.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CLAIRE HOVERED by the oven, practically dancing with impatience as the timer counted down the last few seconds. When it dinged, she opened the oven and pulled out the roasting pan.

At first glance, everything looked all right. The chicken was golden-brown without being burned. The rosemary she’d put in the cavity smelled great.

She set the pan on the hot pads she’d already put in place, then pushed the meat thermometer into the breast. It read “done for poultry.” Next she used a knife to break the skin by the leg and stared at the juices pouring out. They were clear. At least they looked clear to her, but as this was her first chicken, she couldn’t be sure.

The last, and most important test involved actually cutting into the chicken. Claire braced herself for disappointment, then peeled back the skin and sliced into the breast.

It was cooked, but still juicy. She took a bite. Perfect!

“I did it,” she hummed to herself. “I did it. Yay me.”

Her first chicken ever. She’d managed to buy it and clean it and bake it and have it turn out. Amazing.

She opened the second oven and pulled out a casserole dish of scalloped potatoes. She wasn’t going to take as much credit for those because they’d come from a box. Still, they looked good. Last, she checked on the steaming green beans.

When everything was ready, she got out a plate for Nicole. But before she could fill it, she heard a noise in the hallway. She looked up and saw her sister slowly walking into the kitchen.

“I got tired of living in one room,” Nicole said as she pressed one hand to her midsection and made her way to the table. “I’m going to eat down here, if that’s all right.”

“Of course it is. How were the stairs?”

“Challenging. I’ll be very slow going back up. Dinner smells good.”

Claire was both proud and nervous. “I baked a chicken.”

“Impressive.”

Claire looked at her, not sure if the comment was really a compliment or something else. Nicole gave her a brief smile.

“I mean it. You said you didn’t know how to cook. Now you’re making dinner every night. You didn’t have to do that. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She hurried to set the table, then put the food out.

Nicole sat in one of the chairs and continued to press her hand against her stomach.

“Do you want a painkiller?” Claire asked.

“No, I’m cutting back. I’ll be fine. It’ll get better in a minute.”

Claire served both of them, then took her seat.

She’d gotten used to taking Nicole her dinner, sometimes eating with her, sometimes not. But this was different—being in the kitchen like regular people. She wasn’t sure what to say.

“I brought home a couple of slices of chocolate cake,” she said. “I’m not ready to try baking.”

“One of the advantages of owning a bakery,” Nicole told her. “You never have to worry about that kind of thing.”

Claire nodded and cut into her chicken. Silence stretched between them. She wished they had wine with the dinner. Getting buzzed might help with the tension she felt. Not that she was a big drinker. One glass and she was happy—two and she was on the road to loopy. She struggled frantically to find a topic of conversation.

“It’s been nice being in one place,” she said. “I really like Seattle. Do you enjoy living here?”

Nicole stared at her for a second. “It’s my home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I don’t have much to compare it to.”

“Oh. Right. I guess New York is my home, although I don’t spend a lot of time there. I have an apartment.

It was difficult to find one that would accommodate a piano and still leave room to walk around. Moving day was a nightmare. The piano barely fit in the service elevator, so that took hours. I don’t think I can ever move. It would be too much trauma.”

Nicole speared a couple of green beans. “I was in New York a few years ago. I went with Drew. We saw a couple of plays and went shopping. I don’t know if I would want to live in a city that big.”