“Seth,” he said quietly, turning so the boy faced her over his shoulder, “this is Jo. Remember her? You scared her at the grocery store last week.”
“He did not,” she whispered back. Seth watched her with big eyes, exactly like Trace’s deep blue ones. He was a miniature of his daddy. In twenty years, he’d be beating women off with a stick.
Or not. She smiled at that and tentatively reached up. His little fuzzy head, with wisps of dark hair curling around his ears, begged to be smoothed over. Then she snatched her hand back. Not her kid. Not hers to touch.
“It’s okay,” Trace murmured. “He likes the attention.”
Once more, she lifted her hand and let it smooth from the boy’s forehead down to his back. She was going on instinct, mostly. Seth moved into the caress, like a faithful dog wanting another scratch behind the ears. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t be comparing someone’s baby to a dog, but she was adrift on the whole kid thing.
“Hey, Seth,” she said softly. “I hear you’re not having fun with a tooth. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Between Trace’s gentle sway and the soft words, it seemed Seth struggled to keep his eyes open.
“You look a lot like your daddy, you know.” She glanced up to see Trace watching her. “Lucky for you, he’s a handsome guy. So it seems like you scored the genetic lottery on that one.” Taking a chance, she let one fingertip trail down his forehead, between his eyes to land on the tip of his nose with a near-imperceptible touch.
The touch seemed to soothe him, and he closed his eyes, nestling one ear against his father’s shoulder, and smiled a little. Or maybe it was gas. Jo couldn’t help but smile back. He was so darn cute, all snuggly and bundled up in his cowboy pajamas with feet meant to look like boots. What kind of woman could resist the picture these two men made?
“He’s pretty calm now. You want to hold him?”
And then the spell was broken. She stepped back, knocking into a table holding a lamp. She managed to reach back and grab the lamp before it crashed to the floor, but the damage was already done. Seth’s head jerked up, and his lower lip quivered.
Shit.
“I’m gonna get going.” She backed up, rapped her elbow on the open door and cursed under her breath. Then louder, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m gonna … thanks for dinner.”
The sound of Seth’s wail and Trace calling her name chased her down the stairs. Bea poked her head up from the living room couch and called to her as well, but Jo didn’t even bother waving.
Escape. It was the only thing she could think of. Escape the domestic bliss she’d nearly slid into like a comfortable pair of sweatpants. No. No, no, no. Not her thing. And she’d almost forgotten. She didn’t do the kid thing. She was nobody’s stepmother.
Damn it. How had she let herself be lured into that?
She settled her bag on the passenger seat and started the car. She waited for one moment, then two, but realized what she was doing and forced herself to back up and turn around in the dirt road. She didn’t need Trace chasing after her. And waiting for him to come down behind her smacked of manipulation.
So back to the drawing board. It annoyed her she hadn’t seen this coming. Hadn’t realized the two males together—one big, one little—would hit her so hard. Make it so easy to forget what she needed in life, what she wanted.
Back to just using each other for sex, she supposed. It wasn’t a bad idea, over all. But now it felt a little hollow. A little shallow compared to what she’d just left.
What she’d just left wasn’t for her. She was a bar owner who lived alone and liked it. The end.
She just had to keep repeating that to herself.
Chapter Eighteen
Jo opened the bar the next morning and greeted her first two patrons of the day with something close to dread.
“Officers,” she said, holding the door she’d just unlocked open for them. “Here for lunch?”
They both shook their heads, though Nelson gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Jo. And it’s all right.” She walked back behind the bar and set two coasters down in front of them. “Something to drink while we chat?”
Nelson ordered a water, White a soda. She poured both, got herself another water, and leaned in. None of her servers would barge in on the obviously private conversation. But still, she’d rather keep things as quiet as possible. “Do you have more questions for me?”
“First off, do you have the receipt from the other night?” White took a sip of his soda. “And any names you could think of that would serve as witnesses in the restaurant that night?”