Have Baby, Need Billionaire(13)

He frowned to himself and silently admitted that, no, he hadn't been   thinking about the baby. Hardly his fault when she was so near. He dared   any man to be able to keep his mind off Tula Barrons for long. "I   assumed he was sleeping since he's not with you and I can't hear him   crying."

She studied him for a thoughtful moment. "Don't you think you should   start being a part of the whole putting-Nathan-to-bed routine?"

"When I get the results of the paternity test, I will."

Until then, he was going to hang back. Taking part in bath time a few   nights ago had taught him that he was too damn vulnerable where that   baby was concerned. He had actually thought of himself as the boy's   father.                       
       
           



       

What if he found out Nathan wasn't his?

No, better to protect himself until he knew for sure.

"Simon, Nathan is your son and pretending he isn't won't change that."

"That's what we need to talk about," he said, standing to walk to the wet bar across the room. "Do you want a drink?"

"White wine if you've got it."

"I do." He took care of the drinks then sat down again opposite her.   Outside, night was crouched at the glass. A fire burned in the hearth   and the snap and hiss of the flames was the only sound for a few   minutes. Naturally, Tula couldn't keep quiet for long.

"Okay, what did you want to talk about?"

"This," he said, sweeping one hand out as if to encompass the house and everything in it.

"Well, that narrows it down," Tula mused, taking a sip of wine. "Look, I   get that you're a little freaked by the whole 'instant parenthood'   thing, but we can't change that, right?"

"I didn't say-"

"And I've closed up my house and moved here to help you settle in-"

"Yes, but-"

"You'll get to know the baby. I'll help as much as I can, but a lot of this is going to come down on you. He's your son."

"We don't know that for sure yet and I think-"

She ran right over him again and Simon was beginning to think that he'd   never get the chance to have any input in this conversation. Normally,   when he spoke, people listened. No one interrupted him. No one talked   over him. Except Tula. And as annoying as it was to admit, even to   himself, he liked that about her. She wasn't hesitant. Not afraid to   stand up for herself or Nathan. And not the least bit concerned about   telling him exactly what she thought.

Still, he was forced to grind his teeth and fight for patience as she continued.

She waved her glass of wine and sloshed a bit onto her denim-covered leg. She hardly noticed.

"So basically," she said, "I'm thinking a man like you would feel better with a clear-cut schedule."

That got his attention. "A man like me?"

She smiled, damn it and his temperature climbed a bit in response.

"Come on, Simon," she teased. "We both know that you've got a set routine in your life and the baby and I have disrupted it."

This conversation was not going the way he'd planned. He was supposed to   be the one taking charge. Telling Tula how things would go from here.   Instead, the tiny woman had taken the reins from his hands without him   even noticing. Simon took a sip of the aged scotch and let the liquor   burn its way down his throat. It sat like a ball of fire in the pit of   his stomach and he welcomed the heat. He looked at Tula, watching him   with good humor sparkling in her eyes and not a trace of the sexual pull   he'd been battling for days.

Irritating as hell that she could so blithely ignore what had been   driving him slowly insane. Fresh annoyance spiked at having her so   calmly staring him down, pretending to know him and his life and not   even once allowing that there was something between them.

Plus, in a few well-chosen words, Tula had managed to both insult and intrigue him.

"I don't have a routine," he grumbled, resenting the hell out of the   fact that she had made him sound like a doddering old man concentrating   solely on his comfortable rut in life.

She laughed and the sound filled the big room with a warmth it had never known.

"Simon, I've only been in this house a handful of days and I already   know your routine as well as you do. Up at six, breakfast at seven," she   began, ticking items off on her fingers. "Morning news at  seven-thirty,  leave for the office at eight. Home by five-thirty … "

He scowled at her, furious that she was reducing his life to a handful   of statistics. And even more furious that she was right. How in the hell   had that happened? Yes, he preferred order in his life, but there was a   distinct difference between a well-laid-out schedule and a monotonous   habit.

"A drink and the evening news at six," she went on, still smiling as if   she was really enjoying herself, "dinner at six-thirty, work in your   study until eight … "

Dear God, he thought in disgust, had he really become so trapped in his   own well-worn patterns he hadn't even noticed? If he was this   transparent to a woman who had known him little more than a week, what   must he look like to those who knew him well? Was he truly that   predictable? Was he nothing more than an echo of his own habits?

That thought was damned disconcerting.

"Don't stop now," he urged before taking another sip of scotch. "You're on a roll."                       
       
           



       

"Well, there my tale ends," she admitted. "By eight I'm putting the baby   to bed and I have no idea what you do with the rest of your night."  She  leaned one elbow on the arm of the chair and grinned at him. "Care  to  enlighten me?"

Oh, he'd like to enlighten her. He'd like to tell her she was wrong   about him entirely. Unfortunately, she wasn't. He'd like to take her   upstairs and shake up both of their routines. But he wasn't going to.   Not yet.

"I don't think so," he said tightly, still coming to grips with his own   slide into predictability. "Besides, I didn't want to talk about me. We   were going to talk about the baby."

"For us to talk about the baby," she countered with a satisfied nod,   "you would have to actually spend time with him. Which you manage to   avoid with amazing regularity."

"I'm not avoiding him."

"It's a big house, Simon, but it's not that big."

He stood up, suddenly needing to move. Pace. Something. Sitting in a   chair while she watched him with barely concealed disappointment was   annoying.

Simon knew he shouldn't care what she thought of him, but damned if he   wanted her thinking he was some sort of coward, hiding from his   responsibilities. Or an old man stuck in a routine of his own devising.   He walked to the wide bay window with a view of the park directly  across  the street. Moonlight played on the swing sets and slides,  illuminating  the playground with a soft light that looked almost  otherworldly.

"I haven't gotten the paternity test results back yet," he said, never   taking his gaze from the window and the night beyond the glass.

"You know he's yours, Simon. You can feel it."

He looked down at her as she walked up beside him. "What I feel isn't important."

"That's where you're wrong, Simon," she said sadly, looking up at him. "In the end, what you feel is the only important thing."

He didn't agree. Feelings got in the way of logical thought. And logic   was the only way to live your life. He had learned that lesson early and   well. Hadn't he watched his own father, Jarod Bradley, nearly wipe out   the family dynasty by being so chaotic, so disordered and flighty that   he neglected everything that was important?

Well, Simon had made a pledge to himself long ago that he was going to   be nothing like his father. He ran his world on common sense. On   competency. He didn't trust "feelings" to get him through his life. He   trusted his mind. His sense of responsibility and order.

Which was how he'd slipped into that rut he was cursing only moments   ago. His father hadn't had a routine for anything. He'd greeted each day   not knowing what was going to happen next. Simon preferred knowing   exactly what his world was doing-and arranging it to suit himself when   possible.

Besides, despite what Tula thought, he wasn't so much actively avoiding   Nathan as he had been avoiding her. Ever since that kiss. Ever since   he'd held her brea**sts cupped in his hands he hadn't been able to think   of anything else but getting his hands on her again. And until he   figured out exactly what that would mean, he was going to keep right on   avoiding her.