She thinks Dad needs us here, home, so she... acts out. Does stupid stuff.” His dark head lifted, his hair shaggy and thick like his father, his dark eyes his father’s too. “She’s not bad, though. She just gets so homesick.” His shoulders twisted. “I do, too.”

Harley heard the dogs bark in the distance. Brock must be heading toward the house. “Your dad doesn’t know, does he?” she asked.

“No.”

“He needs to know.”

“Yeah. But I don’t know how to tell him. He’ll just get mad.” Mack sighed, expression troubled. “Seems like he’s always so mad.”

“I think your dad doesn’t know how to handle the fact that you and Molly are growing up. I also think he’s worried that he’s going to make a mistake as a dad, and do the wrong thing.”

“The mistake was sending us to the Academy.”

“It won’t get any easier by not telling him. Better to break the news and get it over with. You’ll feel better when you tell him.”

He grimaced. “I don’t think so.”

She laughed and ruffled his hair which was icy cold. “He loves you, both you and Molly, so much. You have to believe that. You have to give him a chance. Now let’s go in and get into dry clothes, then you find Molly, make sure she’s okay, and I’ll start making some hot cocoa. Sound like a plan?”

 

 

 

She was at the stove, monitoring the milk in the saucepan when footsteps sounded on the back porch and Brock entered the kitchen.

“I’m making the kids hot chocolate,” she said, skin prickling as Brock approached the stove, glanced down into the pan. “Would you like some?”

“Hot chocolate?” he repeated.

“Yes, with marshmallows and whipped cream and chocolate shavings.” She smiled at him, feeling nervous and shy. She’d shared an awful lot this morning and now she wished she hadn’t. Only thing to do now was keep it professional. “Or I can keep it simple. Just cocoa if you prefer.”

“I’ll take some whipped cream,” he said, adding a log to the fire before dropping onto one of the stools at the counter. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “It’s not too much trouble.” She checked the milk to make sure it hadn’t started to boil and then retrieved another mug. After burning the pies yesterday she didn’t want to scald the milk today. But it would be a lot easier to concentrate if Brock were somewhere else.

“Want to call the kids?” she asked, staring down at the simmering milk, gauging the tiny bubbles.

“No.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. He practically filled the island, his big arms resting on the counter, his shoulders squared. “The cocoa is going to be ready soon.”

“But it’s not ready yet,” he said mildly.

“It will be soon.”

“Soon, but not yet.”

She glared at him. “You’re being difficult.”

“According to my kids I’m always difficult. And mean. And determined to make them unhappy for the rest of their lives.”

She hadn’t meant to laugh. She hadn’t even known she was going to laugh but the gurgle of laughter slipped from her and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.

“It’s not funny,” he said, and yet his eyes were smiling at her.

“No, it’s not.” Her lips twitched as she took in his big strong body, his black gleaming hair and his dark eyes in that ruggedly handsome face. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry at all.”

Her lips twitched again. “I’m trying to sound sympathetic.”

“You’re not trying very hard.”

“I’m also trying not to tell you I told-you-so.”

“Again, not trying very hard.”

She bit down into her lip to check her smile, and yet he was smiling a little, a small sexy smile that made her heart turn over and her insides melt.

He was too good-looking when he smiled. Much, much too good-looking.

“Don’t do that,” she said, trying to sound severe.

“Do what?”

“Be all friendly and sexy—”

“Sexy?” he pounced on the word, black eyebrows rising.

“Because from now on we are keeping things professional.”

“Professional,” he repeated.

Her tummy flipped and her pulse quickened. “Platonic.”

He said nothing just looked at her from beneath his dark lashes, his expression lazy, sultry, knowing.

He remembered how she’d kissed him last night. He remembered how she responded.

Harley flushed. “I’m here to do a job and that’s the only reason I’m here—”

“Harley—”

“I’m serious. I’m the housekeeper and cook—”

He was up off the stool and at her side, yanking the sauce pan with the boiling milk from the hot burner even as the milk bubbled up and over the edge of the pan all over the stove.

“Damn,” Harley cried. She could tell from the scorched smell that she hadn’t just wasted the milk, she’d burned the pan.