A Dad for Her Twins

He stiffened. “If you’re so curious about Kenzie, you could have taken her the enchiladas instead of knocking on my door.” The churlishness in his tone reminded him of his self-important father, and JT flinched.

But Mrs. Sanchez held herself above his rudeness with reproachful aplomb. “I fully intend to take her a dish this weekend and welcome her. I thought it better not to show up on her doorstep her first day, when she might be feeling tired and overwhelmed. I hate to intrude,” she added with a faintly challenging air.

JT walked her to the door. “We’re lucky to have you in the building, Mrs. Sanchez.”

“You certainly are.”

He hesitated before saying goodbye, unsure how to ask what was on his mind without putting ideas in her head. Mrs. Sanchez herself had said that, if any of her grown daughters had been single when JT moved in, she would have sent her up to deliver the homemade soup. So far, for all her fussing that he needed a woman’s touch in his life, she’d lacked a spare female to nudge his way, deeming the flight attendant down the hall too frequently absent. Now there was a seemingly available woman living less than two yards from his front door. Surely Mrs. Sanchez knew better than to…

“You weren’t planning to mention me to her, were you?” he demanded, unable to help himself.

“Hasn’t she already met you for herself? What possible reason could I have for bringing you into the conversation? Is she some sort of art critic?”

He rocked back on his heels. “You’ve been known to spout the opinion that I would benefit from female companionship.”

“I’ve also said you should eat more regularly, clean up this disorderly pigsty and go back to painting. Why would I inflict you on some girl who is already burdened with raising two children alone? Jonathan, mijo, you’re probably the last thing she needs.”

He stole a glance over her shoulder at Kenzie’s door and tried to take stock of what he could possibly offer any woman at this point in his life. “You’re undoubtedly right.”

ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Kenzie excused herself to go downstairs and check the mail. She wasn’t expecting anything other than standard Dear Occupant fare, but she’d been going a little stir crazy in the apartment. The kids seemed louder than normal today, and she couldn’t chuck them out into a backyard to play. Showing the resilience of youth, they were back in better spirits. During a televised Braves game the night before, Drew had allowed that maybe living in Atlanta could be kind of cool.

Punching the elevator button, Kenzie considered the evening ahead. Would their finances, currently stretched by moving expenses and utility deposits, allow dinner out and a movie? Maybe if they went to the movie first, taking advantage of matinee prices, and eschewed concessions, then drank tap water at dinner rather than paying for sodas…She reached the bottom floor and dug in her pocket for the small silver key Mr. C. had given her. This was the first time she’d checked to make sure it worked.

She gathered the handful of mail, sorting through it in the elevator on her way back up. Coupons, catalogs, the bill that her cell phone company had thoughtfully forwarded so that she wouldn’t miss this month’s opportunity to pay them. One yellow envelope was addressed to Jonathan Trelauney. Previous occupant? When she noticed the “3C,” she realized the mailman must have just dropped it in her slot by mistake.

Jonathan Trelauney must be JT. His full name sounded familiar, but after dealing with so many people through the bank, eventually all names caused her moments of déjà vu. She’d encountered nearly half a dozen account holders with her sister’s name.

When she stepped off the elevator, Kenzie glanced at JT’s envelope. She’d been unpacking all day and was dusty. Her hair was tidy, pulled back in the habitual French twist she favored for work, but she didn’t have any makeup—

Oh, for pity’s sake! Handing the man his misdirected mail does not require mascara and perfume. Did she even own perfume? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d treated herself to anything more luxurious than scented body wash.

Annoyed with herself, she rapped on his door a bit more curtly than she’d intended. At first she wasn’t sure anyone would answer, but then she heard footsteps on the other side. JT appeared in the doorway, unshaven and shirtless!

Kenzie had taken a breath as the door opened; now she choked on her own oxygen. It took all her discipline not to let her gaze dwell on his leanly muscled torso or the dusting of dark hair across his broad chest. “I…is this a bad time?”

He rubbed a hand across his face. “I was sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh.” It seemed like a practically sinful indulgence, snoozing smack-dab in the middle of the afternoon, but then he didn’t have two kids bouncing around and a zillion boxes to unpack. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Did you need something?”

“Just bringing you this. It was in my mailbox.” Their fingers brushed when he took the envelope, and she told herself that such a platonic touch would ordinarily not make her light-headed. It was the proximity of all that naked skin making her heart flutter. He must have a naturally golden complexion. He wasn’t pale, but his color didn’t seem to come from a tan, either. And, good grief, was she staring again?

Because she was actually staring, she noticed a splotch of dark violet paint near his rib cage. Suddenly the name clicked. “Jonathan Trelauney! I know you. Of you, rather. You’re an artist.”

JT was startled by two things—three, truthfully, but he was trying to ignore the unexpected sensation that had washed through him when their hands met. He didn’t think the reaction came from the fleeting contact so much as her expression. Something akin to desire had flared in her eyes, and it had rocked him. No woman had looked at him like that in a long time. Hormones aside, he’d been surprised that Kenzie had heard of him. While his work had been renowned in certain circles, he was hardly a household name. Second, the way she’d said “You’re an artist” had been filled with horrified discovery. She might as well have pronounced “You’re a leper.”

He frowned. “Do you follow art?” It seemed the only logical conclusion for recognizing his name, yet didn’t explain her negative reaction.

“No. My hippie parents follow art. I’ve absorbed a few details here and there during the rare visit with them.” Though she kept her voice matter-of-fact, disdain leaked into her expression. The warmth in her earlier gaze had cooled completely.

Hippie parents? “Ah. I see.”

Her hands went to her hips. “Just what do you ‘see’?”

“Your parents were artistic, touchy-feely types, and you—” he hazarded a guess “—rebelled by growing up to be ultraconservative.”

Her burst of laughter caught him off guard. “Whatever you do, don’t give up art for psychiatry, because you couldn’t be more wrong. My younger sister, Ann, was the conservative in the family. I married a musician at eighteen.”

He glanced at her baggy shirt, sensible sneakers and pulled back hair. “You married a musician?”

“Yeah. And by nineteen, I had two babies to feed and clothe, so I reevaluated certain lifestyle choices.”

JT wished she looked cynical instead of vulnerable. He felt…well, he wasn’t sure, but she was a virtual stranger. He shouldn’t be required to feel anything on her behalf. If he’d been more awake when he answered the door, his normal barriers in place, he would have said thanks for the mail and dismissed her without further conversation.

He could always try that now. “Well, thanks for the—”

Behind her, the door to 3D opened, and two kids stuck their heads out, seeming surprised to see their mother talking to some shirtless dude across the hall.

“Mom!” This from the girl, who looked scandalized. The boy glared silently in JT’s direction.

Kenzie didn’t help matters, blushing as if she’d been caught in the midst of something illicit. “What are you guys doing out here?”

“We were worried about you.” The daughter fisted her hands on her hips. Mini-Kenzie. “You said you were going to run get the mail, then you didn’t come back. For all we knew, the elevator was stuck between floors!”

The boy looked faintly disappointed. “I had this plan for prying the doors open. Who’s he?”

“Kids, this is our across-the-hall neighbor, Jonathan Trelauney.”

“JT,” he told the children. “Nice to meet you.”

“These are my twins,” Kenzie said. “Drew and Leslie.”

“Not the identical kind of twins,” Drew interjected.

JT bit back a smile. “I noticed.”

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” The boy’s tone was thick with suspicion. “Doesn’t your air conditioner work? If you’re hot, it would be smart to wear shorts instead of jeans.”

Kenzie’s head whipped around as she shot her son a warning glance. “Use your manners, Drew.”

“But, Mom, I was just—”

“Let’s get back in our own apartment and leave Mr. Trelauney alone.”

Yes, JT thought with relief. Alone would be good. He attempted his goodbye again. “Well, thanks—”

The elevator ding sounded, reminding him that Mrs. Sanchez had said she would bring Kenzie food and an official welcome today.

“—forthemail,” he blurted. Then he shoved his door closed.

He caught a glimpse of Kenzie’s mouth falling open. She was probably taken aback by his rudeness. If she’d known he was saving her from possible matchmaking attempts, she might have appreciated his efforts. A moment later, there was another knock. JT, trying to learn from his mistakes, was slow to answer.

“It’s Sean,” his friend called from the hall. “I know you’re home. I just saw you shut the door in some poor woman’s face.”

JT ushered him in. “Don’t judge me. It’s complicated. You want a beer? I could use a beer.”

Sean, dapper in a button-down shirt and slacks, and making JT feel like the Wild Man of Borneo in comparison, frowned. “Do you even have beer in the apartment?”

“Um…no.” On his wedding anniversary, back in February, JT had gotten stinking blind drunk. After that, the thought of booze had made him sick for months and he’d avoided keeping any around. “Can I get you some lemonade?”

“All right, but only one, I have to drive,” Sean deadpanned. “Tell me about the hottie in the hall.”

“You can’t call Kenzie a hottie,” JT objected as he pulled a pitcher out of the refrigerator. “She has two kids.”

“The boy and girl? She doesn’t look old enough to have kids that age.”

JT recalled what she’d said about marrying as a teenager, but didn’t share the information with his friend; it seemed like a violation of privacy. “Why exactly are you here? Please don’t tell me it’s to ask if I’m painting anything. I was up until dawn, sketching and mixing colors on a canvas until my vision blurred.”

“About that.” Sean squirmed, looking uncomfortable, which was worrisome. Sean rarely let anything discomfit him. “Now don’t be mad.”

Lemonade missed its destination, splashing on the counter rather than into a glass. JT narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

“I was thinking entirely of you,” Sean said. “Well, mostly of you. Partially. We are business partners. Financially linked?”

“I’m aware. Cut to the chase.”

Sean swallowed. “I accepted a commission for you.”

“You what?”

“This older couple, the Owenbys, came into the gallery last night. You’d like them. Real marine-life enthusiasts, big contributors to the aquarium—”

“Sean!”

“They saw the abstract seascape mural of yours in Tennessee and want to hire you to do a much smaller version for their home.”

“No.”

“I told them they could leave a down payment with me and that I’d work out the details with you. Think of me as your agent.”

“Which you aren’t!”

“Don’t you even want to know how much they’re paying?”

“You had no business accepting that check!” JT thundered. He’d contact them and tell them no. Sean would refund their money. That would be that.

“I’m trying to help.” Sean had raised his voice, too. It was unlike him to show such blatant emotion, which made his angry insistence doubly effective. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve bottomed out.”

“Gee, that escaped my attention.”

“JT, I’m the best friend you’ve got, so get your head out of your ass and think it over. This doesn’t even require the creativity of having a new idea. All you have to do is duplicate what already exists.”

Pathetic. People were really willing to pay him money for that?

He wondered absently what his checking account looked like these days. He’d been coasting on some previous investments, what he’d made on the house sale and his part of the gallery proceeds. Gallery earnings, according to what Sean told him at lunch the other day, had steadily dipped for the past quarter. God, he was pathetic. Sean essentially did all the work in what was supposed to be a joint venture, picking up JT’s slack for two years. Shame burned in his gut.

Maybe this was a way for JT to step up to the plate. Skulking around his apartment and waiting for his next great idea hadn’t netted results.

“I thought it would help get you back in the habit,” Sean pressed. “Kick-start your artistic drive.”

“Oh, well then, I’ll just slap some blue squiggly lines on a canvas and we’ll all be happy, won’t we?” But JT’s sarcasm had lost its venomous edge. If he revisited a former painting, might it help him recapture what painting had been like back when he actually had inspiration?

He would do the painting, but he was still infuriated by Sean’s high-handed techniques. Infuriated that he’d been reduced to this. He took a swig of his lemonade and walked past Sean, carrying both glasses.

“Where are you going with those?”

JT didn’t bother glancing back. “To my studio to see if I can find something toxic to mix into yours.”

“So is that a yes?”

“You should leave before I change my mind.”

The front door opened before JT even finished his sentence, followed by a muffled whoop of triumph from the hall. JT was alone with two glasses of lemonade and the sudden fear that the only thing more pathetic than repainting something he’d already done would be painting a version that sucked.

Then again, at this point, what did he have left to lose?

Chapter Four

“I don’t know, Mom,” Leslie said from the beanbag chair where she was rereading The Trumpet of the Swan. “It still looks crooked.”

Kenzie paused at the top of her stepladder to shoot her daughter a mock glare. “She who decides she’d rather read than help does not get to offer criticism.”

“Would you actually let us help?” Drew asked excitedly, temporarily forgetting his handheld video game. “I didn’t think I was allowed to climb up there or use a hammer.”

“Well,” Kenzie said, backpedaling, “there are lots of other things you could be doing if you wanted to lend a hand. Like wiping the remaining cabinets and drawers with a wet paper towel so I can finish putting away kitchen stuff.”

Drew scrunched up his nose. “Lame.”

Lame, huh? Then she hated to think what it said about her that she’d experienced a thrill of heady satisfaction after applying shelf liner to the pantry and closets last night.

Her moment of triumph, though, hadn’t held quite the zing as the visceral thrill that had shot through her body when she’d seen JT’s naked chest. That had been a much different sensation. Even now she tingled at the memory, glancing down guiltily to make sure the kids didn’t realize their mom was having premature hot flashes over the new neighbor. She fanned herself with the framed picture she held.

“Mom?”

She almost jumped—not the best reaction at the top of a ladder. “Yes, Drew?”

“Why are you even hanging all this stuff?” he asked. “You’re just gonna have to take it down in a couple of months when we move again.”

For a change, he didn’t sound bitter about relocating, merely curious.

“It’s true that we won’t be here long, but I want us to be comfortable and happy in the meantime.” She indicated the pictures she’d already nailed into place. “This stuff makes me happy.”

It was amazing how far some family pictures on the wall and colorful hand towels in the kitchen could go toward making a place cheerful and inviting. Mr. Carlyle had told them that residents in this particular building were allowed to make more changes than most, in terms of knobs, light fixtures and even painting the walls. Tenants were simply required either to return their surroundings to their original condition when they left or to pay for management to do so. Her short time here wasn’t worth such effort, but she found herself imagining the difference she could make in the small apartment. It was cozier than it had first seemed when the atmosphere had been permeated with crankiness and the odor of damp cardboard.

There was a single bathroom, unfortunately, but it only held the toilet and bathtub. They each had a mirrored vanity and small private sink in the corner of their rooms. Like a hotel, Drew had said. Leslie had been ecstatic to have counter space for her hair stuff and lip gloss, and that she didn’t have to share with her brother.

Because she was hammering a nail into the wall, Kenzie didn’t realize there was someone at the door until Drew pointed it out to her. Leslie looked up with mild surprise, having been too engrossed in her novel to notice the knocking, either.

“Coming!” Kenzie called, descending from the ladder.

“Do you think it’s that tall man?” Leslie asked. “The one who lives across the hall?”

“JT? I doubt it. I expect it’s Mr. C. He said he’d be over sometime this weekend to fix my ceiling fan,” Kenzie said. “What made you think of JT?”

Leslie shrugged. “He seems weird. Opening and shutting his door yesterday without saying anything. Standing there with no shirt and messy hair today. Like this creepy professor I read about in a mystery once where—”

“Les, later, okay?” Kenzie didn’t want to open the door while her daughter was cataloging what she perceived as JT’s eccentricities after only two brief encounters. My kid is either too quick to judge, or she’s bizarrely perceptive. After all, weren’t a lot of artists known for being eccentric?

Like musicians.

She told herself that her potent physical reaction to JT earlier was just the unexpected shock of being that close to undressed male flesh, quite a rarity for her. If Kenzie ever dated again, it wouldn’t be with a sleep-tousled artist sporting careless dabs of paint across his flat abdomen. No, she would take the smart route…someone like the attractive man in the shirt and slacks who’d appeared in the hallway just as JT fled into the recesses of his apartment with hardly a goodbye. Les is right. He’s a little weird.

Luckily, not everyone in the building was mysterious, antisocial and averse to smiling. Kenzie opened the door to find a short, dark-haired woman beaming at her over the top of a foil-wrapped casserole dish.

“I’m Roberta Sanchez,” the lady said in a faintly accented voice. “Welcome to Peachy Acres!”

“Thank you,” Kenzie said, touched. The friendly gesture of hospitality reminded her of Raindrop; she hadn’t necessarily expected to find it so close to the heart of a city. “Please come in. I’m Kenzie Green, and these are my kids, Drew and Leslie.”

Drew sniffed the air like a hound. “What kind of food did you bring?” he demanded.

“Drew, don’t be rude.” The way her son acted, people probably thought Kenzie habitually starved him.

“How was I rude?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think she wants us to be interested in whatever she made?”

Mrs. Sanchez gave him a look that convinced Kenzie the older woman had children of her own. “Regardless, you should not talk back to your mother.” Then she smiled, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And it’s tamale pie.”

It smelled incredible, and Kenzie’s stomach gurgled with appreciation. She’d been so caught up in the visual progress she was making in the apartment that she hadn’t realized how close it was getting to dinnertime. And heaven knew that when Leslie was lost in a book, she didn’t stop to eat or sleep unless prompted. Oops. In light of her sarcastic thoughts about Drew’s appetite, she experienced a little pinch of guilt.

“So it’s a dessert?” Drew asked.

“Different kind of pie.” Kenzie took the warm pan from Mrs. Sanchez. Breathing in the scent of spiced meat and melted cheeses, she feared she might start drooling. “Leslie, say hello to our visitor.” Which doesn’t mean a halfhearted wave without glancing up from the page, she added with telepathic sternness.

Thankfully, the girl put the book down—after carefully saving her place with a bookmark bearing the wand-wielding image of Daniel Radcliffe. “Hi, I’m Leslie Green. You live in the building?”

Mrs. Sanchez nodded. “You’ll love it here.”

“We’re not staying long,” Drew said, his eyes locked on the dish in Kenzie’s hand as he practically vibrated with the unspoken question, When can we eat?

“No?” Mrs. Sanchez looked crestfallen. “Oh, that’s too bad. I already told some of my grandchildren that they might have kids to play with when they visited. And Jonathan—JT—could use some company. This floor is practically deserted.”

“Are you sure he wants company?” Leslie asked. “He reminds me a little of this guy in a story who kept to himself and had crazy eyes. No one could prove anything, but the characters suspected—”

“Leslie! Why don’t you find some plates? We should eat this wonderful-smelling tamale pie before it gets cold,” Kenzie said. Drew bounded toward the kitchen, eager to assist if it meant eating soon.

Leslie was slower, heaving a sigh as she trudged after him. “No one ever wants to hear about my books. I thought parents were supposed to be happy when their children liked to read.”

“Less attitude, more cooperation,” Kenzie admonished. Then she turned back to Mrs. Sanchez, who was trying not to smile. “Sorry. They’re not always like this.” Sometimes they’re worse.

“I understand. I raised four.” The woman’s gaze held both amusement and empathy. “You seem like you have your hands full. It’s just you and the children?”

Kenzie nodded. “They don’t see my ex on what you’d call a ‘regular’ basis.”

Mrs. Sanchez clucked her tongue. Something about her made Kenzie want to brew a pot of tea, sit down with the other woman and confide all her problems and doubts. Kenzie blinked, surprised by the impulse. She was accustomed to being self-sufficient. Her mother and father, bless their well-intentioned hearts, hadn’t been big believers in hands-on parenting, afraid that too many guidelines and rules would “stifle” her individuality. So she’d made a lot of decisions from a young age…including the one to marry Mick.

Getting pregnant hadn’t been a deliberate decision so much as a spontaneous celebration of a gig that was going to “put his band on the map.” She’d never regretted having the twins, but once they were born, she had not only herself to look after but two small, dependent babies. Mick’s failed attempts to be there for them had reinforced her determination to be independent. She must really be tired from the move if she was tempted to lean on a total stranger.

Straightening, Kenzie regained her composure. “Will you stay and eat with us, or do you have family waiting for you to join them for dinner?”

“Enrique and I ate early—he says waiting too late gives him heartburn at night—but I would love to stay for a few minutes and get to know you better.”

Kenzie dished up three servings of the tamale pie and poured glasses of sweet tea. At her first bite of the dinner, she nearly moaned. “Oh, this is so good!” she told a delighted Mrs. Sanchez.

Drew grunted acknowledgment, but refused to slow his eating long enough to vocalize praise. Leslie looked disgusted by his behavior.