Marrying the Wrong Man (11 page)

“You can trust me,” he added.

She thought about the liquor. He’d done lots of untrustworthy things while he was under the influence. Yet she couldn’t imagine him putting Charlotte at risk. It was just motherhood making her overly paranoid, wasn’t it?

“I don’t know, Charlie.”

“Then I’ll stay at Phyllis’s so we’re in familiar territory and I have backup.”

How could Morgan argue with that? But just to be sure she didn’t wig out at the last minute and try to sabotage the daddy-daughter day, she left an hour before Charlie was supposed to arrive. As she drove to meet Mark at a picnic shelter on a blue-sky, Sunday afternoon, Morgan couldn’t keep herself from wondering what Charlie and Charlotte would do for two hours. Aunt Phyllis had made homemade play dough. Charlotte liked to eat it. Charlie was going to have his hands full with that.

Two hours.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. They’d be fine alone.

She’d be fine, too.

When Morgan pulled into the gravel parking lot, Mark was already there, standing alongside his shiny black sedan. She met him on the grass, suddenly conscious of how this might look. She’d messed things up with one Mitchell, and now she’d moved on to the only other eligible one. Then again, who was going to see them? Mark said this place would give Charlotte room to run and Morgan the best chance at a peaceful afternoon.

He gripped a grocery bag in each hand. “No Charlotte?”

She shook her head. “She’s with Charlie.”

“That’s great. It looks like things are going well.”

“They are. She’s warming up to him, and he’s good with her.”

“And work is going smoothly?” He set the bags on the nearest picnic table.

“Surprisingly. I also managed to get to the library for some job searching, and I sent out some resumes.”

“Excellent.”

She helped him unload napkins, utensils, two foot-long hoagies, a tub of macaroni salad, a bag of potato chips, a box of lemonade drink pouches … and a six-pack of beer.

He wore a sheepish grin. “My mother doesn’t like the smell of beer, so I sneak one when I’m going to be gone long enough for her not to notice.”

Morgan laughed. “But you brought a six pack.”

“It seemed silly and a little desperate to just bring one. Besides, I thought you might want to share.” He cracked open a can and sipped. “Some days that just hits the spot.”

Morgan pulled a lemonade pouch from the box in front of her. “Are you with your mother seven days a week?”

“Pretty much.”

“That sounds rough.”

“It is. She can be demanding.”

“I understand. Charlotte can be demanding, too.”

“Yeah, but Charlotte can’t swear, yet, and she doesn’t sign your paychecks, either. Plus, she’s cute. That makes it more tolerable.”

“And I have help.” Aunt Phyllis was a godsend.

“How is living with Phyllis?” He slid half a turkey hoagie toward Morgan and opened the bag of chips.

“More normal than you might think. She’s up at the crack of dawn and makes a hot breakfast every day, and she reads the bible before bed every night. In between, she gardens, bakes, cooks some more, and tends to her animals.”

“No cat curled into a hat on her head and no gun by the door to shoot trespassers?”

Morgan smiled. “No.”

“Why do you think she stays away from town?”

“For the same reason I’m eating lunch in a picnic pavilion instead of at the Main Street Diner. People suck. I’m sure she knows what they’re saying about her. Trust me. Knowing people are talking about you behind your back is no fun—even if you deserve the chatter.”

He faced the thick row of trees beyond the pavilion, as if the conversation had suddenly turned uncomfortable for him. Odd. Certainly she had more to be uncomfortable about as far as gossip went than he did. No matter what people thought about him hanging around his mother, he was still an almighty Mitchell.

“What do you think of my friend, Corbin?” He looked at her.

She lifted her brows at the abrupt change in topic. “I love Corbin. I think I would’ve quit by now if it weren’t for him.”

“Good.” He grinned and slapped a spoonful of macaroni salad onto her paper plate. “Now, tell me about these jobs you applied for.”

Another topic change. She would’ve called him on it if it weren’t such a beautiful, peaceful day. Morgan sucked lemonade through the tiny drink pouch straw and glanced at the flock of birds squawking and flying in a V-shape over her head. Charlotte would like that. Hopefully Charlie would take her out in the yard to play.

“There’s not much to tell. I applied to a handful of legal secretary jobs in Pittsburgh, a paralegal position in Atlanta, and an in-house corporate attorney in Denver.”

“You don’t sound excited about any of it.”

“Law is not really my thing. It was my father’s thing. And now, it’s the only thing I feel qualified to do. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe family law would be nice. At least it’s something remotely applicable to Charlotte. I mean, I’m a lot more interested in helping families than I am helping corporations these days.”

“Atlanta is nice.”

She’d never been.

“Will Charlotte split time between wherever you go and here?”

Morgan almost scoffed. Split time? She could barely get herself to leave her baby with Charlie for two hours. “No. Wherever I am, Charlotte will be, and I can’t imagine Charlie protesting until she’s much older. He’s got the bistro to worry about.”

“Still, I bet it will be hard for him when she leaves.”

No doubt. It wouldn’t be any easier on her and Charlotte.

There was something about Charlie that kept Morgan hanging on even when she was desperately telling herself to let go.

• • •

Charlie yelled when Charlotte bit down, trapping his finger between her teeth.

“Two-year-olds have teeth!”

“Of course they have teeth,” Phyllis said. “How do you think she eats?”

His finger throbbed. Charlotte was like a freaking shark, but he managed to fish the rest of the play dough out of her mouth and deposit her on the kitchen floor while he cleaned up the mess. Even with Phyllis’s help, his back ached and his breathing was hard. Had it really only been two hours since he’d gotten here?

Charlotte wailed.

Charlie lifted his brow in a pathetic beg as he turned to Phyllis. “What do I do?”

“She’s just tired. I’ll get her a sippy cup.”

Charlotte pawed at his leg, and Charlie picked her up, but she reached for Phyllis instead.

“Uh-uh, little one. You can have your milk, but you stay with your daddy. I have a kitten to wrangle.”

And then she was gone, out the back door, leaving Charlie with a sniveling, furiously sipping Charlotte. Now what?

He was screwed.

“Ssh, baby. It’s all good. Mommy will be home soon.” He hoped. He didn’t even know where Morgan was. That was probably a good thing. Otherwise, he and Charlotte may have crashed her party out of desperation.

As he walked to the living room, his little girl dropped her head to his chest. Her hand curled around his collar, and he melted.

Fortunately, the couch was nearby. He sat, and listened to her scattered breathing. The sippy cup dropped to the cushion beside him, but she never lost her grip on his shirt. He sighed, and rubbed his cheek against her fleshy knuckles. His nose ended up in her soft, strawberry-smelling hair.

There’d been an awful lot of turmoil in his life, but never—ever—peace like this.

His heartbeat slowed until his breaths matched hers, and he let his eyes close. On Phyllis Marion’s ratty couch, with the biggest surprise of his life weighing on his chest, he felt like the luckiest man on earth.

The front door opened, and he startled to find Morgan staring at him.

Charlotte fidgeted, but as he smoothed a hand over her back, she settled again. Maybe he was dreaming.

“Hey,” Morgan whispered. “You two look comfy. She ran you ragged, didn’t she?”

Charlie lifted his chin above Charlotte’s head. “It was fun.”

“Good.”

Her smile twinkled in her eyes. She was so damn pretty. And he was getting too damn comfortable in this fantasy world.

Morgan set her purse on the chair nearest the door.

“How was your … ”

“Lunch? It was nice. I never really had a lot of time to get to know Mark before.”

He tensed. She’d been with a guy, and not just any guy. “Mark Mitchell?” There went the fantasy.

“Yeah. He’s helped me out a lot since I’ve been back. Apparently, he has a thing for the outcasts.”

He hated the idea of Mark having any kind of thing for her.

She stepped closer, and after a pause, slipped her hands between them, separating their chests. “Here. Let me take her.” She flipped Charlotte around and cradled her. “I’ll be right back.”

Why were the women in his life always tied up with Mitchells? First Morgan and Justin, then Alice and Justin, and now Morgan and Mark.

He pushed off the couch and headed home, thankful for the reality check. He wasn’t going to be waiting on scraps from a Mitchell-Parrish relationship ever again.

Morgan had walked in on such a sweet moment yesterday—Charlotte cuddled against Charlie’s chest and both of them asleep. She still didn’t completely understand his abrupt departure afterward. Maybe it had something to do with her—or Mark.

That just complicated everything more than she needed, so even though she heard him banging around in the kitchen, preparing for the dinner crowd, she didn’t stop to say hi or to tell him that Charlotte had been asking for him. This was not the time or place to work out the kinks in their twisted relationship.

She stuffed her purse in a locker and tied her apron around her waist.
Don’t borrow trouble.
She had a roof over her head, an income, and cordial interactions with her child’s father. That was enough.

But lately she was wishing for more. Just one touch, one taste, one night where she felt fully alive again.

She slammed the locker door.

“Hey now,” Corbin said from behind her. “There’s not a single person in that dining room, yet, so who caused your foul mood?”

His bowtie tilted, and Morgan reached out to give it a tweak. “I’m just mad at myself.”

“For what?”

A pan clanged in the kitchen. “What do I need to do to get some help around here?” Charlie’s voice ricocheted off the lockers.

Morgan hid a small sigh behind a smile. “Never mind. It’s not a big deal. Go help Charlie before he blows a gasket.”

After checking with Hannah about the evening’s reservations and switching a few undesirable patrons to Corbin’s side of the room, Morgan returned to the kitchen for her order tablet, which was updated with the new weekly menu.

“How’s Charlotte?” Charlie asked. His back was to Morgan as he slid a tray of crostino into the holding rack.

A black T-shirt pulled across his shoulders, clinging to every undulation of his muscles. Air fluttered in her throat. “She’s good. She was coloring when I left. Speaking of leaving … Why did you leave so fast, yesterday?”

Straightening, he glanced at her over his right shoulder. “I had someplace to be.”

He disappeared into the pantry.

She growled. She couldn’t figure him out. He was great with Charlotte, and he was good with her. But he could just as easily turn off the charm and walk away.

Ha!
Well, she could do that, too.

With her order tablet in hand, Morgan left the kitchen. She was done trying to figure him out.

A few hours later, Mark walked into the restaurant. He’d been the one name on the reservation list that she was looking forward to.

“Good evening, Mrs. Mitchell.” Morgan smiled. “Mark.”

He pulled out his mother’s chair.

When Margaret was seated, Morgan handed her the weekly menu. “Duck is back.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like slimy meat.”

Laughter sputtered past Mark’s lips.

His mother’s shoulders shifted, and a thud sounded beneath the table.

His eyes went wide. “She kicked me.”

Margaret stared at her menu as if she’d done nothing of the sort.

Morgan smirked. They were the oddest couple. “What can I get you to drink?”

When she had their drink order in hand, she headed for the beverage station, only to be summoned by table six.

“I asked for well done, not burned. I’d like another.”

Ooh.
That was not going to go over well with Charlie. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When Charlie saw the plate, he sneered. “The man asked for well-done; that’s well done.”

Morgan wrinkled her nose. It looked burnt. But questioning this cook could be like questioning a blood-thirsty king, and there were already enough headless bodies in this kitchen. Diplomacy. She used to be good at that when she’d wanted to be.

“Some people don’t know anything about good cooking,” she said.

“Damn straight.” He threw another filet on the grill.

She was about to press her hands together in prayer formation when Corbin appeared and grabbed two plates off the serving counter.

“I served drinks to the Mitchells, and they’re ready to order.”

Charlie’s posture stiffened. “Which Mitchells?”

Morgan clammed up.

“Mark and his mother are here,” Corbin answered.

“Of course he is.” Charlie glared at her. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

Morgan gaped at his back as he stalked into the pantry. He
was
jealous.

And whether she should be or not, she was smiling.

Once this restaurant was empty, they were going to have a little talk.

• • •

Charlie slammed a clean frying pan onto the overhead rack.

Fuck it.
Whatever was going on between Morgan and Mark didn’t matter. It certainly didn’t matter enough to sabotage Mark’s dish with an overdose of cayenne.

He pushed the pepper away. Morgan didn’t belong to him now any more than she did back then. Charlotte, on the other hand, was his. He’d simply concentrate on that.

By the time service ended, Charlie had found his Zen again, scrubbing steel and glass until it shined.

“Good night,” Corbin said, lifting a trash bag before he pushed through the alley door.