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together, right?"
    A small smile creased his lips. "I couldn't do it without you."
    I highly doubted that, but it was still nice to hear. "I'm staying home today. This poor mite has been dealing with a ton of changes, and we need to get him settled, but I have a lot going on." It hit me that I had yet to tell him about Diced or the role I'd volunteered for him. Dagnabit, talk about crappy timing.
    It was too awkward to sit on a barstool with Clayton perched on my left side, so instead I brought him into the living room. The pile of stuff Lizzy had brought over was still heaped by the front door, the normally pristine living room looking like a tornado had blown through it.
    Clayton clutched me as though afraid I'd disappear and hid his face in my tank top when Jones brought him his liquid breakfast.
    Jones handed me the bottle. "He's terrified of me."
    "He doesn't know you," I soothed.
    "He doesn't know you either," Jones pointed out.
    "That's different. I'm not threatening." Well, not to this little guy anyway. I could make sous chefs quake in their boots.
    Jones made a sound that was half-snort, half-laugh. "Shows how much he knows."
    I ignored the father and focused on the son. "Aren't you thirsty?"
    Clayton peeked one eye up at me, and I smiled at him.
    "He doesn't talk yet," Jones said.
    "You're still getting your bearings, aren't you?" I replied to Jones, still speaking to Clayton. The last thing he needed was all the adults talking about him and no one talking to him. "I'll bet you're a regular chatterbox when you get goin'. Come on, don't you want this?"
    I held the bottle up in his line of sight. Slowly he turned his head, copper hair gleaming in the early morning sunlight. "A bwee bwee."
    "That's right," I coaxed, handing the bottle to him. Slowly he released the death grip on my shirt and reached for the offering.
    "Is that his word for bottle?" Jones asked.
    "Could be. Or it could be something else entirely." I grinned as he brought the bottle toward himself then plopped backwards onto the couch until he was sprawled flat on his back, fitting the nipple to his lips. Those blue eyes stayed trained on me as he drank deeply, making soft gasping noises between each pull.
    There was plenty of room on the other side of the couch, and without turning, I said to Jones, "Try sitting on the other side of the couch. Let him get used to seeing you, hearing your voice. I'll bet he's never heard anyone who talks like you before."
    Slowly, as though approaching a wild beast, Jones lowered himself onto the last couch cushion. Clayton's eyes shifted up to his father's, but he didn't stop drinking.
    "What should I say?" Jones asked, his gaze transfixed on his son.
    His son. Lord, twenty-four hours ago he hadn't even known that Clayton existed. Why hadn't Rochelle told him?
    My focus returned to the little guy, and I knew. Rochelle had been protecting her son. She knew how angry and bitter Jones was about their relationship had turned out and hadn't wanted to chance that Jones would transfer those feelings to their child. She'd probably showed up in town last winter planning to tell him then, but she'd died before she'd ever had the chance. Clayton hadn't even been a year old.
    I cleared my throat to answer Jones's question. "Anything. I could listen to you read the phone book, for the love of Pete. The content doesn't matter as much as your tone."
    "We've never discussed having children," Jones murmured.
    Now was so not the time to get into it either, and some part of me was fearful that Jones would be adamantly against the idea, which would break my heart a little for Clayton. My fiancé was many things—cultured, talented, smart, and oh-so-sexy—but I never once looked at him and thought, wow, he'd be a great dad. He was just so cosmopolitan, the shine on the cubic zirconia of Beaverton. I knew from my frequent visits to Donna's house that kids forced you to get your hands dirty in unimaginable ways.
    And truth be known, I'd