Lone Star Daddy. Cathy Gillen Thacker

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СКАЧАТЬ the table. Clint watched as two of the triplets ran toward the fridge. The other disappeared into the pantry. “Whoa now,” he said, beginning to feel a little alarmed. Especially since he sensed they wouldn’t be doing whatever this was if their mother were still on the premises. “What’s going on?”

      Stephen yanked open the fridge door so hard he nearly fell over. “I’m getting the ketchup.”

      Sophia stuck her head out of the pantry just long enough to declare, “I want honey.”

      Scarlet shoved her brother aside. “I want mustard.”

      They carried their trove back to the table.

      Clint got up to shut the refrigerator, then the pantry door. By the time he returned to the table, they were struggling to get the squeeze bottles open. Because Stephen was closest, Clint moved to assist him first. “Let me help you with that.”

      The tyke jerked away, the bottle clutched firmly in his small hands. “I can do it!”

      Clint eyed the red bottle. It seemed pretty full. “Really, I—”

      Squirt.

      A spray of red flew past Stephen’s plate and hit the center of the table instead.

      “Ah...” A word that shouldn’t be used around children nearly slipped from Clint’s lips, but thankfully did not.

      Determined to react as calmly and patiently as he was sure Rose would, Clint started to reach for the bottle. Before he could get it, Scarlet squirted the mustard with all her might, with equally messy results. Sophia was no better at dispensing the honey.

      This time Clint did swear silently to himself.

      Grimly he regarded the streaks of red, yellow and gold mingling on the center of the table. “Hand ’em over.” Before your mother sees this.

      “No! We do it ourselves!” the trio chanted in unison, rising up on their knees and clutching their bottles even more tightly. Unfortunately, though they initially aimed down at their plates, the force they put into squeezing the bottles pushed the bottoms of the containers down, toward themselves, and the tops up—straight at him. Before he could do more than take a breath, a spray of red splashed across his nicely ironed shirt. Another messy arc of yellow followed. The plastic honey bear squirted sticky goo.

      And that was, of course, the moment Rose chose to walk back in.

      Clint looked at her.

      But she was staring pointedly at her children.

      Abruptly chastened, the triplets sat back down, evidently prepared to use perfect manners now that their mom was back.

      “Really?” She put her hands on her hips and asked sternly, “Is this how we treat our guests?”

      All eyes lowered. “Sorry,” the three mumbled.

      Their apology accepted, Rose collected the condiment bottles and took them over to the sink. She deposited the sticky mess with a sigh. “Kids, please eat your dinner.”

      Pretty chin set, she pivoted and crooked an authoritative finger at Clint. Clearly she was not about to let him off the hook anywhere near as easily.

      “While you,” she said, locking eyes with him, “come with me.”

Chapter Three

      Rose led the way to the only semiprivate area on the bungalow’s first floor—the foyer.

      Once there, she pivoted so the hand-carved staircase was against her spine and folded her arms in front of her. “So much for leaving a cowboy in charge.”

      Clint tried not to notice how the fading sunlight pouring in through the transom over the door illuminated the golden highlights in her dark-blond hair. “Hey, I can wrangle a kiddo or two. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

      “Noted,” Rose said dryly. “And for the record, you’re going to want to put some water on those stains as soon as possible—otherwise that handsome shirt of yours will be permanently ruined.”

      Clint looked down at the splashes of ketchup, mustard and honey marring the otherwise pristine white-and-blue tattersall-plaid shirt. He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

      “Yeah, but this calamity was due to my kids, so...” Her voice trailing off, Rose looked him up and down, shaking her head in mute consternation. “You know, the stains aren’t just here.” She made a sweeping gesture, her glance moving down past his throat, to the center of his chest, to his waist, back up along his sleeves. “You’ve even got some in your hair and on your cheek.” She motioned to a place just next to his ear.

      However, Clint couldn’t help but note, the flour on her face was gone.

      One of the other ladies must have told her.

      Which was a shame. He would have liked to have seen to that himself.

      She winced, oblivious to the licentious direction of his thoughts. “Seriously, I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of the triplets’ never-ending quest for culinary independence.”

      “And here I thought it was just the prelude to a preschool-style food fight.”

      “I wish,” she replied ruefully. “Anyway, again, my apologies...”

      It didn’t escape his attention that the first two buttons on her blouse were undone, revealing a triangle of creamy, soft skin above her breasts. Ignoring the pressure building behind his fly, Clint smiled back. “I think I’ll survive.”

      She laughed. “I imagine you will.”

      Their gazes locked. Something changed in her eyes, a flicker of vulnerability glimmering in their beautiful green depths. His pulse amped up as she drew another quick breath.

      “But in the meantime, I insist you do something about that shirt before it’s ruined.” She gestured toward the second floor. “The bathrooms are upstairs. Fresh linens—and the stain remover pens and spray—are in the linen closet in my bathroom. Feel free to help yourself while I return to oversee the minions.”

      Clint nodded. “Thanks.”

      He found the higher floor even smaller than the first floor. There were only two bedrooms. One decorated in primary colors sported three youth beds, arranged dormitory-style, with built-in drawers beneath. The bedroom was connected to a small bath, also adorned in bright colors. Monogrammed towels hung from a rack. The bathtub was outfitted with toys and antislip safety decals. A sink with a child-size stepstool in front of it was smudged with toothpaste and hand soap.

      He moved on down the hall to the other bedroom, which was obviously Rose’s. It held a big four-poster bed with canopy, a padded bench and an old-fashioned makeup table with mirror. Clothes were strewn everywhere, from the closet floor to the end of the unmade bed and the back of an oversize satin chaise, which looked as if it served as a reading chair.

      The master bathroom was beyond that, and the only way to get to it—and the linen closet where the stain removal supplies СКАЧАТЬ