Chapter Six #2
In fact, he was starting to understand how a man could get used to coming in from a hard day’s work on the ranch to a homecooked meal every night. Especially if that hot meal was prepared by a hot wife.
Wait! Where the heck had that come from?
He frowned at the dregs left in the bottom of his mug, as if the stale coffee was somehow responsible for the wayward idea. Yeah, a lot of things seemed to be changing in his life, but his readiness to put his neck in the marriage noose was not one of them.
Pushing the uneasy thought aside, he asked Beth: “So when do we get to eat it?”
They ate forty-five minutes later.
And it was good.
If Beth had any doubts about that, they were assuaged when both Wilder and his father refilled their plates.
Max even insisted that the men would do the dishes to show their appreciation for “the delicious meal.” Of course, Beth had already washed up all the bowls and equipment she’d used in the prep process, so they really only had to put the plates, cutlery and empty baking pan in the dishwasher.
Still she was pleased to note that, despite his apparent wealth and status, the Crawford patriarch didn’t expect to be waited on hand and foot.
When the men had finished cleaning up, Max headed into town to meet another rancher at the Ace in the Hole for a beer and a discussion about the potential sale of a piece of equipment, leaving Beth alone with Wilder and Cody.
“I forgot to ask earlier—do you have a bathtub?” She posed the question to Wilder after his father had gone.
“You want to take a bath?”
“Not for me,” she said. “For Cody.”
“There’s one in my dad’s bathroom,” he told her.
“Do you think he’d mind if we used it?”
“Of course not.”
“Great,” she said. “If you can grab a couple of towels and a washcloth, I’ll get Cody’s baby shampoo and bodywash.”
He went to get the requested towels while she retrieved the toiletries. Wilder had pointed out the door to Max’s room earlier, but despite his assurance that his father wouldn’t mind her making use of his en suite bath, she still hesitated to enter the Crawford patriarch’s personal space.
“You can knock, if you want,” he teased, when he found her hovering outside his father’s room. “But he’s not home, so he won’t answer.”
“I know,” she admitted. “But it seems like a violation of his privacy to just walk right in.”
“I’ll go first,” he said. “And kick aside any clothes he’s left on the floor.”
She followed in his wake, trying not to be too nosy but unable to resist a quick peek at Max’s inner sanctum—which was furnished in a simple and masculine style and neat as a pin.
“You knew there wouldn’t be any clothes lying around, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, leading the way to the en suite bath. “My dad has never tolerated messiness or clutter—which is inevitable with six kids under one roof. Not even the full-time housekeeper we had in Dallas could keep up with us.”
“I can’t imagine any one woman being able to keep up with six kids,” she said sincerely. “But kudos to her for trying.”
He grinned at that and hit the light switch on the wall, illuminating a bathroom that was half the size of the enormous bedroom and twice as luxurious.
“Wow,” she said softly, grateful that he seemed to assume she was reacting to the revelation of the facilities rather than the curve of his lips.
“My dad spared no expense in here,” he confirmed. “But his two priorities were a shower with body jets and a tub big enough for his horse.”
She stared down at the oversize soaker tub and imagined sinking into steamy water filled with mountains of bubbles. Of course, the tub was more than big enough for two, and her traitorous imagination immediately invited Wilder’s big, hard body to join her—
She blinked and quickly dispelled the tantalizing image.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you could get a horse in there,” she agreed, not looking at him. “Because it’s definitely too big for a baby.”
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
Since turning her bubble bath fantasy into a reality wasn’t ever going to happen, she suggested, “Plan B.”
“I thought you were joking when you said the kitchen sink,” Wilder admitted.
Beth shook her head as she put the stopper in and turned on the faucet, testing the water temperature with the inside of her wrist. When there was about six inches of water, she took one of the folded towels and set it in the bottom of the sink.
“I thought the towels were for drying the baby.”
“The second towel is for drying the baby,” she said. “This one is so he doesn’t slip.”
“Why do I think you’ve done this before?”
“Because I have.” She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. “One weekend when Cody stayed with me, I forgot to pack his baby tub along with the rest of his things, so...Plan B.”
“You forgot to pack his tub?”
“That’s what I said.” She stripped the baby down to his diaper, then tested the temperature of the water again with her elbow before removing that final barrier and easing the little guy into the water.
“His mom didn’t pack his stuff?” Wilder asked.
“Sometimes,” Beth said.
It was a surprisingly vague response from a woman who usually seemed happy to talk about her nephew—and extol Leighton’s maternal virtues.
And though Wilder was tempted to press for more details, or at least inquire as to how many weekends she’d looked after a baby who was only four months old, he decided to let the topic slide—at least for now.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked instead.
“Why don’t you wash him while I hold him?” she suggested.
“Because washing seems a lot more complicated than holding,” he replied honestly.
She smiled but didn’t offer to reassign tasks.
Of course, she was already up to her elbows in the water, holding the baby upright so he didn’t topple over.
“Wet the washcloth, wring out the excess water and gently clean his face and neck. And don’t forget behind his ears,” she said.
He followed her directions, feeling awkward and inept—and far too aware of the scent of his shampoo in her hair as he huddled close to her by the sink.
“Now squeeze a drop of bodywash onto the cloth and work up a lather,” she said.
She patiently talked him through the process of washing and rinsing the baby’s body, then his hair, while she held Cody in place.
“This will be a lot easier once he’s able to sit up on his own,” she promised.
“And a lot easier with help,” he acknowledged. “I don’t think I could have tackled this on my own.”
“Sponge baths work in a pinch,” she said. “But it’s good to get babies accustomed to the water, and Cody always seems to enjoy his bath.”
It was obvious to Wilder that she’d performed the same task dozens of times before, and he was grateful for her help and guidance.
But her obvious ease with and affection for her nephew caused him to question again why Leighton, wanting a break from the demands of parenthood, hadn’t chosen to leave the baby with Beth.
While he was mulling over these questions, she’d toweled off, diapered and dressed the baby.
“There’s my sweet-smelling boy,” she said, nuzzling him for a moment before setting him in his car seat.
“Only until he fills his diaper again,” Wilder noted.
Beth shook her head as she turned back to the sink to drain the water.
It was then Wilder noticed that the front of her shirt was wet—and plastered against her like a second skin.
Though he knew he shouldn’t stare, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the delicate lace pattern of her bra, clearly visible through the now-transparent fabric, and he couldn’t help but admire the nicely rounded shape of the breasts inside the lace cups.
She lifted the sodden towel from the sink and twisted it in her hands to squeeze out the excess water, causing her breasts to lift and strain against the fabric, making his mouth go dry.
“—in the washing machine?”
He turned quickly, so that she wouldn’t catch him staring. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked if you could keep an eye on Cody while I go toss these towels in the washing machine,” she said.
“I’ll do it,” he said, grabbing the towels from her and beating a hasty retreat, grateful for the opportunity to escape the temptation of her nearness.
Max found Beth waiting for the kettle to boil when he walked into the kitchen later that night.
“You couldn’t sleep, either?” he guessed.
She shook her head. “I hope I didn’t disturb you by moving around in here.”
“I didn’t hear anything but the leftover pumpkin pie calling my name,” Max assured her.
“Are you sure it was pumpkin pie talking?” she asked. “Maybe it was apple.”
“It was definitely pumpkin,” he told her. “And bourbon whipped cream.”
“I finished the pumpkin earlier,” she confessed guiltily. “But I didn’t know it was the last slice until I saw the empty pie plate after I’d eaten it.”
“Was it good?”
“Really good,” she admitted.
“Eva Stockton makes the best pies in Rust Creek Falls—maybe all of Montana,” Max said, opening the door of the pantry. “Which is why I always order an extra one from Daisy’s Donuts in town.” He winked at her then as he pulled a baker’s box out of the back of the cupboard. “Or two.”
She exhaled a sigh, apparently relieved to know that she hadn’t deprived him of his coveted late-night snack.
“Do you want a cup of tea with your pie?” she asked, as the boiling kettle automatically shut off.
He cut a generous wedge and transferred it to a plate. “Thanks, but I prefer milk near bedtime.”
She opened the fridge to retrieve the milk—and the container of bourbon whipped cream he craved.
“You should put a dollop of this in your tea,” Max suggested, as he scooped up a mound of the alcohol-infused topping. “It might help you sleep.”
“Maybe too well,” she said. “I want to be able to hear Cody when he wakes up.”
“Wilder will hear him,” he said. “I had the crib set up in the room adjacent to his to ensure it.”
“Clever,” Beth acknowledged, as she carried her cup of tea to the table.