it had always been. Dillon had obviously gotten his hair from his mother. She looked perfect too. Not a hair out of place.
“Emma. It’s so good to see you.” Mrs. James smiled, polite, but warm before turning to Dillon. Her eyes darted to Annie in the car seat, her brows knitting together in confusion, before she met his gaze. “Why on earth did you ring the doorbell?”
Emma raised her hand. “That was me.”
“Well, no need to ring the bell, sweetheart, you’re welcome anytime. Come in, come in. It’s freezing out there.” His mother stepped back, pulling the door open wide, then closed it behind them.
The cheeriness of the house enveloped Emma. Where the exterior had been done in warm colors, the interior had been done in soothing pastels—soft yellow walls with white trim, lavender and gold accents and oak floors. The large, open foyer led to a sweeping staircase, on either side of which were tall archways that led to the rest of house.
“Emma.” His mother stepped forward, enveloping her in a huge, motherly hug, encompassing her in a cloud of strong, flowery perfume. Then she leaned back, holding Emma away from her. Sympathy etched her brow. “Dillon told us about your sister. I’m so sorry.”
Emma frowned, the pain slipping up to wrap around her. “I’m sorry I didn’t contact you about the funeral. I’m afraid it slipped my mind.”
“I told you it’s fine, Em. I know where she’s buried. That’s enough for me.” Setting Annie’s car seat on the floor, Dillon moved to stand behind her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Give me your coat.”
When she shrugged out of her jacket, Mrs. James cupped her face in soft, warm hands. “It must have been so hard on you, after losing your mother.”
Something about the empathy on the woman’s face wanted to pull Emma in. His mother had a way about her that always drew her in and wrapped her in warmth. The woman had been a godsend at her mother’s funeral.
Emma managed a brave smile. “I got lost for a while, but I’m all right.”
“Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Turning to Annie on the floor, Mrs. James’s face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “So, who’s this little sweetheart?”
Emma smiled. “Her name is Annabelle.”
Mrs. James unbuckled the restraining strap, unzipped Annie from the snowsuit, and then lifted the baby. She gave a soft laugh and ran a hand over Annie’s head. “Would you look at that hair? There’s no denying who she belongs to, is there?”
Emma managed a smile and shook her head, but her heart lurched, the pain seeping around her. “She’s not mine.”
“She’s Janey’s.” Dillon appeared at her side, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back, warm and reassuring. She allowed herself the luxury of leaning into him, into his warm, comforting presence. In response, he slid his hand to the opposite hip and tugged her against his side.
His mother’s smile melted, and she turned to Annie, concern etching her brow. “Oh the poor little thing.”
“She’s the reason we’re here, Ma.”
Mrs. James turned a puzzled expression on her son, and then understanding dawned in her eyes. “She’s yours.”
“Well, at least I think so.” Dillon nodded.
His mother frowned. “You think ?”
“Janey never told me about the pregnancy.”
“I found a letter a couple of weeks ago, in her diary,” Emma added.
His mother studied him for a long moment, then pursed her lips and gave a curt nod. “You leave your father to me.”
“Where exactly is Pop?” Dillon turned his head, clearly searching.
“In the sitting room with Logan.” Mrs. James turned and moved farther into the house, taking Annie with her. “Your brother actually comes to see his mother.”
“Sorry, Ma. The club’s been busy.”
“Too busy to come and see your mother every once in a while?”
When his mother disappeared into the arched doorway to the right of the stairwell,
“Emma. It’s so good to see you.” Mrs. James smiled, polite, but warm before turning to Dillon. Her eyes darted to Annie in the car seat, her brows knitting together in confusion, before she met his gaze. “Why on earth did you ring the doorbell?”
Emma raised her hand. “That was me.”
“Well, no need to ring the bell, sweetheart, you’re welcome anytime. Come in, come in. It’s freezing out there.” His mother stepped back, pulling the door open wide, then closed it behind them.
The cheeriness of the house enveloped Emma. Where the exterior had been done in warm colors, the interior had been done in soothing pastels—soft yellow walls with white trim, lavender and gold accents and oak floors. The large, open foyer led to a sweeping staircase, on either side of which were tall archways that led to the rest of house.
“Emma.” His mother stepped forward, enveloping her in a huge, motherly hug, encompassing her in a cloud of strong, flowery perfume. Then she leaned back, holding Emma away from her. Sympathy etched her brow. “Dillon told us about your sister. I’m so sorry.”
Emma frowned, the pain slipping up to wrap around her. “I’m sorry I didn’t contact you about the funeral. I’m afraid it slipped my mind.”
“I told you it’s fine, Em. I know where she’s buried. That’s enough for me.” Setting Annie’s car seat on the floor, Dillon moved to stand behind her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Give me your coat.”
When she shrugged out of her jacket, Mrs. James cupped her face in soft, warm hands. “It must have been so hard on you, after losing your mother.”
Something about the empathy on the woman’s face wanted to pull Emma in. His mother had a way about her that always drew her in and wrapped her in warmth. The woman had been a godsend at her mother’s funeral.
Emma managed a brave smile. “I got lost for a while, but I’m all right.”
“Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Turning to Annie on the floor, Mrs. James’s face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “So, who’s this little sweetheart?”
Emma smiled. “Her name is Annabelle.”
Mrs. James unbuckled the restraining strap, unzipped Annie from the snowsuit, and then lifted the baby. She gave a soft laugh and ran a hand over Annie’s head. “Would you look at that hair? There’s no denying who she belongs to, is there?”
Emma managed a smile and shook her head, but her heart lurched, the pain seeping around her. “She’s not mine.”
“She’s Janey’s.” Dillon appeared at her side, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back, warm and reassuring. She allowed herself the luxury of leaning into him, into his warm, comforting presence. In response, he slid his hand to the opposite hip and tugged her against his side.
His mother’s smile melted, and she turned to Annie, concern etching her brow. “Oh the poor little thing.”
“She’s the reason we’re here, Ma.”
Mrs. James turned a puzzled expression on her son, and then understanding dawned in her eyes. “She’s yours.”
“Well, at least I think so.” Dillon nodded.
His mother frowned. “You think ?”
“Janey never told me about the pregnancy.”
“I found a letter a couple of weeks ago, in her diary,” Emma added.
His mother studied him for a long moment, then pursed her lips and gave a curt nod. “You leave your father to me.”
“Where exactly is Pop?” Dillon turned his head, clearly searching.
“In the sitting room with Logan.” Mrs. James turned and moved farther into the house, taking Annie with her. “Your brother actually comes to see his mother.”
“Sorry, Ma. The club’s been busy.”
“Too busy to come and see your mother every once in a while?”
When his mother disappeared into the arched doorway to the right of the stairwell,
Similar Books
