The Bachelor and the Babies. HEATHER MACALLISTER

so hard when we called her, I know she didn’t take us seriously.”

      “She does now.” Privately Harrison attributed his sister-in-law’s laughter to wine shared with good friends and the desire to appear indispensable. And since he was about to prove her wrong, he’d allowed her a few male-bashing cracks. He’d remind her of them when she apologized later.

      He looked at his nephew—the mobile one. “We’re going to have a great time this week, aren’t we, Nathan?”

      “Haht?” Nathan pointed to the window.

      “Yeah, a hot time.” Or Nathan could have said “What.” Harrison wasn’t yet fluent in toddler-speak.

      Nathan toddled past him.

      “I know Stephanie,” Jon fussed.

      Harrison noticed that Jon had only started fussing after he got married. In the interest of brotherly harmony, he declined to mention it.

      “The only reason she agreed to you taking care of the boys is because she doesn’t think you’ll last more than a day. He—heck, she didn’t think I’d last more than a day.”

      “Women like to think they’re the only ones who can care for children.” The playpen was bigger than it looked. Harrison shoved a chair out of the way.

      “There may be something to that,” Jon muttered. “Harrison, where is Nathan?”

      “Right behind me.”

      “Hare! Pay attention. No, Nathan! Hot!” Jon leaped over the double stroller and snatched the twenty-month-old Nathan from under the lamp table. “Nathan likes electrical outlets,” he explained.

      “That’s a dangerous hobby for a kid his age.”

      “You need outlet plugs.”

      “So, I’ll get outlet plugs.” Wherever those might be.

      Jon still looked worried. “You know, you ought to come live at our house for the week. That’s where all the boys’ stuff is.”

      “And my stuff is here. I’ll have more credibility with clients if I incorporate the boys into my own environment. I’ll have a better understanding of what adjustments people who have children must make.” Harrison was prepared to continue lecturing, but Jon was wrestling a squirmy Nathan into his high chair. and obviously not listening to him.

      “I never realized how much glass you have here,” Jon called from the kitchen as he poured a few Cheerios onto the high chair tray. Nathan squealed and pounded the tray, bouncing cereal onto the floor where it rolled who knew where. “I’m going to buy furniture bumpers after I finish unloading.”

      Harrison didn’t ask. what furniture bumpers were, but imagined they weren’t going to enhance the appearance of his once-pristine home. At Jon’s insistence, he’d already removed the set of crystal coasters, fireplace tools, his collection of kaleidoscopes and anything sharp, breakable, or flammable. That pretty much cleared all surfaces three feet high or less.

      Jon pulled open the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink and removed Harrison’s cleaning supplies. “Store these up high, or get child safety latches for the cabinets.” Looking around, he ultimately set the assortment of cleaners on top of the refrigerator.

      “I’m running out of high places.” Harrison put the pad in the bottom of the playpen and transferred a sleeping Matthew from his infant seat to the playpen. The baby was a sound sleeper. Good. They were going to get along just fine.

      Jon walked over and stared down at his son. “He’s a cute little guy, isn’t he?”

      He looked like a typical baby to Harrison. “Yes. Sure is.”

      Jon checked his watch. “This is a long morning nap for him, but it’ll be easier to let him sleep until we’ve got everything settled. He was up in the night. If he gets cranky, don’t worry. He’s teething.”

      Harrison waved around the room. “Is this everything?”

      His brother laughed. “Of course not. I haven’t brought up their toys, yet. And there is a case of formula, diapers, the baby bath and a potty seat.”

      “Potty seat?”

      “We’ve just started toilet-training, so don’t expect miracles.”

      “I expect nothing in that area.” Harrison didn’t want to go anywhere near that area.

      “At least Nathan will see it in your bathroom and maybe get the idea.” Jon shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “I’ll bring up the humidifier, too, but I hope you won’t need it.”

      As he wondered where he was going to store everything, Harrison vowed to devote a minimum of one chapter in the Rothwell Domestic Primer to simplifying the amount of baby equipment insecure new parents had been convinced they needed. “Who needs a humidifier in Houston?” he wondered aloud.

      “Parents with sick kids.” After delivering that chilling piece of information, Jon left to bring up another load of the unending supplies needed to raise two small boys.

      The instant the door closed, Nathan burst into tears. “Daaa-deee!”

      “Hey, sport. Remember me?” Harrison crunched on cereal as he entered the kitchen. “It’s Uncle Harrison.” That sounded awkward, but Harrison was not going to be called Hare. Harry was not to be considered.

      Apparently Nathan did not remember Uncle anybody and continued to cry.

      Harrison poured him more cereal.

      Still crying, but not as hard, Nathan ate a handful, then said, “Joose!”

      “Juice!” Harrison repeated, his voice booming with false heartiness. “The man wants juice.” Trying to avoid stepping on cereal, he opened the refrigerator. “We’ve got orange juice, tomato juice and beer juice.” He looked over the door at his nephew. “That’s a joke.”

      “Joose!” Nathan smacked the plastic tray for emphasis.

      Since orange juice seemed to go with the cereal theme, that’s what Harrison poured. He reached for a glass, then realized what he was doing and chose a plastic cup he’d bought at a Rockets basketball game. Who said he didn’t have parenting instincts?

      He poured a small amount of juice into the thirtyounce souvenir cup and offered it to Nathan.

      “Joose?”

      “Juice,” Harrison reassured him.

      Nathan gleefully grabbed the cup with both hands.

      “Need some help?”

      “Nathan do it.” He swiveled his body away and tilted the cup.

      All the liquid rushed from the bottom of the tall cup to his face, startling him. He dropped the cup, blinked in surprise, snorted juice out his nose, then howled.

      Harrison stared. With breathtaking speed, his kitchen, painted a fashionable white, with white tile and cabinets, had been splattered far and wide with dribblets of orange juice and pulp.

      He picked his way to the paper towel dispenser and attempted to mop up Nathan.

      That was the scene which greeted Jon’s return. “Nathan,” he called from the door, propping it open with a case of formula.

      “Da-da!”

      “Everything’s under control,” Harrison told him as Jon tossed in plastic bundles and boxes of diapers, which bounced and rolled over the couch. “We only spilled juice.”

      Jon walked over and stared at the mess. Bending down, he picked up the cup. “Is this what you gave him?”

      Nodding, Harrison threw more paper towels on the floor. Nathan had stopped crying, his interest caught by Cheerios floating in the orange juice on his tray.

      Unfortunately