Building The Perfect Daddy. Brenda Harlen

      He smiled again. “Talking over a cup of coffee in the kitchen is so much friendlier than standing in the foyer.”

      “You’re right,” she said, “but I’m not feeling particularly friendly.”

      The little girl, who had been hiding behind her mother, peeked out at him now. “You can have tea wif me,” she offered.

      Lauryn sighed. “Kylie, what did Mama tell you about strangers?”

      But the little girl shook her head. “He gived me flowers.”

      Ryder looked at the mom for an explanation, but she seemed equally confused by her daughter’s statement.

      “At the weddin’,” Kylie clarified.

      “My sister’s wedding,” he guessed, because it was the only one he’d attended recently.

      Lauryn’s puzzlement gave way to speculation. “Are you telling me that Avery Wallace is your sister?”

      He nodded, confirming his relationship to the obstetrician who had recently married Justin Garrett, another doctor at Charisma’s Mercy Hospital.

      “Okay,” she finally—reluctantly—relented. “I guess I can offer you a cup of coffee.”

      “Were you at the wedding?” he asked, following mother and daughter through the hallway to the kitchen he recognized from the photos she’d submitted with her application.

      She shook her head. “No. Zachary—” she glanced at the baby in the playpen, playing with colorful plastic rings “—was running a bit of a fever, so we stayed home. Kylie went with my parents. And when you caught the bride’s bouquet—”

      “Avery threw it at me,” he felt compelled to point out in his defense. “It was an automatic reflex.”

      She shrugged, as if the details were unimportant, and set a filter into the basket of the coffeemaker on the counter—the only modern appliance visible in the whole room.

      “And when you caught the bouquet,” she said again, measuring grounds into the filter, “you gave the flowers to Kylie.”

      He looked at the little girl in the frilly nightgown and finally remembered. “You were wearing a dark blue dress?”

      Kylie smiled and nodded.

      “Then you must be related to Justin,” he said to Lauryn.

      “He’s my cousin,” she admitted. “Our fathers are brothers.”

      “Small world,” he mused, wondering if the loose familial connection would help or hinder his case.

      “Small town,” she corrected, handing him the mug of coffee. “Cream or sugar?”

      “Sugar, please.”

      She offered him the sugar bowl and a spoon so he could fix it the way he liked it.

      As he did, he asked, “Why do I get the impression that you changed your mind about being on the show?”

      “What are you talking about?”

      He frowned at the genuine bafflement in her tone. “You applied for a Room Rescue from Ryder to the Rescue.”

      “My sister Tristyn is addicted to the show, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it,” she told him. “I don’t have time to watch a lot of television, and when I do, it’s usually Nick Jr.”

      He acknowledged that with a nod. “So was it your sister who told you about the Room Rescue contest?”

      She shook her head. “I honestly don’t know anything about a contest.”

      He pulled the application out of his pocket and passed it across the table as Kylie tugged on her mother’s arm and whispered something close to her ear.

      “Yes, you can go up to your room to play for a little while,” she said, and her daughter skipped off.

      Lauryn unfolded the page and immediately began skimming the document, her brows furrowing. She finished reading and set the page down. “Well, it’s all true,” she admitted. “Except that I didn’t send this in.”

      He pointed to the signature box. “That’s not you?”

      “It’s my name—and a pretty good replica of my signature, which leads me to believe that one or both of my sisters filled out the application.”

      He winced. “The application is a contract, so I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that, then my director won’t want to get our legal department involved.”

      “Can’t you just tell him that I changed my mind?” she suggested hopefully.

      “I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Most people would be thrilled by the prospect of a brand-new kitchen.”

      She looked around the dull and outdated room. “Rob had plans for this space—new cabinets, granite counter, ceramic floor.”

      “We can certainly consult with your husband about the design,” he offered, attempting to appease her.

      She shook her head. “He’s not here.”

      “When will he be back?”

      “Well, he left nine months ago, so I don’t expect him to return anytime soon.”

      “I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

      “Don’t be,” she said. “I’m not.”

      He took a moment to regroup and reconsider his strategy. “Then forget about his plans,” he urged. “What do you want?”

      Lauryn stood up to lift the now-fussing baby from his playpen. “I don’t even know where to begin to answer that question.”

      Opening a cupboard, she took a cookie out of a box. The little guy reached for it eagerly and immediately began gnawing on it.

      Kylie returned to the kitchen, walking past the table to the back door, where she shoved her feet into a pair of pink rain boots.

      “I told you we could go to the park later,” Lauryn reminded her daughter. “You’re supposed to be playing in your room now.”

      The little girl nodded. “But it’s wainin’ in the castle.”

      Her mother frowned. “What do you mean ‘it’s raining in the castle’? The rain is outside, honey.”

      This time Kylie shook her head. “The wain’s on my bed.”

      Lauryn pushed back her chair and, with the baby propped on her hip, raced down the narrow hallway and up the stairs.

      Instinctively, Ryder followed.

      She stood in the doorway of what was obviously her daughter’s bedroom, staring at the water dripping from the ceiling onto the little girl’s bed. And puddling beside her tall dresser. And in front of her closet.

      Her bottom lip trembled as she fought to hold back the tears that now filled her eyes.

      “Why’s it wainin’ inside, Mama?” Kylie asked.

      “Because it wasn’t a crappy enough day already,” her mother muttered in weary response.

      The little girl gasped. “You said a bad word.”

      “Yes, I did,” she admitted.

      “Where’s your attic access?” Ryder asked her.

      “My bedroom,” she told him.

      He followed her across the hall. She reached for the loop of white rope in the ceiling. Of course, even on tiptoe, her fingertips barely brushed the rope. He easily reached up to grasp the handle and pull down the stairs.

      She looked up into the yawning darkness overhead. “I can’t remember the last time