The SEAL's Christmas Twins. Laura Marie Altom

her full curves made her more womanly.

      Pushing back, she turned away, fussing with her hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to flip out on you like that. Some parent I’ll make, huh?”

      “Give yourself a break. This is a full-on nightmare—even if neither of us had any issues simmering on the old back burner. Honestly, I didn’t even want to come to the funeral and figured the will could be handled via email or over the phone. Dad convinced me I’d regret it if I didn’t come.”

      “Speaking of him, have you let him know?”

      Mason shook his head. “I’ll give him a call.”

      A few feet away, she shivered. She crossed her arms and ran her hands up and down them.

      He should’ve gotten off the bed to hold her—at least find a blanket to wrap her in, but his feet were frozen in place.

      “Guess I should check on the babies.”

      “They’re fine. As open as this place is, if they were in trouble, we’d hear them crying.”

      “Still...”

      He sighed. “They’re fine.”

      Ignoring him, she left the room, heading toward the stairs. A few minutes later, just as he’d suggested, the sound of her cooing over them carried all the way to where he still sat.

      Honestly, he felt more than a little shell-shocked by the whole turn of events. Now he was not only mad at Melissa for hooking up with Alec, but for apparently thinking so highly of herself as to presume he’d want her matchmaking services. As if that weren’t despicable enough, she’d thought it a good idea to use her own babies as manipulative tools? The whole thing was psycho. He might’ve long ago loved her, but at the moment, he didn’t even kind of like her.

      Hattie’s big brown eyes flashed before him, reminding him why he hadn’t told Benton to take a flying leap. His being here, in this house, in the very room where Alec and Melissa had made love, wasn’t about allegiance to his ex, but her sister.

      Hattie had always been there for him and he now owed her the same.

      He made a quick call to his dad, bringing him up to speed on the will and how he’d be staying at Melissa and Alec’s until his day in court. His dad wasn’t the chatty type, so once the facts were delivered, Mason hung up.

      Downstairs, he found Hattie removing the girls’ coats and soft boots. “Want me to help you get them in their cribs?”

      “Sure. But they both need fresh diapers.”

      He blanched. “Not my idea of a good time, but show me what to do.”

      Together they took the babies upstairs, and Hattie walked him through a diaper change. “Diaper removal is pretty self-explanatory. From there, use a few wipes, assess if you think she needs rash cream or powder, then—”

      “Okay, whoa—I’m great at assessing, but I usually have a list of parameters to work with.”

      Hattie wrinkled her nose, and damned if she didn’t strike him as cute. “You lost me.”

      “What am I supposed to look for in order to know if either of those contingencies apply?”

      She cocked her head. “In English?”

      “What am I looking for? Like, if I’m supposed to use the powder or cream, how will I know?”

      “Oh. Well, the cream you’ll use if anything looks red or irritated. As for the powder...” She shrugged. “Honestly, let’s table it for now. I’ll look it up online or ask Mom. Pretty sure it’s a moisture thing.”

      “Want me to research it? I’m much better with that than diapering.”

      “Sure. Thanks.” She returned her attention to the baby. “No sign of rash, so we’ll grab a fresh diaper, open it, then slide the back part under her—like this.”

      Stepping alongside her for a better view, he nodded. “Got it. Next?”

      “Pull up the front, fasten it with the sticky tabs, put her clothes back on and you’re good to go.”

      “Wait—you didn’t say anything about the clothes. All of them come off?”

      She sighed. “Now you’re being deliberately obtuse.”

      “No, really. For whatever time I’m here, I want to be as much help as possible. I’m viewing this as a mission.”

      “Wow. Please tell me you didn’t just equate my sister’s babies with battle.” Keeping one hand on the now-squirmy baby, she grabbed a pair of footie pj’s from a nearby drawer.

      “What? You don’t want my help?”

      “Mason, Vanessa and Viv are real-live babies—not burp-and-feed dolls you’d read about in a manual.”

      “Duh. Why do you think I’m concentrating on what you tell me? I want to get this right. We’re in a zero-tolerance mistake zone, right?”

      “Wow. Just wow.” She finished her task without so much as looking his way.

      Whatever. He took her ignoring him as an opportunity to study the nursery layout. Two cribs, built-in shelves loaded with toys and books. Two upholstered swivel rockers. Changing table. Adequate stockpile of supplies on shelf beneath said table. Easy-access traffic flow—although down the line, the potted Norfolk pine in front of the window could pose a spooky shadow problem.

      Overall impression? Way too much pink.

      Once Hattie placed her baby in the crib, Mason took his turn at diapering. Forcing a deep breath, he rolled down minitights. It was still chilly, so he left the baby’s long-sleeved dress, undershirt, sweater and socks on her.

      Watching Hattie, the diaper process had seemed straightforward enough. He easily undid the sticky tape but, upon lifting the front flap, was accosted by a smell so vile he damn near retched.

      “Oh, my God...” He stepped back. Fanning the putrid air, he asked, “What the hell? Is she sick?”

      Hattie glared. “Welcome to the wonderful world of babies. Lesson 101—poop stinks. Standard operating procedure.”

      “If that last part was a dig at me, stow it. I’m doing the best I can here, okay?”

      Her indifferent shrug told him she wasn’t impressed.

      Had he really only a few minutes earlier felt sorry for her? Regardless, he forged ahead. “You didn’t mention Number Two in your lesson. Any special spray needed? Protective gloves or eyewear?”

      “Want me to do it?”

      “No.” And he was offended she’d asked. “I’ve got this.”

      Dear Lord. Mason struggled to maintain his composure while cleaning the baby’s behind. Was this poop or tar?

      He made the mistake of looking at the kid’s face and their gazes connected. Was she smiling? This one had to be Vivian—the baby whose personality matched Melissa’s. She’d get a kick out of seeing him tortured.

      Finally finished wiping, with Hattie supervising, Mason found a fresh diaper and tried grabbing the kid’s ankles to raise her behind, but she kicked so hard it was tough to grab hold. Settling for one ankle, he tried lifting her sideways, then sneaking the diaper under.

      “Not like that,” Hattie complained. “You’ll put her in traction before her first birthday.” Nudging him aside, she dived right in, catching the baby’s ankles one-handed on her first try.

      “As much as it pains me to admit this,” Mason said with a round of applause, “you’re good.”

      “I’ve had at least a little practice. You’ll get the hang of it.” She took the diaper from him and, once she had it properly positioned, stepped aside for him to finish. “She’s