Bringing Home the Bachelor. Sarah M. Anderson

the one he’d met at Josey’s wedding, was still in the shop. Billy had been allowed to take his mike off, and while Bobby and his production crew were still doing things, none of them required Billy to smile for a camera.

      What was that kid’s name? Billy thought hard, but he drew a blank. “You’re still here.”

      “Yeah, my mom stays late to talk with the pregnant girls.”

      Suddenly, the feeling that Billy should remember this kid’s name got a lot stronger. “Yeah?”

      “Yeah.” The boy looked at his feet and scuffed his toe on the floor. “I’m sorry about the way she blew up at you this morning. She gets like that sometimes.”

      Wait—wait a damn minute. Was this kid saying that Jenny was his mom?

      No way—not possible. This kid was a teenager. Jenny couldn’t be that old.

      Unless...unless she’d been young. The familiar guilt tried to kick open the heavy steel door Billy kept it trapped behind. This kid could only be Jenny’s son if she’d been a teenager. And she’d kept him.

      Damn. Fate had a freakin’ funny sense of humor sometimes.

      The next question had to be whether or not she was married, because there was no way in hell that Billy was going to keep entertaining thoughts of a married woman. Bolton men were loyal for life. Whatever problems they might have as a family—and Lord knew there were a lot of them—they respected the family, which meant they respected other families, too.

      “So where’s your dad?” That probably wasn’t the best way to ask the question, but Billy had never been known for his tact.

      The kid shrugged. “Dunno. Gone before I was born, I guess. Mom says we’re better off without him, anyway.”

      Two thoughts crossed his mind quick. First, Jenny was available, so he could keep right on thinking about how she looked at him with that passion—okay, passionate fury—in her eyes. Second, though, was that a boy needed a man in his life. Especially a boy on the verge of becoming a man.

      “You kids aren’t really going to help me build the bike, you know.”

      As if to illustrate this point, Vicky called over, “Okay, wave at the camera, Billy.”

      Feeling stupid, Billy waved to the camera that had been installed overhead. He was going to work nights and weekends to build the bike himself, hours of which would be compressed into two-to four-minute segments on the show. The rest would be staged shots with kids.

      The rest of the crew went out to the truck, probably to review the footage. Bobby liked to check the tapes. Although Billy would never admit this to the little twit, he thought Bobby was impressively focused on making the show as good as it could be.

      “Yeah, I know.” The boy sounded positively depressed. Then he perked up. “I can still help. Mom always stays late for her after-school program, so I’m here a lot.”

      Billy worked alone. Even in his shop, he did his own thing while his guys did the assembly stuff. But something about this boy—and his mother—kept his mouth shut.

      Billy wasn’t looking to be a father. That ship had sailed seventeen years ago, and it wasn’t going to make a return voyage. But a shop teacher could still make a big difference. Billy’s shop teacher in high school, Cal Horton, had saved Billy’s life on at least three occasions and kept him out of prison twice, which was more than his own father, Bruce Bolton, had ever done.

      Yeah, he didn’t have to be this kid’s father. But Cal would expect him to pay it forward.

      “You want to help?” The kid nodded eagerly, his eyes bright. “I could use an assistant. Find a broom and sweep up this place. It’s a wreck, and a good shop is a clean shop. Keeps dust and junk from getting into the parts.”

      He thought the kid was going to balk at manual labor. Billy didn’t nag. He went back to organizing his tools and waited for the kid to make up his mind.

      Less than forty seconds later, the boy was sweeping.

      Billy smiled to himself. “You do a good job and keep at it, maybe we’ll get you on a bike.”

      “Really?” The kid grinned. Then it faded. “My mom won’t like that.”

      Yeah, he knew that, too. His own mother had never been a fan of some of the things Billy did. Most of them, actually.

      “Aw, hell. What your mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

      “You don’t know my mom very well.” The boy kept sweeping. A moment later, he added, “I got a friend who’s got a bike, but she won’t let me near it. Says she doesn’t want me to get hurt.” He made a noise that sounded like teenager-speak for “can you believe that?” “It’s not as cool a bike as yours, though.”

      Maybe half of Billy’s childhood had been spent on the back of a bike, often directly against his mother’s stated wishes. His father had loved his mother dearly, but they rarely saw eye to eye on basic parenting questions, such as which activities were fun versus life-threatening. And Billy had survived just fine.

      Well, mostly fine.

      “I’ll make a deal with you. You keep your grades up and help me out in the shop, I’ll get you on a bike.” He leveled a finger at the huge smile on the kid’s face. “But you do what I say, when I say it, no questions asked. I don’t need some pissant kid jerking around my shop. I’ll throw your ass out of here the moment you screw up. Got it?”

      The sudden gasp that came from the doorway told him that someone had screwed up, all right.

      Him.

      * * *

      Jenny waved goodbye to the last of the girls from her Teen and Parents—TAPS—meeting and checked the multipurpose room for Seth. Seth hated the TAPS meetings and put as much distance as possible between him and the pregnant girls—most of whom he’d grown up playing with. Jenny supposed she should be thrilled that Seth hadn’t hit the age where he thought of girls in a sexual way, but would it have killed the boy to have a bit of compassion? After all, Jenny had been one of those girls once.

      Seth wasn’t in the multipurpose room. The guitar was still in its case. Where was that boy?

      Oh, no. The shop. Billy Bolton.

      That man, Jenny thought as she ran down the hall. Yup, his bike was still parked in her spot. The door to the shop was open, and she heard voices inside. There was no missing Billy’s deep rumble—she wasn’t sure she could forget the way that voice hummed through her body. Even now, she got goose bumps. She also heard the softer voice of her son.

      Oh, Lord, Seth was talking with Billy—and, from the tone of it, Billy was yelling at her boy. Running faster, the first words she caught were “...need some pissant kid jerking around my shop. I’ll throw your ass out of here the moment you screw up. Got it?”

      She gasped as she flew into the shop. “What did you say to my son?”

      Seth jumped six inches off the floor, but Billy—sitting behind a table with a massive tool-thing in his hands—didn’t even move. At least this time he wasn’t wearing glasses. Jenny wasn’t sure that helped, though, because now she could see the way his light brown eyes bore into her, like heat-seeking missiles.

      No one else was in the building. She’d gotten here just in time. Billy stared at her, something that looked like contempt on his face. Seth looked six kinds of miserable all at once. God only knew what Billy had been saying to her baby boy to make him look like he was on the verge of crying.

      She intended to find out, by God. She stalked over to the table and slammed her hands down on the top. The tools rattled and Seth warned, “Mom,” behind her, but she had had it with this man.

      “I asked you a question, and don’t you dare pull that silent crud on me. I heard you—I know you can talk. What do you think you’re doing, speaking