Miss Francesca tried not to roll her eyes. Holly was a big control freak stuck in a pint sized body with bouncy brown curls and cherub cheeks. But Frankie wasn’t fooled because, like her favorite uncle, Holly fancied herself the all supreme hall monitor of the world, which explained the notebook entitled FRANKIE’S DIRTY JAR RECORD. It was three-quarters full and meticulously kept. Every questionable word uttered or bad attitude observed by her highness resulted in a twenty-five-cent fine.

Frankie paid the girl fifty bucks upfront, hoping to win her over and praying it would last her a year. That was only four months ago. And she was no closer to the first and almost of out credits.

“You’re right,” Frankie said, blaming Nate for her piss-poor attitude. Being mad at him didn’t mean she had the right to make a little girl upset. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Holly plucked another leaf from the pile. Fold. Press. Tuck. Fold. Press. Tuck. “I’d be mad too if Mommy had taken away my glue gun and made me do baby crafts.”

Well, now Frankie just felt petty.

Deep concentration creased Holly’s little face and her tongue peeked out the side of her mouth. Her fingers moved with graceful ease over the leaf, efficiently folding and tucking until it resembled—a rose.

Huh? Frankie picked up a new leaf and tried again. Fold, press, tuck, fold, press—

“Crap.”

Holly finished her rose, placed it on her massive “Perfect” pile and jotted down another tally. Then she picked up two leaves, scooted across the carpet, and took up residence next to Frankie.

“Like this,” she said, slowly folding and pressing and tucking, patiently walking Frankie through the steps. Every few folds, her little fingers would smooth down one of Frankie’s creases or tighten her last tuck. Finally, Holly handed her the floral tape and let Frankie wrap the wire that made up the stem. And with the tape secure she speared it with a pushpin and—

“I did it!”

“This is the bestest rose ever,” Holly squealed and, bouncing on the carpet, clapped her hands in front of her face. Finally, Frankie could see the appeal. The kid was kind of cute when she wasn’t lecturing. “Here, try another.”

The two worked in silence, making one rose after another. Frankie was barely able to keep up with Holly’s pace. Not only was the girl faster, but she didn’t have to throw away every third rose. Baby crafts my ass.

“If you change your mind about the wedding—”

“I won’t.”

“Okay,” Holly sighed, obviously disappointed that she wouldn’t get to wear a princess gown. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Frankie secured a pushpin. “Um, sure.”

“When my baby sister moved in with my family, she cried all the time. Even at night when we’re supposed to be eyes tight, lights out,” Holly began quietly, focus tightly glued to her rose. “I was sad cuz I didn’t like her and I wanted to send her back.”

“I imagine that it’s hard to like a screaming baby.” Frankie thought of her new roommate and felt an immediate bond form with the girl.

“Yeah.” Holly slid her a worried look. “Mommy told me that I didn’t have to like somebody to love them.”

“Yeah,” Frankie laughed. “And it’s not like you can send a baby back.”

Holly raised a condemning brow.

“Sorry, girl talk makes me nervous.” And she was really nervous right now. Her hands were kind of clammy and her head felt a little light.

“I bet if you asked Mommy about marrying Nate, she’d say that same thing. Maybe you should use your words when he comes back with ice cream. He’s buying Rocky Road,” Holly said rubbing her belly. “And whipped cream. You can have some of mine if you want.”

Frankie didn’t hear anything past marrying Nate and when he comes back. Because that was it. Girl talk was officially over. Frankie shot to her feet and, knocking the “Perfects” into the “Whoops,” effectively mixing the two piles, looked at the front door.

Holly stood also, blocking the exit, her little pigtails bouncing. “What’s wrong, Miss Francesca?”

“I want to go home,” Frankie blurted out and knew it was true. She didn’t want to go to her little 1920’s bungalow right off Main Street that she’d sold last month, or her grandfather’s house. No, Frankie wanted to go to her beat up old Victorian with all of its creaks and dust bunnies and hug her alpaca.

“That’s okay. Mommy says it’s normal on playdates to get scared,” Holly reasoned.

“This isn’t a playdate. And I’m not scared. Regan,” Frankie shouted down the hall, dragging out both syllables of her friend’s name. “Your daughter’s psychoanalyzing me again.”

“Holly,” a stern voice came from the doorway. It was way too low and way too amused to be Regan, and way too sexy to be anyone but—

“Uncle Nate,” Holly squealed, rushing past Frankie.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he laughed.

Frankie turned around and, whoa, go easy indeed. Golden boy leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen entry with Holly shrink-wrapped to his legs. He was covered in saw dust, a sweaty tee, and that DeLuca charm Frankie had seen at work more times than she could count on the local public at large. He cradled a squirming pink bundle of ten fingers and toes in one hand and enough testosterone to melt Frankie’s panties in the other.

She knew that she was supposed to be mad at him. He’d kissed her, taken her to court, and then invaded her space, but she found herself melting at the sight of him and his two nieces. Who knew men and kids were such a potent combination? Frankie wondered if they were as good of a chick magnet as a Frisbee and dog.

“You taking it easy on Frankie?”

Holly lifted her right hand, no Band-Aids present, as though giving an oath. “Yes, sir.”

Nate raised a disbelieving brow.

“She wants to go home,” Holly said, swishing back and forth, blinking up at her uncle while innocently ratting Frankie out.

“I’m just tired,” Frankie lied, fumbling for her motorcycle keys and helmet. “Plus I already made a dozen roses so that paid for the water I used. If you can tell Regan thanks.” She turned and knocked her helmet off the corner of the couch and it went rolling.

“Holly, it’s time to get in your PJs anyway,” Nate said, his amused eyes firmly on Frankie. “Say goodnight and go wash up. After I walk Frankie to her car, we can have ice cream.”

The girl did and after Nate ruffled her little fountains of curls as she ran by, her bare feet sounding like a charging herd of alpacas on the hardwood floor, Frankie grabbed her helmet and made a move for the door.

Nate pushed off the doorframe and stepped in front of her. “Unless you want to stay?”

“Nope.”

“I know you can’t eat ice cream. If I had known you’d be here I would have brought something nondairy,” Nate said, adjusting the bundle like a football. Frankie froze. “But I bet Regan has some left over pie. It’s fig. Hey, are you okay?”

Frankie nodded, and wasn’t she a big fat liar. The truth was she was thrown, knocked over by something as small as him noticing that she didn’t drink milk. She was tempted to forgive him of everything, take him up on his sweet offer and start over. Which made her not only a liar but pathetic.

“Have you met Sofie yet?” Nate asked, walking toward her.

Frankie, knowing what she’d see, a cute little bundle of poop and tears, took a huge step back. “Yup.”

Nate raised a brow and took another step closer, boxing her in. “Had the chance to hold her?”

Frankie either had to look at the baby, and risk sending it into tears, or jump out the window. A glance behind her and a quick calculation of how far the drop was, and if the grass below would act as a cushion, later she was moving toward the window, ready to take her chances. Then she saw the screen and knew she was screwed.

Hugging her helmet to her chest, she explained, “Babies and I don’t mix all that well.”

“Ah, come on. She’s got a fresh diaper and was just fed, she’ll be an angel.” Now he was teasing her. He had to be. Otherwise he was just being mean because it was obvious that she was rattled.

“I’m not good with babies.” But when Frankie put her hands out in what she thought was clearly the universal sign for hell no, he took a step closer. Either it was a misunderstanding or Nate wanted to make her sweat, because instead of cuddling the wiggling poop-maker back to his chest, he grabbed her helmet and replaced it with Baby Sofie.

Frankie looked down to make sure the baby was actually in the bundle of pink cotton because it felt so light and, wow, the kid was knocked out. Dark little lashes rested on her chubby cheeks, her tiny chest rose and fell with each steady breath, and she smelled like baby powder and new car. Peaceful, cute, not so bad.

Frankie looked up at Nate and smiled. He wasn’t smiling back. The good news what that it was his turn to be rattled. His gaze dropped to sleeping Sofie and back to Frankie and all of a sudden the room felt like it was getting smaller. The sexual energy that always seemed to buzz between them, heightened to the point of being palpable, surrounding them as though it was just her and Nate and—

It wiggled. The kid made some grunting noise and her eyes snapped open, hazy and milky at first, and then—boom—locked on to Frankie and wouldn’t let go. It was as though Sofie was trying to incinerate Frankie with her gaze. Her face went from peaceful to tomato in two seconds flat, getting redder and redder as her lips puckered tighter and tighter, until—she exploded.

It wasn’t just a cry. Frankie could handle a cry. It was more like a demonic screech, pulled up from the depths of Hell and released on the room.