Katie’s high-pitched shriek rattled his senses.
“Father, no! We traded last week because she had play practice, and now she’s trying to weasel out of her turn.”
Patrick ignored the viselike grip of tension at the back of his neck and slowly rose to his feet, his conversation with Marcy forgotten. His eyes flicked from the sober face of his fourteen-year-old son to the bulldog stare of his ten-year-old daughter. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to demoralize someone—anyone—in a game of chess. He jagged a brow in Katie’s direction. “Katie Rose, did you trade dishes with Steven last week?”
Katie blinked, and Patrick could almost hear the wheels turning behind those batting blue eyes. “Yes, Daddy, but—”
He pushed his chair in with enough force to shimmy the table and quiver the candles. The family’s chatter died to a hush. “No yes-buts, Katie Rose. You’ll do the dishes this week without another word or you’ll be doing them a lot longer than that.”
“But, Daddy—”
Patrick shot her a look that sealed her lips. “ Two weeks and not another word. Or would you care to make it three?”
She blinked, the mulish line of her jaw matching his. “Does ‘no’ count?”
Patrick stared her down, battling the urge to smile. “You’re a handful, Katie Rose, and God knows if I don’t keep you in line at the tender age of ten, some poor man will shoot me later.” His gaze traveled the table. “Anybody up for blatant humiliation? I intend to vent every frustration from work in a ruthless game of chess.”
Collin chuckled. “Then I’d say Mitch is your man. He’s got the same bleary-eyed look of blood in his eyes as you. Something to do with the Herald , I suppose.” Collin draped an arm around Brady’s shoulder. “And this is Brady’s first dinner here in a while, so common courtesy says he’s off the hook.”
Patrick squinted at Mitch. “It does make perfect sense, I suppose, although I hate to debase my best editor.”
Mitch grinned, stood, and pushed in his chair. “Debase away. I’m married to your daughter. I have no pride left whatsoever.”
Patrick winked at Charity and headed to the parlor with restrained vengeance flowing in his veins. “Then let the carnage begin,” he muttered, allowing Mitch to lead the way.
Patrick’s laughter, which echoed from the foyer, sounded almost predatory. Brady elbowed Collin as he rose to his feet. “Close call. I’m not up to a beating tonight. All I want to do is sink into the sofa and bury myself in the newspaper.” He glanced at Marcy. “Mrs. O’Connor, dinner was wonderful. I wouldn’t know what a home-cooked meal was if I didn’t come here.”
Marcy’s smile seemed tired. “You’re more than welcome, Brady. We love having you, you know that. And you can come every night of the week, if you like. Not just when Collin’s here, you know.”
He returned her smile, then sensed that Beth was watching him. Heat stung the back of his neck. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Connor, but I work late a lot. I never know when your son-in-law is gonna overload us. You may not know this, but he has a problem saying no.”
“Hmmm, I’ll vouch for that.” Faith grinned and stacked dishes on the table.
Collin arched a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
She gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Nothing, my love, except you could do with a little restraint from time to time. You don’t have to be so driven in everything you do.”
He pulled her close and nestled his lips at the crook of her neck, causing her to giggle. “I’m not driven in everything I do, Little Bit. Just work and—” His tease faded off into a kiss that lasted several seconds.
Brady nudged his shoulder. “Let the woman breathe, will ya, Collin? I’m going to the parlor.” He ambled into the next room and snatched the newspaper from the sofa before settling into his favorite spot on the far edge of the worn paisley couch.
“By the way, did Mrs.
“Father, no! We traded last week because she had play practice, and now she’s trying to weasel out of her turn.”
Patrick ignored the viselike grip of tension at the back of his neck and slowly rose to his feet, his conversation with Marcy forgotten. His eyes flicked from the sober face of his fourteen-year-old son to the bulldog stare of his ten-year-old daughter. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to demoralize someone—anyone—in a game of chess. He jagged a brow in Katie’s direction. “Katie Rose, did you trade dishes with Steven last week?”
Katie blinked, and Patrick could almost hear the wheels turning behind those batting blue eyes. “Yes, Daddy, but—”
He pushed his chair in with enough force to shimmy the table and quiver the candles. The family’s chatter died to a hush. “No yes-buts, Katie Rose. You’ll do the dishes this week without another word or you’ll be doing them a lot longer than that.”
“But, Daddy—”
Patrick shot her a look that sealed her lips. “ Two weeks and not another word. Or would you care to make it three?”
She blinked, the mulish line of her jaw matching his. “Does ‘no’ count?”
Patrick stared her down, battling the urge to smile. “You’re a handful, Katie Rose, and God knows if I don’t keep you in line at the tender age of ten, some poor man will shoot me later.” His gaze traveled the table. “Anybody up for blatant humiliation? I intend to vent every frustration from work in a ruthless game of chess.”
Collin chuckled. “Then I’d say Mitch is your man. He’s got the same bleary-eyed look of blood in his eyes as you. Something to do with the Herald , I suppose.” Collin draped an arm around Brady’s shoulder. “And this is Brady’s first dinner here in a while, so common courtesy says he’s off the hook.”
Patrick squinted at Mitch. “It does make perfect sense, I suppose, although I hate to debase my best editor.”
Mitch grinned, stood, and pushed in his chair. “Debase away. I’m married to your daughter. I have no pride left whatsoever.”
Patrick winked at Charity and headed to the parlor with restrained vengeance flowing in his veins. “Then let the carnage begin,” he muttered, allowing Mitch to lead the way.
Patrick’s laughter, which echoed from the foyer, sounded almost predatory. Brady elbowed Collin as he rose to his feet. “Close call. I’m not up to a beating tonight. All I want to do is sink into the sofa and bury myself in the newspaper.” He glanced at Marcy. “Mrs. O’Connor, dinner was wonderful. I wouldn’t know what a home-cooked meal was if I didn’t come here.”
Marcy’s smile seemed tired. “You’re more than welcome, Brady. We love having you, you know that. And you can come every night of the week, if you like. Not just when Collin’s here, you know.”
He returned her smile, then sensed that Beth was watching him. Heat stung the back of his neck. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Connor, but I work late a lot. I never know when your son-in-law is gonna overload us. You may not know this, but he has a problem saying no.”
“Hmmm, I’ll vouch for that.” Faith grinned and stacked dishes on the table.
Collin arched a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
She gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Nothing, my love, except you could do with a little restraint from time to time. You don’t have to be so driven in everything you do.”
He pulled her close and nestled his lips at the crook of her neck, causing her to giggle. “I’m not driven in everything I do, Little Bit. Just work and—” His tease faded off into a kiss that lasted several seconds.
Brady nudged his shoulder. “Let the woman breathe, will ya, Collin? I’m going to the parlor.” He ambled into the next room and snatched the newspaper from the sofa before settling into his favorite spot on the far edge of the worn paisley couch.
“By the way, did Mrs.
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