grimaced. "He didn't come out and say so, but I got his message. Real men don't keep children in the workplace. So company day care is shot to hell—for the moment, at least."
"That's just not right. But didn't Jessie say you were born in Salem? I mean, don't you have any relatives? Someone who could baby-sit?" Melody inched her way toward the door.
"My mother's working tonight, not that she needs to, but that's a problem for another day. No, I'm flat out of good prospects. You're all I've got."
"Gee, thanks."
"Wait a minute," he said, a new spark in his eyes. "If you watch Shane tonight, I'm sure I can find you some kind of job at the station. Wha'd'ya say?"
"I'm sorry, but pumping gas is really not my style."
That fast, his killer smile was back, and so was Melody's lap-warming fantasy.
"Not a gas station," he said. "A TV station."
Melody's keys slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a tinkling thud.
"What?"
"WHCH, down the street."
"What kind of job are we talking here?"
"I'm only the executive producer, but—"
"Only?"
"Look, TV stations are always looking to hire somebody. Keep Shane, and I'll check tonight, I promise, though I can't guarantee you a position as exalted as a vampire."
Melody raised a disgruntled brow, even as her dishy new neighbor raised a placating hand. "Joke."
She knew for a fact that WHCH was looking for somebody to host a cooking show—their previous chef had been a real yawn. She loved cooking shows, though she'd practically slept through that one. "How long will you be gone?"
Logan checked his watch. "Say yes, and I'll be your slave forever."
Oh, the possibilities . Melody took another step back. His eagerness was as much of a turn-on as his pique. "How long?" she repeated.
"Two hours, three at the most," he said.
Melody mentally calculated the time it would take her to prepare one dynamite dinner, the kind that would make the man beg her to do his cooking show. "Sold, and take your time. I talked to your son out in the yard the day you moved in. Cute as a button, polite, too, but he doesn't smile much. How come?"
"He hasn't been with me long, and we're still getting to know each other."
"Better. You mean, you're getting to know each other better."
Logan ran that impatient hand through his hair again. "Can you baby-sit without the whole rotten story, or not?"
Melody snapped to attention and saluted. "Aye, aye, Sir. Send him down, Sir. I'll make us dinner, Sir, and we can eat when you get back… Sir."
The handsome devil rolled his eyes, turned on his heel, and ran up the stairs, calling for his son to "hop to it."
MELODY got the "whole rotten story" out of Shane with nary a question or thumbscrew in sight. Four-year-old boys sang like canaries with chocolate chip cookies and milk before supper.
Shane talked nonstop, while Melody put a roast in the oven and turned the temperature up high, because the meat was still frozen. Though she watched cooking shows, she'd never had time to put any of the lessons to use. Takeout was quicker, but how hard could cooking be?
It took Shane a while to warm up to her. She didn't think he was naturally shy; his reticence seemed almost like a form of self-preservation. According to him, he hadn't lived with, or even known, his father for very long, which would account for his reserve around strangers.
Fortunately, he was a great kid, naturally friendly, and he knew how to measure dry ingredients, which helped a great deal when they started dessert.
After they put all the ingredients into the bowl, Melody turned on the mixer.
"Don't get too close," she said, making a pinch-bug with her fingers and catching Shane's nose, "or you'll get caught in the beaters, and then what would your dad say?"
The boy giggled and flashed the smile Melody had been going for.
Unfortunately, the mixer didn't seem to be working right. The pokey beaters went therrrrump, therrrrump, while chunks of solid ingredients, clumped with butter, clung to
"That's just not right. But didn't Jessie say you were born in Salem? I mean, don't you have any relatives? Someone who could baby-sit?" Melody inched her way toward the door.
"My mother's working tonight, not that she needs to, but that's a problem for another day. No, I'm flat out of good prospects. You're all I've got."
"Gee, thanks."
"Wait a minute," he said, a new spark in his eyes. "If you watch Shane tonight, I'm sure I can find you some kind of job at the station. Wha'd'ya say?"
"I'm sorry, but pumping gas is really not my style."
That fast, his killer smile was back, and so was Melody's lap-warming fantasy.
"Not a gas station," he said. "A TV station."
Melody's keys slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a tinkling thud.
"What?"
"WHCH, down the street."
"What kind of job are we talking here?"
"I'm only the executive producer, but—"
"Only?"
"Look, TV stations are always looking to hire somebody. Keep Shane, and I'll check tonight, I promise, though I can't guarantee you a position as exalted as a vampire."
Melody raised a disgruntled brow, even as her dishy new neighbor raised a placating hand. "Joke."
She knew for a fact that WHCH was looking for somebody to host a cooking show—their previous chef had been a real yawn. She loved cooking shows, though she'd practically slept through that one. "How long will you be gone?"
Logan checked his watch. "Say yes, and I'll be your slave forever."
Oh, the possibilities . Melody took another step back. His eagerness was as much of a turn-on as his pique. "How long?" she repeated.
"Two hours, three at the most," he said.
Melody mentally calculated the time it would take her to prepare one dynamite dinner, the kind that would make the man beg her to do his cooking show. "Sold, and take your time. I talked to your son out in the yard the day you moved in. Cute as a button, polite, too, but he doesn't smile much. How come?"
"He hasn't been with me long, and we're still getting to know each other."
"Better. You mean, you're getting to know each other better."
Logan ran that impatient hand through his hair again. "Can you baby-sit without the whole rotten story, or not?"
Melody snapped to attention and saluted. "Aye, aye, Sir. Send him down, Sir. I'll make us dinner, Sir, and we can eat when you get back… Sir."
The handsome devil rolled his eyes, turned on his heel, and ran up the stairs, calling for his son to "hop to it."
MELODY got the "whole rotten story" out of Shane with nary a question or thumbscrew in sight. Four-year-old boys sang like canaries with chocolate chip cookies and milk before supper.
Shane talked nonstop, while Melody put a roast in the oven and turned the temperature up high, because the meat was still frozen. Though she watched cooking shows, she'd never had time to put any of the lessons to use. Takeout was quicker, but how hard could cooking be?
It took Shane a while to warm up to her. She didn't think he was naturally shy; his reticence seemed almost like a form of self-preservation. According to him, he hadn't lived with, or even known, his father for very long, which would account for his reserve around strangers.
Fortunately, he was a great kid, naturally friendly, and he knew how to measure dry ingredients, which helped a great deal when they started dessert.
After they put all the ingredients into the bowl, Melody turned on the mixer.
"Don't get too close," she said, making a pinch-bug with her fingers and catching Shane's nose, "or you'll get caught in the beaters, and then what would your dad say?"
The boy giggled and flashed the smile Melody had been going for.
Unfortunately, the mixer didn't seem to be working right. The pokey beaters went therrrrump, therrrrump, while chunks of solid ingredients, clumped with butter, clung to
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