Page 8 of Sobek’s Joy

Jack accepted that with a solemn nod and went back to arranging his T-Rex and Triceratops in what looked like a battle formation.

Rudy dipped the roller in more paint. No matter what he did for a living, there had been times when Sobek had seemed almost...protective. When Rudy had explained about finding the kids and about their little quirks and differences, Sobek’s expression had shifted and gone hard in a way that made Rudy’s stomach flip. Not angry, exactly. More like someone had just threatened something he cared about and was mentally planning their demise.

Which was beyond ridiculous because Sobek didn’t know them. Rudy sniffed cautiously at the paint on the end of the roller, but it didn’t seem pungent. I’m not being affected by paint fumes then. But Sobek didn’t know Rudy or the kids beyond two brief encounters involving wet children and mediocre coffee, and yet, Rudy would swear that look had been real.

Maybe he has kids of his own, Rudy decided. Perhaps that’s why he understood. It could be why he didn’t judge when I explained Jack’s hair, Rose’s claws, or Tim’s scales, because possibly he has children with similar quirks.

Except that Sobek hadn’t mentioned kids or having any family at all. There was no ring on his finger either - not that Rudy had been looking. Okay, fine, he’d been looking. Sobek had been worth checking out.

“I’m hungry,” Rose announced from across the room.

Rudy checked his watch and nearly dropped the paint roller. “How is it already five-thirty?”

Time had completely gotten away from him, which happened more often than he’d like to admit. Between the painting and the mental gymnastics about mysterious neighbors, the hours had vanished.

“Okay, dinner time. Everyone, wash your hands and then join me in the kitchen.”

The kids trooped to the bathroom, and Rudy surveyed the living room. He’d managed to get three walls done, with one to go, which wasn’t bad for an afternoon’s work, especially considering the interruptions. He’d finish it tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever he got a chance, realistically, because that was his life when he had three kids under six.

In the kitchen, Rudy pulled out ingredients for spaghetti. It was easy, filling, and all three kids would actually eat it without complaint. While the pasta boiled, he heated some sauce from a jar and tried very hard not to think about whether Sobek could cook. Or what he looked like cooking. Or what he looked like in general without all those expensive black clothes.

Stop. It.

“Can we eat outside?” Jack asked, appearing at Rudy’s elbow.

“It’s too hot, baby.”

“But the mosquitoes aren’t bad yet.”

“Nice try. Table. All of you.”

Dinner wasn’t anything special. Rose ate three helpings, Jack picked out every mushroom from the sauce despite Rudy’s best efforts to hide them, and Timothy ate steadily while staring at nothing in particular. Rudy had learned not to push when Timothy went quiet like that. The kid liked to spend a lot of time in his head and would come back when he was ready.

“Bath time after dinner,” Rudy announced, because if he didn’t start the evening routine now, they’d never get to bed at a reasonable hour.

“Do we have to?” Rose whined.

“I think so. You’ve got peanut butter in your hair.”

“How did that happen?” Rose’s sauce-covered fingers were suddenly in her hair as if she was looking for it, and Rudy shook his head with a smile.

“I have no idea, but you do, and now you have sauce as well.”

While the kids finished eating, Rudy’s mind drifted back to Sobek one more time. The way those dark eyes had tracked Timothy across the kitchen. The careful way he’d held his coffee mug, like he was afraid he’d break it. The rumbling voice that had said You’re a good parent like it were both a surprise and a revelation.

Rudy had nearly melted right there on his rainbow kitchen floor.

Get a grip, he told himself firmly. You don’t even know the man. He’s probably got a whole life somewhere else. A partner. Kids. A perfectly normal explanation for being here that has nothing to do with mafia witness protection programs or secret military operations.

“Daddy?” Jack tugged at his sleeve.

“Hmm?”

“You’re smiling funny.”

“Am I?”

“Uh-huh. Like you do when you read your books after we go to bed.”