She sat next to Clinton, ignored how he stiffened when she laid her hand on his arm. She kept it there anyway, wanting to give him some small measure of comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

He nodded then stood. To get away from her? The thought stung, and she reminded herself that was what she’d wanted. To push him away.

She’d done the job too well.

“Estelle seems to think I can fix it,” Clinton said. “Somehow force Dad to get better.”

“And it’s killing you that you can’t,” Ivy guessed.

He sent her a sharp look that let her know she was right. “Even my ego’s not big enough to let me think I can save a dying man.”

“I don’t think it’s your ego pushing you. I think it’s respect, at the very least. Maybe even love for the man who raised you.”

She didn’t agree with Clinton butting into his family members’ business, didn’t like how they all turned to him to solve their problems. But she admired how he cared for them all.

She couldn’t imagine being that magnanimous. Wasn’t sure she wanted to be.

“Dad is a bastard,” Clinton said flatly. “Egotistical, arrogant and self-centered. But he isn’t all bad. And he doesn’t deserve to live the way he has been for the past fourteen months. No one deserves that. And you’re right. I hate that I can’t talk him into getting better.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Hell, maybe I made things worse by forcing Carrie to leave him.”

“From what I overheard that day at your apartment, she was on her way out. She was looking for an excuse.”

He lifted a shoulder. In agreement? Irritation? Ivy had no idea.

“If things are that bad with your father,” she said, needing to ask the question that was at the forefront of her mind, “why did you come back to Shady Grove this weekend?”

Clinton edged closer so that he towered over her, his gaze intense, his expression unyielding. “You know why.”

Her throat went dry. Yes, she knew.

He’d come back for her.

His words from that day at her apartment when he’d brought her champagne and flowers floated through her head.

I’m going to prove myself to you.

“The real question,” he continued, “is what are you doing here?”

“Fay told me you were back, and I...”

I missed you. I wanted to see you.

Except she couldn’t tell him that. Was afraid to be that open. That honest.

Was terrified he wouldn’t believe her. Not after what had happened at O’Riley’s.

“I need your help,” she blurted.

He laughed, but the sound held little humor. “I doubt that. You seem to thrive on doing things on your own.”

Ouch. But since it was true, she couldn’t argue. “I need your help,” she repeated, as she stood. “Fay is giving me the boys’ old crib, and I need help carrying it into my apartment and putting it together.”

Of course, she didn’t need it quite this soon, hadn’t planned on lugging it home for a few months. And she could think of about a dozen ways she’d rather spend a sunny Saturday afternoon than moving furniture. But he didn’t need to know any of that.

He wasn’t the only one who had something to prove. She was turning to him. Making the effort.

She just hoped it wasn’t too little, too late.

He stiffened. “I’ll buy you a new crib.”

She rolled her eyes. “The baby doesn’t care if two other babies have slept in the crib. We’ll get new sheets and everything, but there’s no point buying something when I have a perfectly good crib here that’s ready to be reassembled in my apartment.”

He studied her, his gaze wary. Questioning.

At her apartment last week, when they’d celebrated the baby, had their champagne and that amazing kiss and she’d told him about her mother, they’d grown closer. It had scared her to death. So she’d asserted her independence. He had a right to be pissed. She’d just hoped he’d be over it by now. With any other man, she wouldn’t worry about it. The only reason she was making an effort with Clinton was because of the baby. Or so she told herself.

Lies. Horrible lies she forced herself to believe because the truth was so much scarier.

She’d done this to herself. Had brought on his cool attitude by going to Kane. By not accepting Clinton’s help. By not trusting him when he’d said she could count on him.

She’d succeeded in putting distance between them and now she wished she hadn’t. And it wasn’t guilt. It was something more. Something deeper she didn’t want to explore.

“Well?” she asked, frustrated and getting mildly annoyed because she was making an effort and couldn’t he see that? “Are you going to help me or not?”

He straightened. “Where is it?”

She almost sagged in relief. “In the basement.” Fay had an entire household worth of items down there from the house she used to share with her ex-husband.

Clinton nodded. “Let me change. I’ll meet you in the foyer in five minutes.”

Ivy left, quietly shutting the door behind her. In the hall, she closed her eyes and exhaled heavily.

And tried to tell herself she was making progress.

* * *

C.J. CARRIED THE last piece of the crib up the stairs and into Ivy’s apartment. Was greeted by the cat with a meow. He went into Ivy’s bedroom, where they’d put the rest, Ivy taking the small parts, him hauling the bigger ones.

He wiped sweat from his brow. Ivy had borrowed a pickup, so they’d been able to get it from the bed-and-breakfast to her apartment in one trip. One silent, tension-filled trip.

He wasn’t going to worry about it. Wasn’t going to be the one to break that tension. Not when he was still so angry with her.

“Here,” she said, coming in behind him with a glass of lemonade. “You look thirsty.”

“Thanks.” He took it, drained the liquid in several long gulps. Handed her the glass.

She looked nervous, standing there in her shorts and another tank top, this one the color of spring grass that clung to her rounded stomach. “I didn’t know you even owned regular jeans. I mean, the kind normal people buy.”

He glanced at his faded jeans. He’d changed into them and a T-shirt, had put on his running shoes. “Several pairs,” he said. She thought he was some snob who’d never done an honest day’s worth of work.

He had. It may not have been physical work, but he knew how to put in a full day, how to work until the job was done.

“Fay found the directions,” Ivy said, handing him a paper booklet opened to a diagram of parts and pieces.

He studied it. Nodded, though trepidation crept up his spine. “Got it. Tools?”

She gestured toward a pink toolbox in the corner. “Need help?”

“No, thanks,” he told her coolly. “I can handle it on my own.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she whirled on her heel and stormed off without a word.

A point for him, getting that last word in, but the victory felt hollow. He glanced at Jasper, who was looking at him reproachfully. “Yeah, yeah,” C.J. muttered. “I know. Cheap shot. But she deserved it.”

Telling himself that was the truth, he laid out the directions and went to work.

* * *

“HAVE YOU BEEN sleeping in here?” Ivy asked an hour later when she came back into the room. She frowned at him, looked at all the pieces and parts still scattered on the floor. “I thought you’d be done by now.”

C.J. ground his back teeth together and slowly got to his feet. He had one side of the crib up, and it wasn’t looking too steady. “You did this on purpose.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This.” He jabbed a finger at the half-assembled crib. “You asked me to put this damned thing together to prove I’m inept.”

She laughed. “You’re kidding.” Her laughter died as she took in his expression. “You’re not kidding. Look, this isn’t some trick or plan to make you look bad. I needed help, so I asked you.”

He wanted to fling the screwdriver he was holding. Instead he set it down, then threw up his hands. “It’s impossible. There’s no way these pieces make a crib.”