Page 50 of The Dating Charade

“Wonderful. I can walk you there.” The woman smiled to Dakota and TJ as she spoke, her accent deep and rich. “Oh, how precious. And how old are they?”

He picked up the car seat, took a step beside her down the hall. “This little guy is TJ. He’s—” He paused. How many weeks was he exactly? He’d never been told TJ’s exact birthdate. “Two months. Give or take a few weeks.”

The woman’s brows rose.

Jett pressed on. “The twins just turned three.”

“Oh? She’s a twin?”

“Yes. Her brother here—” He looked down to his side. Turned his head. “Her brother . . . Excuse me a moment.”

Clinging tightly to Dakota on one hip and hauling TJ’s car seat in the other arm, Jett started jogging down the long, wide hall like a quarterback on the field—only this time his pale-green tie was slapping him in the face and the ball was an eight-pound baby.

He’d only let his mind and eyes wander for a minute, and yet somehow there was no sign of his nephew at all. There were side halls that went off from the main hall every few seconds, but as his face swiveled from one side to the next, he found no sign of the wandering two-foot toddler. The piano ceased playing from inside the closed doors of the sanctuary, and vaguely Jett heard the group rise and begin a group call and response.

The hall spilled back into the main lobby, and Jett swiftly turned in a circle in the center of it.

Then he saw him.

“Drew!” he hissed, sprinting across the lobby floor.

Blood-red communion wine covered the front of his Thomas the Train T-shirt as he leaned against a small metal cart on tiptoe. Hundreds of tiny plastic cups filled the cart, which shook dangerously as the toddler picked one up and held it, the ounce of communion wine shimmering a candy-apple red.

Jett dropped the car seat midstride. Abruptly he set Dakota down as well. She tumbled to her bottom and began to wail beneath the glittering chandelier.

Drew tipped the cup back just as Jett cleared six feet in one jump. He grabbed his nephew’s pudgy hand. Drew stumbled back a step, the cart shaking vigorously.

An elder turned, suddenly aware the communion cart he was charged to protect was under siege.

Gripping the empty communion cup, Drew looked up to Jett with a red stain already forming on his lips. He smiled. Several empty cups lay on the carpet around his feet.

The car seat began to rock as TJ, alone beneath the three-tiered brass chandelier, gave a high-pitched scream that easily eclipsed his sister’s howls.

The elder’s mouth couldn’t have gaped any wider.

Jett picked up Drew. Chest heaving, he pointed to the cart. “Wine or grape juice?”

The flabbergasted man looked as pasty as raw dough.

“Is that wine or grape juice?” Jett repeated.

“It’s—it’s—it’s juice. Just juice,” the elder replied, then gripped the cart protectively as though the pair was about to make another run for it.

Jett let out a breath. “Thank you.”

The elder’s mouth took ages to form words. “You’re . . . welcome.”

Five minutes later, and one emergency bathroom trip (in which Drew rolled underneath the stalls, Dakota “missed” the potty, and TJ grabbed Jett’s tie midhandwashing, giving it a nice, deep soak), he hauled the trio back through the wide hall.

Miraculously, the woman was still waiting, although she’d craned her neck uncertainly, as though unsure of his promised return. She said nothing as Jett held a teary-eyed TJ in one arm, the empty car seat banging against his hip. Clingy Dakota wrapped her knees deep into his stomach and back from the other side, and if Jett held Drew’s hand any tighter he would’ve been called out by social services.

“So, where were we? Ah, yes. This is Drew.”

“Hi. I’m five.” Drew held up four red-stained fingers and smiled with red-streaked teeth.

The woman smiled at him. “Oh, my, isn’t that—”

“He’s three.” Jett cut the southern charm. “Where is that nursery again?”