P.I. Daddy's Personal Mission

by Beth Cornelison

  Patrick’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Promise?”

  Peter smiled. “Promise.”

  “Okay.” Patrick returned, grinning. “So can I help fix Ms. Navarre’s house?”

  Peter released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You bet, sport.”

  “I’m home, Samson!” Lisa called as she hustled in from the cold and left her bag of books by the front door. As she’d left school, she’d have sworn she saw Peter Walsh picking up Patrick, and the handsome father had preoccupied her thoughts ever since. Of course, Peter hadn’t been far from her mind all week. When she thought about the Fall Festival and his promise to help set up and work the event, anxious butterflies swooped in her gut. Despite telling herself to take it slow with Peter, to remember her rule about not dating, she couldn’t deny the smile that came to her face when she thought of him or the giddy rush of excitement when she looked forward to spending more time with him at the festival.

  “Samson?” She shucked off her gloves and scarf and glanced down the hall. Her furry companion emerged from a back room, gave a lazy stretch, then loped with a kind of trot/hop down the hall to greet her. When she reached down to pat him, Samson gave her a cursory rub then headed over to his food bowl. He glared at her as if to say, “It’s about time you got home. I’m starving!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Let me hang up my coat.”

  Lisa had just finished feeding Samson, fixing herself a cup of hot tea and settling in her living room with a stack of papers to grade when someone knocked on her front door.

  “Who in the world…?” she asked her cat, as he hopped in from the kitchen ready for a post-dinner nap.

  She hurried to the door and yanked it open. When she found Peter on her doorstep, his cheeks ruddy from the cold and his jaw shaded with late-afternoon stubble, Lisa’s heartbeat scampered.

  “Peter.” She hoped the breathless quality of her voice sounded more like surprise to him than the girlish giddiness that was, in fact, at fault. She gripped the edge of her door and collected her composure. Steady, girl.

  “Hi, Ms. Navarre!” Patrick said brightly.

  Caught staring at his father, she jerked her gaze to Patrick and smiled warmly. “Hi, Patrick. What brings you by?”

  Patrick held up the toolbox he carried. “We’re gonna fix your house.”

  She glanced back at Peter for confirmation, and he gave her a lopsided grin that did little to help the breathless feeling squeezing her chest. He plucked the toolbox from Patrick’s hand and ruffled his son’s hair. “Correction. I’m going to fix her roof while you do your homework, and once you finish your schoolwork, you can help me with the window. But homework comes first.”

  Lisa gave him a sassy grin. “You’re just saying that to impress the teacher.”

  Arching an eyebrow, he replied, “Maybe. Is it working?”

  Her smile spread, and she had a playful retort poised on her lips when she caught the fascinated look her student was dividing between her and his father. “Patrick, you can use my kitchen table to do your homework if you want. And help yourself to one of the cookies on the counter if you’re hungry.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Navarre.” Patrick plowed through the door with his overstuffed backpack, jostling her into his father’s chest as he bustled into her house.

  Lisa turned to Peter. “You really don’t have to—”

  He touched a finger to her mouth to silence her. “But I want to.”

  The brush of his cold skin on her lips sent sweet sensations curling through her.

  “How was I supposed to get any sleep tonight with that arctic front moving in and knowing your window is still broken?”

  She hiccupped a laugh. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to let you fix it. We can’t have you losing sleep.”

  An image of Peter, shirtless, restless and tangled in his sheets flashed in her mind, wiping the teasing grin from her face and overloading her circuits.

  “I hope you don’t mind me bringing him along?” Peter hitched his head toward her kitchen as he stepped inside. “My mom usually keeps him for me in the afternoon, but I thought I’d give her a day off.”

  Lisa had to swallow before she could speak, the image of Peter in his bed imprinted like a film negative in her brain. “It’s fine. He won’t bother me. I was just about to grade the history essays they turned in today.” She rubbed her palms on the seat of her jeans. “Can I offer you anything before you get started?” Like permission to have your way with me.

  Oh, mercy. Lisa shoved the provocative images aside. What is wrong with you?

  “No, I’m good. I’ve got everything I need in my truck. In fact, I got the last package of black shingles Cooper’s Hardware had in stock. Needless to say, they’ve had a run on building products lately.”

  “Well, thank you. I’ll repay you for the supplies, of course.”

  He pulled a face and waved her off. “Forget it. My pleasure.” He stepped toward her, and she held her breath. But instead of her, his target was the kitchen doorway. He leaned into the room just far enough to send Patrick a parental look. “You behave yourself for Ms. Navarre, and let her get her work done. Understand, sport?”

  “Yep.” Patrick returned without looking up.

  “Yep, sir.”

  “Sir,” Patrick groaned, apparently missing his father’s sarcasm.

  Peter lingered for another moment, the whisper of a smile on his lips and an affectionate glow in his eyes as he regarded his son. Peter’s obvious love for his son nudged the empty ache in her soul for the children she didn’t have, and reminded her why she couldn’t burden Peter, or any man, with her infertility.

  As he turned toward the door, Peter caught her eye. “I’ll be on the roof if you need me.”

  For the next half hour, Lisa tried hard to concentrate on the history essays, but the thudding on her roof was an ever-present reminder of the man doing the repair, the man who made her pulse hammer.

  “I can’t think about spelling with all that racket,” Patrick complained as he sauntered in from the kitchen and flopped on her couch.

  “I know what you mean.” Lisa set aside the essays and stretched her back.

  Patrick cast a curious gaze around her living room, and his gazed stopped when he spotted Samson napping on the rocking chair by her fireplace. His eyes widened. “Is that your cat?” he asked, even as he crossed the room toward the snoozing feline.

  Lisa chuckled. “No, it’s my pet shark.”

  Patrick sent her a withering look and a grin as he knelt in front of the rocking chair. “Can I pet her?”

  “That’s Samson. You may pet him, but be warned, he bites.”

  Patrick stroked Samson’s long fur, and the cat raised his head to greet him with a loud, short, “Rrow.”

  Lisa folded her legs under her, watching Patrick pat Samson and awaiting the inevitable.

  Sure enough, Samson batted at Patrick’s hand, pinned the boy’s hand down with his paw, and—

  “He’s licking me!” Patrick laughed.

  “Licking?” Lisa craned her neck for a better look. “Well, I’ll be darned.”

  Peter’s son continued playing with her cat, ruffling his fuzzy tummy and chuckling as Samson batted at his hand. After a moment, Lisa shrugged, baffled by Samson’s uncharacteristic behavior, and returned her attention to the history essays.

  “Hey, he’s only got three legs!” Patrick sounded truly dismayed.

  She glanced up again and met the boy’s curious gaze. “Yep, I don’t know what happened to his other foot. He lost a foot somehow before I rescued him as a kitten.”

  “Can he walk?” Patrick asked, his expression apprehensive as he continued to pat Samson.

  “Oh, yeah, he—”

  “Ow! He bit me.” The startled but humored expression Patrick wore told her he wasn’t hurt. Samson, for all his crankiness, never bit hard.

  “I told you.” Lisa flashed her student a smile. “He’s a shark.”

  P
atrick chuckled and reached for Samson again, but the feline decided he was done amusing their guest and hopped down from the rocking chair. The cat ran off toward the kitchen, answering Patrick’s question regarding his mobility.

  “Did you finish your homework?” she asked. “Remember, we’re having a spelling test tomorrow.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “No. I still have to do my math. And my grandma usually helps me study spelling.”

  Lisa set aside the history papers and rose to scoot Patrick back to the kitchen table. “Your dad wants you to finish your schoolwork before you help with the window. If you want me to quiz you in spelling, I can.”

  Patrick looked up at her, his face brightening. “Really? Can you help me with my math, too?”

  “What’s your trouble with math? You’ve been doing well on all your assignments so far this year.”

  “I just hate fractions is all.”

  “If you’re asking me to do your math for you the answer is no. But if you get stuck, give a holler. Okay?”

  “Give a holler?” Patrick laughed. “You sound like a hick.”

  Lisa pretended to be affronted. “Holler is a perfectly good word down in Texas, where I grew up.” She propped her hands on her hips and scowled playfully. “And I’m fixin’ to open a can of whoop-butt on you if you don’t get your hide into the kitchen and get busy.”

  Though he grinned at her southernisms spoken with a heavy drawl, Patrick’s eyes widened, and he jumped up and scurried to the kitchen table. She followed him and paused to tousle his hair.

  How many times had she imagined sitting around the table with her own family, sharing meals or tutoring on homework? She suppressed a pang of regret and focused on his cherubic face. In a few years, with the sculpting of maturity, Patrick would be the spitting image of his father.

  While Patrick tackled fractions, she started a package of hamburger browning, glancing toward the table every now and then to check on her student. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay. Just two more to go. Then spelling.”

  She pulled a jar of spaghetti sauce from the cabinet and turned down the heat on the beef.

  As she headed to the table, Patrick closed his math book and sighed. “Why do you give so much homework?”

  “Patrick, ten math problems and twenty vocabulary words is not that much homework.”

  She slid his spelling book toward her and flipped to the right page. “Ready?”

  He nodded. “If I get them all right, do I get a dollar?”

  She laughed. “If you get them all right tomorrow, you’ll get an A on your test.”

  “Grandma gives me a dollar if I spell all my words right.”

  “Hmm, well, you can take that up with your dad. For now, spell abject.”

  They made their way through most of the list before Peter sauntered in from outside, bringing the crisp scent of autumn leaves with him.

  “Hey Dad, Ms. Navarre has a cool cat named Samson. He’s only got three legs, and his fur is really soft. First he was licking me, and then he bit me!”

  Peter frowned. “Bit you?”

  Lisa opened her mouth to defend her cat, but Patrick rushed on enthusiastically. “Not hard. It didn’t hurt. He’s really awesome, Dad.”

  “Awesome? Wow. High praise for a cat.” He pulled off his coat and hung it in the front hall. “So how’s the homework coming?”

  Patrick’s shoulders slumped. “I’m still studying spelling for my test.”

  His dad twisted his mouth in thought. “Tell you what. Do as much as you can while I set things up for the window, then I’ll finish quizzing you while we work. Deal?”

  “Deal!”

  “Peter?” Lisa said impulsively. “I’d love for you to stay and eat with me. I’m making spaghetti. It’s the least I can do to say thank you.”

  “Spaghetti! Can we, Dad? Please?” Patrick’s expression was enthusiastic and pleading. Lisa just hoped her own face didn’t reflect the same expectant eagerness, despite the thump of adrenaline and hopefulness in her chest.

  “You sure you have enough to share? Growing boys eat a lot.”

  She winked at Patrick. “I’m sure.”

  Peter’s face warmed, and his smile sent a zing through her blood. “Thank you. We accept. Let me go get the new window out of the truck and I’ll let you know when I’m ready to start, okay, Patrick?”

  As Peter headed out to his truck, Lisa tried to tame the giddy smile that tugged her cheeks.

  Patrick would be with them, chaperoning, so her dinner invitation couldn’t be considered a date. Right? Repaying his kindness was the least she could do.

  So why did having Peter and his son staying for dinner feel like something special, something significant?

  Setting aside the nagging questions, she glanced down at Patrick’s spelling list. “Okay, spell dangerous.”

  Her pulse stumbled. An omen? Was pursuing this “non-relationship” with Peter a dangerous venture for her heart?

  Not a date, she told herself. It’s not a date.

  Peter removed the cardboard Lisa had taped over her broken window and set it aside while the image of his son sitting at the kitchen table with the pretty brunette replayed in his head. Patrick seemed to be gobbling up the female attention. And why not? Lisa was attractive, kind, invested in seeing Patrick do well in school. Had he underestimated the importance of having a mother figure in his son’s life?

  Sure, his mom was there for Patrick every afternoon, but somehow that was different. Jolene was Patrick’s grandmother, only available part-time. A whole generation older than Patrick’s friends’ mothers.

  Lisa would make a great mother. As soon as the thought filtered through his head, he remembered her painful confession at the restaurant on Saturday. A fist of regret squeezed his chest. Not only did her infertility troubles make her gun-shy about dating, reluctant to risk the kind of pain she’d known with her ex-husband, but she was missing out on one of life’s truly great joys. Parenting Patrick filled his heart in unexpected and powerful ways.

  When he and Katie had been anticipating Patrick’s birth, they’d talked about how many more children they’d have.

  Twelve, Katie had said, just like in Cheaper by the Dozen.

  Peter had laughed and kissed his wife. Let’s see how this first one goes before we commit to a dozen.

  He sighed as the tightness in his chest gripped harder. Katie hadn’t lived long enough even to see Patrick grow up. And deep inside he still harbored a desire for more kids. Maybe not twelve, but…

  Peter removed the wrappings from the new window and was lining up the needed tools when Patrick bustled into the room. “Ms. Navarre says to let her know when to start the noodles. They take about ten minutes to boil.”

  Shaking off the melancholy that thoughts of Lisa’s infertility and Katie’s death had stirred, he managed a smile for his son. “Copy that. So did you bring your spelling words?”

  Patrick handed him a thin book. “Page 44. We stopped at extensive.”

  Flipping to the proper page, Peter scanned the list and read aloud, “Exude.” “Exude. E-x-u—” Patrick paused and took the screwdriver Peter handed him. “—d-e. Exude.”

  Peter pointed to a screw on the existing window frame. “See if you can remove that screw, then tell me what exude means.”

  Patrick set to work on the screw. “We don’t have to know the definitions for the test. Just spell the words.”

  “Yeah, maybe so. But I want you to tell me what the words mean while we work.”

  His son groaned. “Exude means…like…stuff coming out or oozing from something?”

  “Basically, yeah.” He watched Patrick struggle to loosen the screw. “Can you use it in a sentence?”

  Another grunt. “Dad!”

  “Patrick!” he returned mimicking his son’s exasperated tone.

  His son bit his bottom lip and leaned into his efforts to budge the stuck screw. When it turned, Patrick’s fac
e lit with victory. “Did it.”

  “Excellent.” He gave his son’s upper arm a light squeeze. “Yep, definitely getting some muscles there. Now…exude.”

  Patrick tipped his head and wrinkled his nose. Then a sassy grin lit his face. “Ms. Navarre’s cat exudes awesomeness.”

  A chuckle behind them drew his attention to the door. Lisa leaned against the frame watching them, looking beautiful with a mysterious little smile tugging her lips.

  Peter’s pulse kicked as the impulse to taste those lips slammed into him.

  “Works for me, Dad. Although I’m not sure if awesomeness is in the dictionary,” she said.

  Patrick nudged Peter out of the way, pulling his dad from his lustful sidetrack, and set to work loosening the next screw holding the broken window in place. “Dad, can we get a cat?”

  Peter pulled a dubious frown. “A cat? Wouldn’t a dog be more…a guy’s pet?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. I like Samson. I want a cat like him.”

  Peter sent Lisa a look and caught her smirking, muffling a laugh. “Yeah, well…we’ll see. I’m not much of a cat person.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, Patrick loosened all of the remaining screws and helped him lift down and replace the broken window. Lisa checked on them several times, complimenting Patrick on his handyman skills and smiling her approval to Peter. When they had secured the new window and sealed the edges with caulk, he cast a glance over his shoulder to Lisa. “All done here. Just need to clean up, if you want to start the pasta.”

  “Got it.” She pushed away from the wall where she’d been leaning and stepped closer to examine their work. “Double-paned for extra insulation, even. Wow.”

  Peter handed his son a small bag of trash. “Please take this to her garbage can outside.”

  When Patrick reached for the old window, Peter and Lisa spoke at the same time.

  “Wait!”

  “Patrick, don’t—”