by Robin Kaye
Butch shot him a smile, muttering something about some guys having all the luck, and strolled down the lane, leaving Cam alone in the driveway holding a half a dozen condoms. Shit.
He stuffed them into his jeans pocket and shook his head. He definitely would not need condoms—not for the next month, at least, he promised himself, and returned to the kitchen to make breakfast for his tutu-clad princess wearing an ugly pink hat, and his new employee who made his shirt look more sinful than any red negligee could.
“Daddy, I want a Mickey Mouse, a bunny rabbit, and an elephant.”
“I’ll do my best. Get the raisins out of the pantry to use for eyes and noses.” He wasn’t sure he was up to fashioning an elephant out of pancake batter, but she was his little princess and he was just thankful her appetite had returned. He measured the dry ingredients while Janie ran to the pantry. “Erin, any requests?”
“Excuse me?”
Janie joined him at the stove. “Daddy makes Mickey Mouse, bunny rabbit, and elephant shaped pancakes. What do you want?”
“A pumpkin and a snowman, please.”
He looked up from the eggs he was beating and met Erin’s eyes. “Going easy on me, are you?”
“Somebody should after what you’ve been through this morning. Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Enough. I’m tough.” He mixed the wet and dry ingredients and turned the sausage links he had frying.
Erin watched him with those serious green eyes of hers—it was unnerving.
“What?”
“Even Superman has to sleep sometime.”
He’d given up any hope of normal sleep hours when Janie was born. He didn’t think he had gotten a full night’s sleep for the first year of her life—or for the last two. She’d never been a good sleeper and since she’d gotten sick, neither was he. “My brother Adam, the artist of the family, started the animal-shaped pancake tradition when Janie was a toddler. When we moved down here from Portsmouth, I had to learn to make designer pancakes. It’s a good thing Janie’s okay with a loose interpretation. I’m more of a Picasso pancake maker than the Rembrandt variety like Adam.”
“Uncle Adam’s pancakes look better,” Janie admitted, “but Daddy’s taste better.”
Erin brought her cup to the counter. “And when it comes down to it, it’s the taste that really counts, isn’t it? I’d rather eat great-tasting plain round pancakes than fancy animal shapes that taste like cardboard.” She refilled her coffee and added two sugars and enough cream to make it look like a latte. “Cam, if you point me to the dishes, and the silverware, I’ll set the table and throw together a fruit salad.”
He wasn’t used to help in the kitchen. He especially wasn’t used to help that smelled like flowers and coffee. It didn’t sound like a great combination, but it worked for him. Lavender, his brother had said, although he wasn’t sure how Butch knew. Maybe he’d seen the labels in her bathroom. “You don’t have to.”
Erin didn’t say anything; she just set those green eyes on him.
“The glasses are over the dishwasher, the plates are to the right of the sink, and the utensils are in that top drawer, just below the plates,” he acquiesced—setting a very bad precedent. There was definitely something about her eyes that had the power to change a man’s mind about a multitude of things. He leaned against the counter and waited for the butter to melt on the griddle.
“You have a right-handed kitchen,” Erin commented as she removed the plates.
“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
Erin nodded and brushed by him on her way to the table.
He handed the pitcher of maple syrup to Janie. “Bring this over and fold the napkins for Erin.”
Erin set the plates on the table he’d taken from his dad’s storage shed and refinished. It was the same table they’d used when he was a little kid. His mom was probably the last person to set that table. After she died, they’d just heaped food onto their plates at the stove.
“Would it be okay if I sit here?” Erin pointed to the seat he’d always occupied. “That way I won’t be bumping elbows with anyone.”
“But that’s where Daddy always sits.” Janie eyeballed him.
“It’s fine with me,” he said. Not that he’d mind bumping elbows with Erin—or anything else for that matter. “Just move my coffee.”
“Thanks. I’ve been known to hurt people while eating.”
“How do you want me to fold the napkins, Daddy? Do you want me to wrap them around the silverware like they do in restaurants?”
Erin took a napkin from Janie and folded it in half like a rectangle. “You can fold it this way, or like a triangle—however you want. They go beneath the forks on the left side of the plate.”
Cam held his breath, catching the look that crossed his daughter’s face. Like him, she didn’t see the point of folding a napkin that—if he was lucky or he reminded her—would end up on her lap where it belonged.
“There,” Erin stood back and looked at the table. “Doesn’t that look pretty?”
Janie looked from the table to him and back again. “I didn’t know tables were supposed to look pretty. I thought they were just supposed to hold your plates.”
“Tables are kind of like shoes. They serve a purpose, but it doesn’t mean they can’t be pretty while they’re doing their job, does it?”
“I like pretty shoes.”
Erin ran a hand over Janie’s hat-covered head. “Me too, and I love pretty tables. This one is gorgeous.” She returned to the counter and started cutting up all the fruit they had on hand.
“Daddy and me sanded it and fixed it all up when we moved here when I was little, before I got sick.”
“Daddy and I,” he corrected.
Erin sliced a banana and tossed it in a bowl. “A family heirloom?”
“Nah, we just got it out of the shed at Grandpa’s house.”
Cam flipped the elephant and the trunk and ears stayed attached—a minor miracle. “We hadn’t used it for years—since my mom died.” Maybe the table had reminded his dad too much of Mom. Cam couldn’t remember why they’d replaced it, but then he didn’t remember much about the year or so after the accident. There had been nothing wrong with the table that he could see, and as Erin said, it was beautiful—nineteenth-century, hand-carved mahogany with four leaves. It was probably worth a small fortune now.
He made a snowman pancake and his version of a pumpkin for Erin, and then poured the rest of the batter out for himself. Plain circles worked for him. While they cooked, he rummaged through the cupboards for a serving platter and gave it a quick wash—he didn’t think it had ever been used. He piled pancakes on the platter and brought it to the table.
Erin set the bowl of fruit salad in the center. Maybe there was something to be said for setting the table. Three plates and bowls were set with napkins, glasses of orange juice, cups of coffee, and a glass of milk for Janie. Erin had refilled his coffee when he wasn’t looking. Quite a trick since Erin wearing his shirt was a sight he had trouble not paying very close attention to. It was amazing he hadn’t burned their breakfast. Too bad it wasn’t summer. He’d have the windows open to catch the breeze and lift the hem of her shirt.
He was too old for prepubescent thoughts, but those legs just kept going and tempted him beyond reason.
He took a seat across from Erin and sat back, coffee in hand. This was nice. He told himself it was because Mrs. Truman usually ate on her own, insisting she didn’t want to intrude on his time with Janie. He had a feeling that was just an excuse.
Erin helped Janie fix her plate—something he’d always done himself—and gently stopped Janie from drowning her pancakes with syrup.
He had to hand it to her; Erin really had a way with kids. If anyone else had done the same, Janie would have insisted that if her pancakes weren’t swimming in syrup, it w
asn’t enough. With Erin, though, she just smiled and chattered on while she cut off the elephant’s trunk and stuffed it into her mouth.
He loaded his plate and watched Erin deftly move Janie’s glass away from the edge of the table without missing a beat, narrowly avoiding a milk disaster. It looked like she’d done this a million times before. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she had a few kids of her own. He cut a piece of sausage and asked, “Erin, do you have brothers and sisters?”
She looked surprised by the question. “No, I’m an only child.”
So much for his theory. Maybe she was so good with kids because she’d worked in the PICU at the hospital.
Janie dribbled syrup down the front of her nightgown. He was just about to reach over and wipe it up, but Erin beat him to it.
Janie allowed the napkin swipe. “Erin, you’re just like me—I don’t have any brothers or sisters either, but I’d like a little sister someday.”
Cam almost choked on his pancakes. Janie had never mentioned that before, and the way his love life was going, she was doomed to disappointment. Not that he wouldn’t love to have more kids; he just seemed to attract women who didn’t want anything to do with children. “You don’t want a brother?”
Janie shook her head. “My friend Mary has a brother and he eats his boogers. Boys are gross.”
Cam cringed and did his best not to laugh. It was great to have Janie home. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this—or maybe he just refused to think about all they’d both missed over the last two years with Janie in and out of the hospital. This was what normal felt like, and as much as he agreed with her that eating snot was disgusting, it was hardly proper breakfast conversation. Emily Post was probably rolling over in her grave. “Janie, we don’t talk about things like that while we’re eating.”
“Why not?”
“It tends to kill the appetite. Like you said, it’s gross.”
“Well, you asked.”
“I guess I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” He shook his head and when he looked across the table, even though Erin kept a straight face, her eyes were laughing. She was dangerous. Definitely dangerous.
***
While Erin ate her breakfast she did her best to avoid disaster while sitting next to Janie, who had the bad habit of taking a drink and returning the glass to the edge of the table after every sip.
As promised, Cam’s pancakes, while not looking much like the characters he was supposed to have made, were in fact quite delicious. Butter melted over her pancakes and the real maple syrup, dark and more mapley tasting than any other she’d ever had, soaked in with perfection. Even the sausage was done to a turn.
After the talk of siblings and gross boys ended, they ate in companionable silence. It was oddly comfortable. She wondered if this was what it felt like to eat with a traditional family. She had no experience with that—it had always been just her and her mother. It wasn’t as if she’d never eaten dinner with a date, but eating at a restaurant was much different than sitting in a kitchen with a man and his daughter eating breakfast in her pajamas.
Looking across a kitchen table at a man was something she doubted she would ever grow accustomed to. Especially a man like Cam. He was so big, bigger than any man she’d ever dated, not that there had been many of those. The last guy she’d dated, Ash Conlin, had been about five foot ten, with a slight build, and was kind of unassuming—both physically and mentally.
Cam would never be considered unassuming. He was the kind of man who, after dark, would make other men cross the street to avoid him. It wasn’t as if he looked threatening or did anything to make one feel unsafe, but it was the way he moved—lightly, with a grace that belied his size. He was a man comfortable in his own skin, a man who looked as if he’d been physically tested and was sure of his abilities. Still, she tried to define it—it was more than the way he moved and seemed to own any space he occupied. Maybe it was that blacker than black hair, or the way his light complexion and brilliant dark blue eyes made him look like some kind of apparition. No matter how much he and his brother Butch looked alike, Butch didn’t have that quality. No, there was nothing about him that made a woman want to touch him to see if he was real. It could also be the depth she saw in Cam’s eyes whenever their gazes caught and held. A complexity that called out to her, and made her wish she could peel back the layers to discover what went on in his mind.
She ate mechanically, no longer tasting the food she ingested. She almost laughed at herself; she was being fanciful, she supposed. Maybe it was all the romance novels Kendall had been pushing her to read. Now that her course work was finished, for the first time in years she had time to read for pleasure. The books made her wonder if what they spouted was true. They made it sound as if love struck like lightning—a spark or emotion that was somehow all consuming, overwhelming, and more powerful than anything she’d ever known. When Cam looked into her eyes, she definitely felt overwhelmed, scared, and yet incapable of breaking the connection.
Janie set her milk glass on the edge of the table and Erin automatically moved it above the girl’s plate.
Cam cleared his dishes and hovered over the table. “Erin, are you finished?”
She’d been so lost in thought that when she looked down at her plate to discover it empty, it surprised her. “Yes.”
He reached for it.
“No.” She stood, taking her plate and the empty serving platter. “You cooked, I’ll take care of the dishes.”
Janie jumped up, took her plate to the sink, and said something about going to her room to play with her stuffed animals.
Cam scraped what was left on Janie’s plate into the trash. “She missed her stuffed animals more than she missed me, I think.”
Erin grabbed the bowl that once contained fruit salad. “I was told that you were a permanent fixture at the hospital; unfortunately, her stuffed animals weren’t. Don’t take it personally.” She slid past him on her way to the sink, dumped the dishes on the counter, and turned to get more.
Cam was still standing there, staring at her. She looked down, wondering if she’d spilled something on his shirt, and then she noticed it—a subtle change in the atmosphere, a tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She stopped and met his gaze—and even that was different. It was the kind of gaze that made you wonder if a man had X-ray vision. She suddenly felt almost naked, though she was covered from neck to knees. “I’ll just run upstairs and get dressed. Then I’ll come down and set the kitchen to rights.”
His gaze was darker, more serious, strained, and his cheekbones seemed more defined. “Erin, you go ahead. I’ll take care of the mess I made and then—” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“And then what?” She sounded breathless, which was ridiculous, but then it wouldn’t be the first time she felt ridiculous around this man.
“I’ll do what I usually do—clean up after my little brother. Let me know when you’re finished upstairs and I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed.”
She felt her face heat. If anyone was going to strip her bed it would be her. “That’s not necessary. I’ll take care of it.” She could tell he was going to argue so she continued. “How much younger is Butch?”
“We’re Irish twins—almost eleven months apart.”
She smiled and backed toward the door. “They say age is only numbers.”
“In that case, I think his should be sixteen instead of twenty-six.”
That made Cam twenty-seven, with an almost eight-year-old daughter that he was raising himself. Amazing. She didn’t know any nineteen-year-old boys willing to take full responsibility of their children the way he had. Hell, her own father wasn’t willing to take any responsibility for her, and he’d been much older. Even if she hadn’t been impressed with Cam before, she certainly was now.
Chapter Five
In the week sin
ce Erin moved in, they’d fallen into a routine of sorts. Erin took over the cooking—mostly because she’d completely rearranged the kitchen, changing it from a right-handed kitchen to a left-handed kitchen. He couldn’t find a damn thing, but since she was a much better cook than he was, he wasn’t about to complain. It might take him five minutes to find a beer mug, but he figured it was worth it.
She and Janie had taken over his office for their schoolwork. He came home every evening to the scent of dinner cooking and the sounds of their chatter and laughter. With Erin there, the house came alive, filled with color and noise and movement. He’d never realized how bland everything seemed before.
That evening he’d stood outside the office door watching Erin and Janie curled up together in a big chair, reading a poem about a kid who took a snowball to bed, which ended in peals of laughter.
Janie grew stronger every day. She was gaining weight, her hair was growing in, and she regaled him every night at dinner with all she’d learned. She’d also dragged Erin into their bedtime routine.
Everything was great until Janie went to bed.
Cam reread the last sentence of his book a dozen times and wished he’d get a call. Anything would be better than pretending to read and trying his best to ignore the fact that Erin Crosby was curled up on the other end of the couch, surrounded by yarn and torture devices in the form of metal knitting needles that clicked with every move she made. “Would you mind if I turned on the TV?” Maybe that would drown out the constant clicking.
She looked up from her work. “I don’t mind at all. Watch whatever you’d like.”
“Any preference? I haven’t had much time to watch TV recently. If I wasn’t working, I was with Janie.”
Erin looked up from her knitting. “I’m not much help, I haven’t watched TV since I started graduate school. I don’t even have cable. It seemed like a waste of money. If anything, I watch DVDs.”
He flipped on Netflix and searched through the TV series available. “House of Cards or The Tudors.”
“Makes no difference to me.”
