by Judy Duarte
The heat in Brett’s cheeks suggested he’d turned a brilliant shade of red, but he shrugged off the embarrassment and hid his discomfort behind a grin. “Emily spotted me through the shutters and opened the door before I got a chance to knock.”
“Is your hand still bothering you?” Caitlin asked, nodding toward his bandage.
“Nah,” he lied. “It’s fine. The knee, too. I’m almost back to fighting weight.”
As she took his wrist and assessed her handiwork, he couldn’t help but study her. She had a light sprinkle of freckles across a slightly turned-up nose and dark, spiked lashes that were much longer and thicker than he remembered.
Standing this close, he caught a good whiff of her perfume, or maybe it was body lotion. Piña colada? Or some other tropical drink? Whatever it was smelled darn good.
“I’m not sure what you did to this,” she said, “but it’s damp and coming undone.”
A piece of tape had lifted, probably from the steam and spray of the shower he’d taken before walking over here. He had a feeling she would offer to redo it for him, and the thought of her fussing over him again didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should have.
Brett’s lifestyle wasn’t conducive to family life or happy ever after. He loved the Navy and flying choppers too much to give them up. And even if he bit the bullet and gave marriage or a one-on-one relationship another try, he wouldn’t look twice at a woman with kids. That kind of gig was built-in trouble and turmoil, as far as he was concerned. And it smacked of a future rife with disagreements, threats and family court.
No. All that baggage made Caitlin off-limits.
But, hey. What was a little hand holding while she tended his wounds? A man wouldn’t mind being sick or injured, just to have a woman like her hover over him.
She tucked a golden strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a pearl earring and a slender neck made for nuzzling and kissing, then glanced up at him with expressive, oceanic eyes. “I’ll get the first-aid kit, just as soon as I drain the spaghetti. It won’t take long.”
“Don’t worry about it now,” he said, knowing the TLC bit wasn’t something he should encourage. “You can just slap another piece of tape on it later. After dinner.”
“It needs a whole new bandage, but I’ll wait.” Then she turned and walked back to the kitchen with a determined step.
“Is there something I can do to help?” Brett asked, his voice chasing after her.
“Not a thing,” she hollered from the other room. “I’ll have dinner on the table in no time at all.”
“I already did all the helping,” Emily told him with little-girl pride. “Want to see what else I did?”
Brett nodded. “Sure.”
When Emily took his hand again, it did something sappy to him. Something that touched a part of him he’d kept hidden. A part of him that longed to connect to a child.
His child, of course.
But this particular kid, as cute and smart and precocious as she was, seemed to fit the ticket—for tonight, anyway.
He’d have to be careful, though, since the mother scared him.
All right. That wasn’t entirely true. Caitlin didn’t scare him at all. But his attraction to her left him a little unbalanced.
“See?” Emily said, pointing to the dining room table that had been set with plain, white everyday wear. Nothing fancy. No romantic touches to cause him to feel uneasy.
A water glass sat in the middle of the table, with three drooping daisies and a red blossom of some kind. And a child-sketched crayon drawing sat at each plate, indicating who sat where.
Brett smiled when he saw his place. Emily had spelled his name with a skinny B, no R, a leaning E and only one T. And she’d drawn his picture, adding a bandage on the stick man’s face and hand.
“The table looks great,” he told the little girl. “And so does the picture of me.”
“You can have it when you go home. And then you can put it on the ’frigerator so Fred can see it.”
“Sounds like a perfect place for such a special piece of art.” He offered her a smile, but his mind drifted to his own son, a boy who wore a red baseball cap and leaped over small hedges with a single bound.
Had Justin made pictures like that when he was Emily’s age? Did he like to color?
If so, did Kelly display the artwork on the refrigerator for all the world to see?
Brett figured she did.
Caitlin entered the dining room with oven mitts on both hands, carrying a bowl of spaghetti sauce. “Usually, I fill our plates in the kitchen. But I thought it might be best if we ate family style.”
The family thing might be kind of nice, he supposed.
When Caitlin reached to set the sauce on the table, the neckline of her sundress gapped a bit, giving him a glimpse of white lace and the soft swell of her breast—just enough for his thoughts to drift in a direction that wasn’t at all neighborly.
“I have a bottle of red wine,” she said. “Would you like me to open it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She smiled, then returned to the kitchen.
Five minutes later, they sat at the table—family style. It was a weird experience for Brett. Surreal, actually. But kind of interesting.
Caitlin fixed a plate for Emily, filling her glass with milk. Then she poured wine for herself and Brett.
He had half a notion to offer a toast. But to what? Friendship? Being temporary neighbors? An accident that, even before he paid to have her car fixed, would cost him nearly ten grand in parts, labor and bodywork, not to mention custom paint?
That didn’t make sense. So, instead, he lifted the glass and took a drink, hoping to wash away an unwelcome attraction to the kind of woman who would complicate his life—if he let her.
Caitlin didn’t know why she’d brought out that bottle of wine. Just trying to be a good hostess, she guessed. She’d been given a couple of bottles of Merlot in a gift basket during a hospital Christmas party a year or so ago. She’d offered to open one for Greg once, after he’d worked on the starter for her car. But he preferred beer, which she’d never acquired a taste for and didn’t keep in the house, so they’d settled for iced tea.
Dinner progressed with little fanfare, but Emily seemed to latch on to Brett. It didn’t seem to bother him, and he was good with the child. In fact, it appeared that he was enjoying the little-girl chatter as much as Greg did. Maybe more.
So Caitlin sat back and watched.
Emily sucked up a long strand of spaghetti, splattering a bit of marinara sauce on her chin, and studied their temporary neighbor. “How come you don’t like Fred?”
Brett glanced at Caitlin as though he didn’t know how to answer the child. Earlier, he’d referred to Fred as a psycho cat, so Caitlin assumed they’d had a run-in or two.
“Fred doesn’t like me,” he told her daughter. “And he hisses if I come near him.”
“Maybe I need to tell him you’re nice and he shouldn’t be afraid of you,” said Emily.
“Maybe so.” Brett cast her a smile, then returned to his meal, twirling spaghetti onto his fork. His dark brow furrowed in concentration.
He was handsome, and if Caitlin didn’t have enough complications in her life, she might strive to be more neighborly, more open to romance. As it was, she’d better steer clear of the man. She wasn’t sure how the courts would look upon her having a boyfriend or dating. Her case would be based upon her providing a stable home and having a solid bond with the child she loved, a child who was the top priority in her life.
“Can we come over and visit Fred tomorrow?” Emily asked Brett.
It saddened Caitlin that she had to deny Emily a pet, just because of her allergies to dander. So she always let Emily visit the neighborhood cats and dogs whenever possible.
“I can’t imagine Fred being fun to play with,” Brett said, “but you can come over, if your mom wants to bring you.”
When he looked at Caitlin, she nodded. Emily was especially partial to c
ats, the kind of animal that bothered Caitlin’s allergies the most. The little girl also gravitated toward kind and gentle men, especially Greg, and Gerald Blackstone, the older man who lived next door.
Caitlin tried to tell herself it was because Emily was a loving child who liked people, especially people with pets. It seemed reasonable since Greg had a cat, and Gerald and his wife had Scruffy, a terrier-mix they let Caitlin and Emily take for daily walks. But sometimes Caitlin wondered whether not having a daddy made Emily draw close to any kind man who had time for her.
Emily did, of course, have a father, as much as Caitlin wished that wasn’t the case.
He was alive and well in the Riverview Correctional Facility, awaiting release and wanting custody of the child he’d never seen. A child whose mother died from wounds received in a drive-by shooting.
The possibility of the court ordering Caitlin to relinquish Emily was almost unbearable to ponder. How could she possibly hand over her foster daughter to a man who’d been involved in an armed robbery that had left a man paralyzed? It was enough to make Caitlin ill, whenever she thought about it.
What would happen if the little girl who loved rainbows and kitties was uprooted from the only mother and home she’d ever known and turned over to a convicted felon?
Caitlin couldn’t imagine. But she, better than anyone, could guess.
She’d spent the first few years of her life in the inner city of San Diego, oftentimes in homeless shelters run by the Salvation Army. Her mom, an on-again, off-again prostitute and drug addict, couldn’t get her act together. And by the time Caitlin was seven, she’d entered the first of many foster homes.
By the age of eleven, she’d finally settled into a stable home—one she’d hoped would be her last. But before her twelfth birthday, her mother went into a court-ordered rehab that seemed to work. And when the woman came out, she wanted Caitlin back.
Caitlin had cried, begging her foster mom, as well as her caseworker, to do something. But her pleas went unheard. And in the end, no one spoke up on her behalf, no one cared enough to fight a system that tried its best to reunite parents and children.
A social worker was ordered to take her to a rundown apartment to live with a mother whose taste in men hadn’t improved. Six months later, her mom’s boyfriend came home drunk one night and beat her mother to death. It was the kind of thing Caitlin wouldn’t want any child to witness.
She glanced at Emily and felt a fierce ache in her chest.
No, Caitlin wouldn’t give up her foster daughter.
Not without a fight.
After a pleasant dinner, Brett joined Caitlin in a game of Go Fish. He actually enjoyed playing with the child, even though he had to turn his back whenever she organized her cards by spreading them face up on the beige carpet.
At eight o’clock, Caitlin told Emily it was time for bed.
“Oh, Mommy. Please let me stay up longer. I’m not even tired.” Her little-girl plea was enough to make Brett want to jump in and argue for one more game. But since Caitlin had a loving but firm smile fixed on her face, he figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to buck the system.
“Tell Brett good night,” Caitlin said.
The child got up from the spot where she’d been sitting on the living room floor, padded to the sofa, put her arms around Brett and gave him a pint-sized hug that damn near squeezed the heart right out of him. “Good night, Brett. Thank you for coming over to play with me.”
Brett smiled, relishing the scent of childhood, ice-cream sundaes and daydreams. “Sleep tight, pumpkin.”
As she turned to go, he added, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Emily stopped in her tracks and turned. “What are bedbugs?”
Oops. He hadn’t meant to freak her out before bedtime, make her have nightmares about critters climbing in her bed. So he tapped his finger on the tip of her turned-up nose. “They’re little cooties that like to sleep with naughty boys who don’t take baths and don’t mind their mothers.”
Emily smiled, revealing two cute dimples. “Then they won’t get in my bed.”
“I’m sure they won’t.” He had the urge to give her another hug, but that felt a little too daddy-ish. And God knew he didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes.
“Did the bedbugs used to sleep with you when you were little?” she asked.
A smile tugged on his lips. “Not when I was your age.” But if his cootie explanation held true, his bed would have been bombarded with them when he was a hell-bent teen.
“Okay, young lady. Off to bed.” Caitlin took her daughter by the hand, then looked at Brett. “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
He nodded, then watched them head down the hall, his focus on the pretty mother, on the sway of her hips, the way the hem of her dress brushed against shapely calves.
Now was a good time to leave, to thank her for dinner, then be on his way. But for some stupid reason, he waited on the living room sofa for her to return.
He scanned the room, spotting the framed photographs of Emily on the mantel and on various tables throughout the room. He snatched one from the lamp table to his right and studied the picture of a bald-headed baby with a bright-eyed smile and sparkling-clear dribble on her chin.
Without any hair, she kind of looked like Justin had, when he was a baby.
Had Kelly taken a ton of pictures and placed them throughout her house, too? Probably.
Brett put the photograph back, grabbed the deck of cards off the coffee table and began to shuffle them over and over, just for something to do.
When Caitlin returned, she took a seat in the easy chair that rested by the fireplace.
Good move. It saved them both from feeling awkward. Well, it had saved him, anyway. Caitlin hadn’t given him much indication that she found him as attractive as he found her. And that was a good thing. It made keeping his distance easier.
“Do you have any idea how long your motorcycle will be out of commission?” she asked.
“Not long,” he lied. The mechanic from Hog Specialists said it would take a month or so, since the parts had to be ordered and weren’t always easy to get. But he didn’t want Caitlin feeling any guiltier over that damned accident than she already appeared to. “I’ll probably rent a car anyway.”
A look of remorse settled over her pretty face, and he wanted to see it lift. The accident had been mostly his fault, no matter what she thought.
“I’ve been wanting to buy an SUV,” he said, “so this is the perfect opportunity to try one out before I fork over the cash.”
She nodded, then managed a half smile. “I’d be happy to give you a ride to the rental place, if you need one.”
That would be great. He didn’t like being grounded. And being stranded was even worse. “Maybe, if you have some free time, we could go tomorrow.”
“I have to work in the afternoon, but I can take you in the morning.”
“Thanks.” He studied his motorcycle boots for a moment, thinking about how tough it must be to raise a kid alone, to have to worry about babysitting and child care. Then he looked up and caught her eye. “Who watches Emily for you, while you work?”
“Gerald and Mary Blackstone, the retired couple who live in the end unit. They’ve become surrogate grandparents.”
He didn’t know why he asked. Curiosity, he supposed. “What about her father?”
Caitlin paused, then blew out a whispery breath. “Emily doesn’t know her father. He hasn’t been a part of her life.”
Brett sat up straight, suddenly interested in Caitlin’s past. In the man who’d walked away from Emily.
It wasn’t any of his business, and he shouldn’t ask, but he wanted to know more. “Does he, Emily’s dad, pay child support?” Somehow it mattered a lot. Brett wanted to know the man was doing right by the little girl and looking out for her the best way he knew how.
“No,” Caitlin said. “He doesn’t pay anything.”
Brett couldn’t leave it
alone. “Does he contact her at all?”
“No.” Caitlin stood and walked toward the window, looked out upon the darkened complex lit by Tiki-style lamps. “But he wants to.”
“And that bothers you?” Something twisted in Brett’s gut. He sensed trouble coming down the pike. Hadn’t he experienced enough domestic squabbles of his own?
His mom and dad had spent years in court fighting over every damn thing imaginable, while their son got caught in the crossfire until he rebelled the only way an angry teenager knew how.
“Yes, it does bother me. The idea of her father popping into her life tears me up inside. She doesn’t even know him.”
Brett figured Kelly would probably feel the same way, if he contacted her now and said he wanted to have a relationship with Justin. Call it an experiment, but getting a handle on Caitlin’s feelings seemed like a good way to gauge how things would pan out if he approached his ex.
Caitlin had grown quiet, solemn, as though she was still hurting from the divorce.
Or maybe from her ex-husband’s desertion.
Like a hound closing in on a buried bone, Brett couldn’t seem to let it go. “Maybe Emily’s dad had a good reason for not sticking around.”
Did it tear the man up inside to walk away from his kid, like it had Brett? Did he get an ache in his chest each time he saw a child about the same age as his own?
Brett had to stop beating himself up. According to Harry Logan, the retired detective who’d managed to stop Brett’s downhill slide into the juvenile justice system, Justin was happy.
And if anyone knew what made a boy tick, it was the guy who’d helped a dozen or more delinquents get their lives back on track. A guy who’d put his heart where his mouth was, opening his arms, his home and his family to boys with nowhere else to turn. And Brett was happy to count himself as one of the bad-boys-turned-good-guys.
According to Harry, who’d done a little investigating, Justin’s stepfather was good to him. Maybe not better than Brett would have been, but at least David was home every night and not deployed to the far side of the earth flying a Sea Hawk and risking his life.
Hell, as a Navy helicopter pilot, Brett was away the better part of the year. What kind of husband or father could he ever hope to be?
