A Mom for Callie

by Laura Bradford

  “If you’d like.”

  “I’d like.” Taking yet another step, she reached out for his hands, a gesture that was met willingly enough. “I tried to think of picnic foods that you and Callie might like. We could eat it right here where I’ve spread the blanket…or we could throw it in my car and go to Paxton Park the way you’d intended. I just hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me and allow me to make it better somehow.”

  “Callie’s not here. She’s—” He stopped, cleared his throat and started again. “My mom normally comes here to babysit. That way Callie can come home after school just like her friends do. But after yesterday—well, let’s just say I had to send her to my mom’s for the day. She’s going to spend the night there, too.”

  Blinking against the instant sting in her eyes, Betsy looked down at her feet. “She hates me, doesn’t she?”

  A soft laugh made her look up, a genuine thawing evident in Kyle’s eyes and stance. “Callie? Hate you? Not even close. She handled your preference for writing in a far more mature way than I did, I’ll say that much.”

  She winced at his choice of words. “It wasn’t a preference, Kyle, please believe that. It was nothing more than an oversight. When you write, you tend to get lost in what you’re doing sometimes. I know it sounds lame, and I know it’s hard to understand, but it happens. And I’m so very, very sorry. For what it’s worth, I’d been really looking forward to spending time with you and Callie. But then my editor called and imposed a deadline and I started to write and—” she exhaled a piece of hair off her face, felt it fall back across her forehead undaunted “—I simply messed up. I’m sorry.”

  “I forgive you.”

  Her head jerked upward, her mind almost unwilling to believe what her ears heard. “You forgive me?” she repeated.

  “I forgive you.” Squeezing her hands, he looked over his shoulder, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Am I smelling fried chicken?”

  “Yes.”

  “And brownies?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “Wine?” he guessed.

  “There’s wine, but you couldn’t possibly smell it.”

  “I saw the glasses.”

  “I figured that.” Releasing one of his hands, she tugged the other in the direction of the blanket. “And there’s crackers and cheese, grapes and mashed potatoes, ice cream—”

  “Did you say ice cream?”

  “I did.”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Won’t that melt?”

  “That part is in the house. I’ll pop over there when it’s time for dessert.”

  He stopped as they reached the blanket, taking her hand as she lowered herself to the ground. “Maybe I’ll go with you.”

  Her cheeks warmed at the implication, a tingle of pure arousal winding its way to every nook and cranny of her body. “That would be nice,” she whispered.

  The picnic was wonderful, the food a perfect complement to the conversation they shared. He talked about his job and asked about hers. She probed him for department stories and shared some of her craziest book ideas. They talked about Callie and her interest in writing and all things girlish.

  “Does she miss having a mother?” she asked, the question surprising even her.

  He shrugged. “She doesn’t seem to. I try to play both roles.”

  “You are very good with her.”

  “Thank you.” He touched her face with a gentle hand. “Now may I ask a question? Or, rather, re-ask a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Earlier, you said you’d learned a lesson over the past twelve months about what you can and can’t change in life. Will you tell me more about that now?”

  She closed her eyes, inhaling as much courage as she could muster before opening them once again. “I was married before, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “His name was Mark. He was a firefighter in New York City.”

  “Was?”

  “He was killed in the line of duty.”

  He grabbed her hand. “Oh, Betsy, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  I’m so sorry…

  His words played in her mind, her heart as empty to them as always. She didn’t deserve his or anyone else’s sympathy. People who grieved their loved ones earned that kind of sentiment. Not people who grappled with guilt.

  “We didn’t say goodbye when he left that afternoon,” she admitted, her voice wooden and stilted. “We didn’t say anything to each other, for that matter.”

  She glanced up at him, expecting to see disgust but found a compassion that encouraged her to go on. “The honeymoon phase only lasted a few weeks before we started drifting apart. It was as if I was just there to fill a role…to be the little woman at home rather than a true partner.”

  “He was all about the firehouse, wasn’t he?”

  His question surprised her and she could only nod.

  “Some guys are like that. Cops, too. But we’re not all like that.” She closed her eyes at the feel of his finger under her chin, opened them again as he guided her face upward. “Don’t get me wrong, my job is important and I take my duty very seriously. But I’m a father, first and foremost. And Callie will never doubt that.”

  The sincerity with which he spoke made her swipe at her eyes, a futile attempt to stop the threat of tears in their tracks. In an instant his arms were around her, pulling her close, his chin coming to rest on her head as she buried her face in his neck. When her sobs subsided, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away just enough to make eye contact. “The state of your marriage was his responsibility, too, Betsy. But more than that, you have to see that fire was not your fault. Forcing yourself to express a sentiment you no longer felt wouldn’t have changed what happened that day. For you or for him. People grow apart. It happens. It happened with Lila and I, too. We wanted different things.”

  “You wanted a family. She wanted a career.”

  He seemed to ponder her words as he shifted his position on the blanket and pulled her backward, reclining her body into his. “A simplistic summation, but true nonetheless. And it sounds as if the same was true of your marriage, as well, yes?”

  She nodded, his words hitting home in her heart. He was right. Like him, she’d wanted a family—a feeling of connectivity and completion and being one another’s priority. But just as the stage had been for Lila, Mark’s world had been his department and his badge. “I supported his work as a firefighter, I really did. I admired him for it. It was the other stuff—the constant need to be at the firehouse whether he was on duty or not, the near nightly poker games with the guys at the station, the disinterest in my life—that dragged me down.”

  “And I supported Lila’s dream to be on stage. I just hadn’t realized how much she cared about the spotlight and the chance to be a celebrity. It was like a lightbulb switched on inside her when she was on stage…and then turned off the second the attention was gone and she was left with Callie and me.”

  There was nothing to say to that, nothing to offer other than a nod. They’d both been disillusioned in love, both been pushed aside for something that was seen as more important, more worthy. And they’d both spent entirely too much time second-guessing and regretting. She was about to put words to that thought when she felt his hand snake around her neck and begin caressing her cheek, his lips finding her earlobe and beginning to nibble. The warmth of his body matched her own as she turned to meet his lips with her own, desire heightening with each passing moment.

  As their tongues met and explored, she felt his hand slipping down her body, his fingers finding the swell of her breasts. Her sighs were met with a lowering of his hand to her nipples, their hardness pushing against the fabric of her camisole.

  He pulled back, grabbing hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet beside him.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice breathless.

  “I think it’s time for that dessert, don’t you?”

  Her eyes skimmed t
heir way down his body, her throat instinctively tightening at the telltale bulge in his jeans. “I—I have chocolate. And vanilla.”

  Pulling her against him, he wrapped his arm across her shoulders and walked beside her through the hedge that separated their two homes. “Anything else?”

  She was having trouble concentrating. “Ooh, I have mint chocolate chip, too.”

  “Mmm, sounds good, real good. But it’s still not exactly what I had in mind.”

  As they reached the steps that led to her sunporch, she looked up, her breath catching at the blatant hunger in his eyes. “I don’t think there’s anything else.”

  “Oh, yes, there is.” Following her up the steps and into the house, he waited as she shut the door, his hands gently pushing her against the wall. “There’s you, Betsy.”

  She gasped as his mouth came down on hers, the longing she’d seen in his eyes paling against the heated passion that ripped through her body as his hand sought the skin beneath her camisole, his fingers twirling her nipples into hard buds and intensifying her longing into moans that echoed against the walls of the room. “Me?” she whispered as her knees began to buckle.

  “Yes, you.”

  Pulling her still closer, she felt his body straining toward hers, knew without a doubt she wanted him just as much as he obviously wanted her. “Kyle…”

  He stopped her words with his mouth before lowering his lips to her chin, her neck, her shoulders. When his mouth reached the top of her breasts she knotted her hands in his hair and repeated his name in a whispered moan of ecstasy. “Kyle…I want you.”

  Chapter Nine

  At the time, Callie’s good-night call had been the epitome of bad timing, her grandmother’s name on Kyle’s caller ID bringing an end to their passion-filled night. But now, in the light of day, Betsy couldn’t help but see it as a good thing.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to sleep with Kyle, because she did. Her body came to life with every stroke of his hand, every nibble of his teeth. But a relationship of that nature, with her next-door neighbor no less, needed to be dictated by more than just their raging hormones.

  What had surprised her, though, was the way Kyle had tensed when he realized who was calling, his hurried greeting one of worry rather than a simple hello. And although the call had proved to be nothing more than an opportunity for Callie to say good-night, Kyle’s mood was irrevocably altered. Suddenly, where there’d been gentleness there was an edge, where there’d been playfulness there was rigidity, and where there’d been excitement there was restraint.

  When she’d asked him about it, he’d been evasive, saying only that there were some things at work that had him on edge—an explanation she could understand if his change in behavior had come on the heels of a phone call from the station. But it hadn’t.

  A soft knock broke through her woolgathering. Scooping her coffee mug up off the counter, Betsy headed toward the back door, a smile lifting her lips at the sight of Kyle standing on her back step.

  “Good morning, beautiful.”

  She felt her face warm at the compliment, her smile growing still wider. “This is a nice surprise…but aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  He shook his head. “Today’s my RDO.”

  “RDO?” she asked.

  “Regular day off. I work four, then I’m off two.” Kyle stepped inside as Betsy opened the screen door to admit him. “It works out perfect because Callie has a program at school today. Her creative-writing teacher is hosting a reading of the kids’ works and Callie, of course, is reading her poetry.”

  Betsy clapped her hands. “Really? How special!”

  “I know. And I can’t wait to see her on that stage looking at me the way she does, but…”

  “What?”

  “Well, we have a little problem.”

  She reached out, ran her hand through his hair. “What is it?”

  He toed the floor, shrugging. “She says she has to look extra pretty to do her reading. I’d thought my mom was going to help her before she dropped her off this morning but she didn’t.” Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Kyle leaned against the window that overlooked his own backyard. “I tried to help…I even looked in one of the hair books Ang gave me a few months ago, but nothing I do seems to be right.”

  She tried not to make light of his dilemma yet his concern was nothing short of endearing. She told him as much.

  “Endearing? Really?” His eyes sparkled as he looked at her, his gaze roaming its way down her freshly showered body now clad in a pair of formfitting white jeans and a turquoise-blue halter top.

  “Really.” Holding her finger upward momentarily, she took a last gulp of coffee before setting her mug down on her laptop table. “Can I help?”

  Relief tugged at his shoulders. “I was hoping you’d say that. But—” he gestured toward her computer “—don’t you have that deadline to worry about?”

  She glanced at the screen behind her, desire winning out over duty. “My writing can wait. Callie is more important.”

  He flashed his infamous knee-weakening smile then pulled her out the door. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that. Callie specifically asked for you.”

  Her skin tingled beneath his hand as it found her lower back and guided her through the now-familiar gap in the hedge, Callie’s excited face peeking through the back door at them. “She keeps saying today is a very special day—more special than any other school program she’s had.”

  “Any idea why?” she asked.

  Kyle shrugged. “Something about changing the poem she was going to read today to something entirely new…something she just wrote this week.”

  “This week?”

  “That’s what she said.” Kyle stopped outside the screen door and winked at his daughter. “Isn’t that right, Callie?”

  Not wanting to ruin the surprise she suspected Callie held, Betsy cocked her head a hairbreadth to the left and smiled at the little girl. “Your personal hairdresser has arrived, Miss Brennan. So what would you like? Braids? Ponytails? Curls? Pretty clips?”

  Callie squealed, her hands clapping with excitement. “Curls! Curls!”

  She looked at Kyle. “Any chance you have a curling iron handy?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Gesturing Betsy to follow him inside, he walked five or six feet and then spun around, playfully raking his hand through his hair. “Do you really think I just wake up looking like this?”

  “Oh, Daddy,” Callie said as she rolled her eyes upward. “You don’t use a curling iron. Grandma just left her old one here in case…in case…” A gleam appeared in her eye. “Today just happens to be extra special. And extra special calls for curls and party shoes.”

  “Party shoes?” Kyle teased.

  “And tights, too.”

  “Anything else?”

  Callie appeared to consider her answer carefully, each finger of her right hand extending outward as she ticked off something in her head. “A dress and a hair ribbon would be extra nice. And, oh! I can’t forget my poem.”

  Once her list was clear, Callie grabbed hold of Betsy’s hand and pulled. “C’mon, Miss Anderson. I have to hurry.”

  Kyle bit back his smile as he tried valiantly to replace it with a solemn look. “Yes, Miss Anderson, you really need to hurry.”

  “I can see that.” With a grin and a wave at Kyle, Betsy followed Callie down the hall, her mouth gaping open as the child’s room came into view. Somehow, someway, what had surely been an average ten-by-ten room at some point in the home’s history had been transformed into a woodland paradise where flowers swayed in the breeze and fairies flew about dispersing their magical dust. Every tree branch, every flower petal, every detail of the dozen or so fairies had been painted with a precise hand and an imaginative eye. In short, it was straight out of a little girl’s dream.

  Sucking in her breath, Betsy looked around, her eyes noting a detail before her mind had time to fully register the one before. “
Oh, Callie,” she whispered, “your room…it’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know Kyle was there, didn’t need his strong voice to alert her to his presence, either. The instant reaction in her body was the only clue she needed. “Who did this?” she asked as she gestured around the room with her hand, her eyes focused, once again, on the breathtaking details. “It’s amazing.”

  “My daddy did it,” Callie said as she flopped onto her bed and pointed toward the ceiling. “The clouds, too.”

  Betsy looked from Kyle, to the ceiling, and back again. “You painted this room? By yourself?”

  “I did.”

  “How long have you been painting?” She heard the shock in her voice, hoped it didn’t offend.

  “I haven’t. This was a first attempt.”

  “Very funny. Seriously, how long have you been painting like this?”

  Kyle exchanged knowing looks with his daughter, his eyes rolling upward at Betsy’s disbelief. “Seriously. This was a one-time thing. Callie told me what she wanted and then I tried to sketch it out on paper. She showed me books and posters and even a few dolls—everything and anything she could think of to get me in the know on fairies. Once I got the sketch the way she wanted it, I put it on an overhead, traced it onto the wall and then started painting.”

  “When did you do this?”

  “At night, while Callie was sleeping. I moved her into my room for a few weeks and worked on this once she’d fallen asleep each night.”

  “It must have taken you months.” She felt his eyes on her, knew he was studying her closely, but still, she stared at the mural around her as her mouth tried to put words to her thoughts.

  “Yeah, I guess it took about that long. But it was worth it the moment I saw Callie’s face. You should have seen the way it lit up when I brought her in here for the very first time.” Kyle took a step back. “I suppose I should leave you girls alone to get ready. We need to be at school in—” he glanced at his watch “—about forty-five minutes.”

  It took every ounce of willpower not to stare at him as he walked away, her heart pounding in her chest. Kyle Brennan was like nothing she’d ever allowed herself to imagine. He conveyed the kind of strength that made a person feel safe—as if by his mere presence bad things simply didn’t exist. He was also sexy and tender, the visceral memory of his touch the night before washing over her again. But above all of that, he had a love for his daughter that was as genuine and tangible as any item in Callie’s room. It was without question and without doubt.