A Better Father (Harlequin Super Romance) (12 page)

“Carrie! Amazing, isn’t it?” Libby grinned as if she hadn’t had
thirty parents express that precise thought already that afternoon. She looked
past Carrie to her son. “Hey, Mick. Welcome back. Wow, you got tall!”

Mick gave her a grin and a wave before darting over to the next
table to yank on the shirt of one of his old cabinmates. Libby shook her head.
Those two had been a deadly combination the previous year. She was afraid to
think of what they could do with an extra year of intelligence and plotting on
their side.

But she didn’t have long to fret about what pranks the boys
might be cooking up, for before she knew what was happening, Carrie had leaned
in as close as her baby bump would allow.

“So, Libby. Can I just say how delighted I was to hear that you
had applied for the job at Uplands Central Schools?”

If it was physically possible for a stomach to drop, Libby was
sure hers did just that at those words. “I... How did you... Who told...”

Carrie’s grin was reassuring, as was her quick pat to Libby’s
arm. “Not to worry. I only heard because people who knew that Mick went to camp
here asked me about you. But believe me, they know a lot more about you now. You
might want to start brushing up on your interview skills, if you know what I
mean.”

Holy crap. She had sent in the résumé almost on the spur of the
moment, a visceral reaction to the discovery that Sam had a child and all the
baggage that went with it. She’d been certain her application would be simply
one of hundreds. But now... She swallowed hard and glanced around the room.

She was really going to leave.

Not right this minute. Probably not for the Uplands job,
because who gets the first position they apply for? But she was really, truly
going to leave camp at the end of the summer. The thought left her so numb that
all she could do in response to Carrie’s chatter was smile and nod and hope no
one would notice if she were to suddenly curl up in a ball beneath the picnic
table and start rocking.

“Seriously,” Carrie continued as though Libby were hanging on
her every word, “you would love it there. Our principal is a doll, completely
behind the teachers, but she does a great job of pulling in the parents and
making sure no one is left out. The kids—well, you know what they’re like here,
so that won’t come as a surprise to you. Really a good bunch. I worked in a
couple of other districts before Uplands and I tell you, it’s one of the best
I’ve seen.”

Something long buried stirred inside Libby—something she hadn’t
felt in years. Not since her last education class, when she and fellow students
could spend hours debating theory and practice.

“Listen, you’re probably overflowing with references, but one
from within the district is always going to count for more. Feel free to toss my
name around at will. I’d love to see you in our school.” Her voice dropped so
low that it was almost impossible to hear her over the constant buzz from the
other tables. “Though I have to say I was amazed when they told me. I thought
you would never leave camp. Everything’s okay, right?”

Unbidden, Libby sought out Sam in the crowd. Yep, there he was,
laughing with a father. The words
Canucks, Bruins
and
youth
rose above the buzz. Libby shook her head
and turned back to Carrie.

“It’s just time to move on, you know?”

Carrie glanced around the dining hall. “Yeah, I guess even
paradise would get boring after a while. So use my name, keep me posted and good
luck. Not that you’ll need it. The school would be lucky to get you. I’ll make
sure they know it.”

With a wink she ventured back into the crowd, leaving Libby
slightly dazed.

But before she could process her jumble of emotions, the sound
of her name pulled her attention up—and then, quickly down again. Down, as in,
to the level that would be occupied by a small boy-child toddling through the
crowd.

“Bibby!” he shouted, lifting his arms toward her.
“Biiiiiibby!”

“Casey!” She scooted around the table and picked him up,
nuzzling the fluff on top of his head and dropping a loud smack of a kiss on his
cheek. “What are you doing here, buddy?”

Her answer came from Sam, not Casey. “Exactly what it looks
like he’s doing. Hunting through the hall for the pretty girls.”

Heat flared in her cheeks, but she did her best to present an
unruffled face to Sam. “Everything okay?”

“Sure. It all looks great from my end. You’ve created order out
of chaos.”

“No, I meant with Casey.” She poked his soft belly through his
Overlook shirt, reveling at the sound of his delighted giggle. “What are you
doing down here, mister? It’s kind of busy for a squirt like you.”

“Rock!” He shoved a sweaty hand in her face to display his
latest treasure.

“Easy, squirt.” Sam patted Casey’s back. “Mrs. Collins brought
him down to say hi before nap. It’s only for a minute.”

“Only a minute, huh? Good thing. Otherwise someone might come
along and scoop you up and go boing, boing, boing...”

Caught in bouncing the child up and down, Libby let the rest of
the room slip out of focus. For a second or two it was just her and Casey, soft
and giggly in her embrace, making silly noises and laughing together while the
crowd faded to a dull roar and slipped out of focus.

Then she turned and lifted her head and saw Sam. Sam, who was
watching them with an expression she couldn’t quite name, but which made her
twirl away again, fast, before he could see the pink that he had brought to her
cheeks.

“Okay, squirt. I’d better give you back to your old dad.”

“It’s okay.” Sam’s words were soft. “Another minute won’t
hurt.”

“Oh, but I—”

“Libby?”

She tore her gaze from Casey and glanced at the smiling face of
a woman who looked familiar, though for the life of her Libby couldn’t remember
the name.

“Molly Stevens. It’s been a few years. But wow, you’ve been
busy!” She patted Casey’s arm. “Hey sweetheart, look at you, all cuddled up with
Mommy.”

It was physically impossible to feel color draining from a
face, but Libby was sure she could sense the downward rush of blood as she
processed Molly’s meaning, then thrust Casey back at Sam.

“Molly. Hi. Um—no. This isn’t— I’m not—”

“Whoops, looks like we scared Libby speechless.” Sam slipped
smoothly between her halting words, laughing and extending a hand and a smile
while effortlessly hoisting Casey higher on his shoulder. “Hi, there. Sam
Catalano, the new owner. This is my son, Casey.”

They chatted. Libby nodded and smiled when it seemed
appropriate, but the truth was, she was barely aware of the words bouncing
around her. There was only one word she kept hearing.

Mommy.

Sam had laughed off her confusion as fear. Little did he know
he was only half-right. She was indeed scared, but not of anyone thinking she
was Casey’s mother.

No, what left her struggling to put two thoughts together was
the memory of the first brief second of Molly’s assumption. That quick flash
when she heard the word
Mommy
and realized it was
meant for her, and her whole world had gone warm and cozy and full.

She wasn’t scared of being called Casey’s mother.

But she was terrified by how absolutely right it had felt.

CHAPTER NINE

FIRST
AS
A
CHILD
, then a teen,
Libby had lost track of how many times she had come home from school to the
sight of Gran shoving their possessions into boxes and bags and being told that
it was time to move on again. For a while she had walked around in a perpetual
state of nervousness, scared to go to school because she was sure that one of
those times, Gran would forget about her the way she always seemed to “forget”
to pay the rent. But as she grew, she learned how to wrap that fear inside some
emotional cotton batting and tuck it far away to be dealt with later.

That skill served her well now as she took her fear that she
was falling too hard for Casey and shoved it to the back of her mind. There was
too much else to think about. The first week of camp was always a learning
experience for all concerned. Add in a new owner and the constant parade of
equipment going to and from the site of the pavilion, and she had plenty of
other worries to fill her mind.

Plus something was still up with Sam. He was forever jumping
away from the computer as if to block her vision of an email. He had a habit of
stuffing mail into his pockets. And more than once, she walked in on him in the
middle of what seemed to be a heated discussion on his cell phone. Usually he
ended the calls abruptly, tossing the phone onto his desk with a scowl that made
her take a step back toward the door, then turning and greeting her as if
nothing were out of the ordinary.

It was the same kind of behavior he’d exhibited before he
brought Casey to camp, actually. Though at least then he’d been smiling instead
of snarling.

Sam Catalano was hiding something.

She took her time, concentrating on the staff and the kids and
the day-to-day duties, all mixed with an early rush of pranks, which she
suspected could be laid at the feet of one Mick Blasting. But on the Friday of
the first week, her chance appeared.

She had just set her dinner tray on the table when an
unmistakable “Biiibby!” sounded through the hall. Casey was double-timing it
through the rows of picnic tables, dodging kids and trays as his little feet
carried him in her direction.

Libby laughed at the child’s delight and caught him up in a
tight hug, ordering herself not to melt when soft arms went around her neck, but
failing miserably. She couldn’t think about it then. Later, maybe. Much later,
when she no longer had to see Casey on a daily basis.

A moment later another tray landed beside hers. Sam dropped
onto the bench, turned so he was straddling it, facing her, and said, in an
ominous tone, “We need to talk.”

She gave him a quick once-over, searching for clues as to his
intent, but all she got for her time was an irritated frown and a blast of male
presence so strong it made her blink. She was used to displays of testosterone.
That went hand in hand with physical activity, the rivalries that developed
among the staff over the course of a season and people wearing shorts.

It was different with Sam. Maybe because he wasn’t trying to
outposture anyone. He was just being himself, a stronger, more defined version
of the boy she’d loved. Wanted. Whatever it had been.

Prelude to Heartbreak,
by Sam
Catalano. That’s what it had been.

“What’s the trouble?” She kept her eyes fixed on Casey’s grin,
blocking out the sight of Sam and of Tanya, seated across the table, who had
started doing the dreamy head-on-the-hand thing as soon as he joined them. Damn
the man. He was like some human version of the tractor beam in
Star Wars,
sucking weak females ever closer.

“These are meatballs.”

“I know.” She grabbed his fork, stabbed one of the meatballs in
question from his plate and offered it to Casey, who opened wide. “They’re
delicious, too. Why is that a problem?”

“We were supposed to have meat loaf tonight.”

With well over a decade of experience with troublemakers under
her belt, Libby could smell problems brewing long before they were formed. It
was her own personal status forecaster. Sometimes, one word or one tilt of the
head was enough for her to know that the day ahead would be cloudy with a chance
of headaches.

There was something in Sam’s ridiculous complaint that had her
inner alert system lighting up like a Doppler radar map in blizzard season.

“I wanted meat loaf. No one has ever made it the way Cosmo
does. I used to dream about it when I was on the road.”

“I know. Myra told me she hasn’t been able to eat it since she
left here. But I still don’t see the trouble.”

“Look at these.” Sam pointed at the offending meatballs,
swimming in a pool of brown gravy atop a bed of mashed potatoes. Libby scooped
up a spoonful of the potatoes and slipped them into Casey’s mouth.

“It’s all the same ingredients, Sam. He just shaped them
differently. I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“Have you tasted them?”

“I told you, they were delicious.”

“But did they taste like his meat loaf?”

She stopped to consider. “No, I guess not. There was a
difference. But—”

“But, Lib, have you ever made meatballs?” Sam pulled Casey’s
hands down from Libby’s hair and filled them with a slice of bread. “They’re way
more work than meat loaf. All that scooping and rolling. Why would someone
choose the more complicated variety when he knows people are hungry for the easy
version, especially after I specifically added it back into the menu for
tonight?”

He had a point. Not that it mattered in the long run, though
Libby had the odd feeling that there was something else at play here, something
she was missing. But in Sam’s pout she saw an opportunity to glean some
information.

“Sam, I have a proposition for you.”

On the other side of the table, Tanya blinked. Phoebe, beside
her as always, let out a low whistle.

Sam himself just grinned.

Libby shook her head, though she knew her cheeks were burning.
“Not that kind of proposition, you doofuses. Sam, I seem to recall asking you to
fill out a medical form and emergency contact info sheet.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, nearly hidden behind his five
o’clock shadow. “I did.”

“Really? Because I looked for it the other day, all through the
files, and I couldn’t find it anywhere.” No need for him to know that she’d been
hunting in the hope that she might find a clue as to what he was concealing.

“I did one. Casey, let go of Libby’s shirt and have some apple.
I filled out the form and left it on your desk.”

“Well, the pixies must have broken into the office and stolen
it, because I don’t have one. So I’ll make you a deal. You fill out another one
for me, and I’ll talk to Cosmo about the great meat-loaf mystery.”

Tanya snorted and turned disbelieving eyes on Libby. Great. At
this rate, Tanya would soon be dragging Libby to the World Court on accusations
of violating the Geneva Convention.

“Hmmm.” Sam popped a meatball into his mouth, chewed and made a
face of great distress.

“Come on, Catalano. Five minutes of paperwork, and you’ll get
your meat loaf.”

“Your proposal has merit.” He stabbed a green bean and stared
at it in disgust. Long ago, he used to bribe the kids to eat his beans for him.
“But here’s the thing. I hate doing paperwork, especially when I’ve already done
it. You, for some strange reason, enjoy talking to Cosmo. I think we need a more
even trade.”

She rolled her eyes and addressed Casey. “Your father is such a
wimp.” Glancing up, she heaved a sigh. “Okay. I’m open to negotiation. Name your
price.”

He sat back on the bench. Ha. She’d caught him by surprise.
Point for her.

Then he leaned forward with a wicked gleam in his eye and her
stomach sank with the thought that she’d walked into a trap.

“Archery.” His smile was terrifyingly satisfied.

Archery. Bows and arrows. The only words, other than
call 911,
that could drive the breath straight out of
her body.

“You go out there and shoot some arrows, Lib, and I’ll do your
paperwork.” He paused, then winked the way he had in his commercial. His voice
lowered. “Hit a bull’s-eye, and I’ll talk to Cosmo myself.”

Tanya snickered.

“But,” Phoebe blurted, “Libby sucks at—”

She slapped her hand over her mouth and shot Libby a glance
that was equal parts guilt and apology. Libby simply sighed. Her loveless affair
with archery was part of Overlook legend.

Sam, of course, knew it.

She was screwed. Well and truly screwed. But she wasn’t backing
down yet.

“Fine. I’ll see you on the field, Catalano. Tomorrow afternoon
during Casey’s nap. And a word of warning—if I were you, I wouldn’t tempt fate
by wearing a shirt with a target printed on the back.”

* * *

S
AM
NEEDED
LESS
than three minutes on
the archery range to realize he’d made a serious tactical error.

Of course he had known that Libby loathed archery. Some
memories could never be erased, especially when they were formed in adolescence
and they included a hot teenage girl in tight shorts jumping up and down on an
arrow while chanting phrases that could make a hockey player blush. So yeah,
he’d exploited that fact. Not to make her look bad. All he wanted to do was even
up the balance of power a bit and have a little fun. Forget about Sharon and
lawyers and the way he needed about fifty more hours in each day.

But he’d neglected to focus on a couple of other things. Such
as the fact that he had just turned Libby into an underdog.

Libby picked up her bow and promptly dropped it on her
foot.

Crap.
He was going to look like a
mean-spirited grinch, and it would serve him right.

Libby retrieved her bow from the grass, gave herself a shake,
then lined up her arrow and lifted the whole precarious assembly to her
shoulder. A lone cheer emerged from the small crowd that had gathered around
them. Tanya and Phoebe shushed the kids and reminded them to stay back.

“Way back,” Libby warned as her arrow skittered down the
string. “Because if I ever get this thing to fly, heaven only knows where it
will land.”

The kids giggled. Libby shrugged pathetically. Sam closed his
eyes and sighed but couldn’t drown out the sound of Libby’s low muttering as she
pulled back.

“You can do this, you can do this, you can do this.”

He opened up in time to see her release her hold. The arrow
slipped, plunged forward a few pathetic inches and did a spectacular nosedive
into the grass.

Sympathetic groans erupted around them.

Mick Blasting—a dangerously dimpled kid who reminded Sam of
himself at that age—skittered forward to scoop up the wayward arrow and hand it
over.

“I think it’s supposed to go that way,” he said, pointing to
the target-covered bales of hay across the field.

“Thanks, Mick,” Libby said dryly. Mick shrugged, gave Sam a
long look that was ten points assessment and ninety points scorn, then stepped
back, folded his arms and settled in like a self-appointed bodyguard. Sam
couldn’t help but be amused at Mick’s obvious devotion.

The kid had good taste, no doubt about it.

Libby blew her hair out of her eyes, squared her shoulders and
tried again. If anything, this attempt was even more pathetic.

A couple of the kids offered a weak applause. Libby seemed to
sag for a moment, then pulled herself upright, turned and bowed to the crowd.
Mick shook his head and shot Sam a look of pure disgust.

When you screw up, Catalano, you screw up
big-time.

Then Libby turned and did the last thing he would have
expected. She fitted her arrow into her bow once again, stuck her tongue out at
the target and took her position.

If she hadn’t been so damned determined, he could have declared
himself the winner and walked away. But that was the thing about Libby. She
didn’t give up until she wrestled whatever was beating her to the ground.

He could continue to make her fight on her own. Or he could man
up and do the right thing.

He moved in beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pitching his voice for her ears only. “I
shouldn’t have done this to you.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Relief? Surprise? It was gone
so fast he didn’t have time to name it.

“I think I can get us out of this gracefully. But you’ll have
to trust me. And, maybe, try to forget who I am for a couple of minutes.”

Her stance shifted from merely wary to full alert. It was as if
an unseen puppet master had jerked all her strings at once, yanking her upright
and ready to spring. He settled one hand on her shoulder, taking care to keep
his palm firmly on the material of her T-shirt, avoiding the slightest chance of
skin-to-skin contact. That would make her shy away for sure.

“It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Behind them, Mick snorted. A hint of a smile danced around
Libby’s mouth at the sound. Sam sucked in a quick breath at the way a simple
twist of her lips could make the years fall away.

“Okay, hotshot.” She extended the bow. “You’ve got two
minutes.”

He pushed the equipment back toward her.

“Not like that. Like this.” Before he could stop to analyze,
before she could figure out what was happening, he stepped behind her, reaching
around to lift her arms into position.

She froze. He followed suit, holding his breath, hoping he
hadn’t blown it, that she wasn’t going to run scared, that he was going to be
able to stay focused despite the double whammy of memory and sensation crashing
over him.

He was wrapped all around her. And twelve years had disappeared
in the space of one step.

Her spine brushed his chest. Her bottom curved against his
groin. Her scent rose to meet him, pine forest and fresh-cut grass and that hint
of coconut that said she was so much more than just a camp girl. She gulped so
hard he felt the vibration, and he had to draw on every bit of discipline he’d
ever owned to stop his hand from sliding around her waist to tug her flush
against him.