A Mom for Callie (8 page)

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 their 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.”

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.

“Miss Anderson?”

Betsy felt the tug on her hand and looked down, Callie's face hazy.

“Are you okay? You look like you might cry.”

She forced herself to smile even as tears burned the corners of her eyes. “I'm fine. You have a really special daddy, Callie.”

“I know. And you wanna know something else?”

“What?”

“Pretty soon my whole school is gonna know it, too.”

She looked questioningly at the little girl.

“They're gonna know that my daddy is special.”

“Oh.” She squatted down beside Callie and squeezed her hand inside her own. “Tell me.”

“I wrote it.”

“Wrote what?” She knew the answer, had sensed it the moment she saw Callie's face, but, still, she wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth.

“The poem. About Daddy. And that's the one I'm going to read today.” Pulling her hand from Betsy's, Callie skipped across her room to the little white desk with the baby pink blotter. Moments later she was back, a sparkly purple notebook in her hand. “Can you read it?”

“Now?”

The child's eyes shone with anticipation. “Please.”

Slowly she opened the notebook, her attention riveted on the colorful title page.

“I know it's just s'posed to have the name of the poem on it, but I wanted to put pictures there, too.” The child hopped from foot to foot, her excitement undaunted by the passage of time. “You know, pictures of Daddy and I doing some of the stuff from the poem…so everyone can see.”

Betsy nodded, the lump in her throat making it difficult to talk.

“See that one?” Callie pointed at the drawing on the
upper left corner of the page. “That's us—building sand castles at the beach last summer. And this one—” she tapped her finger on a picture near the bottom “—was from a few weeks ago. I wanted to have a lemonade stand and Daddy helped. He wore the poster I made for his tummy and walked around just like I asked. I made ten whole dollars that day!”

Finally they got to the poem, Callie's hand retreating from the notebook as Betsy began to read. Line by line, the child's words tugged at her heart, made her long for the man seated down the hall—a man she barely knew yet felt as if she did a million times over.

When she finished reading, she closed the notebook and handed it to Callie, her voice raspy with emotion. “Oh, sweetie, that is the most beautiful poem I've ever read.”

Callie's eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really.” Reaching outward, she pulled the little girl close, inhaling the sweet smell of shampoo and bubble bath that clung to her hair and skin. “Now let's get you ready.”

 

I
T WAS OBVIOUS THAT
C
ALLIE'S
poem had moved Kyle beyond words. She could see it in the way he'd swallowed repeatedly as his daughter read. She could see it in the way he'd glanced up at the ceiling in an attempt to ward off the tears that glistened in his eyes. And she could see it in the wobbly smile when his hand rose to catch the kiss blown in his direction at the end.

And she was pleased.

By all accounts, single fatherhood had been something he'd neither anticipated nor sought. But rather than shut down or claim ignorance when it was foisted upon
him, he'd rolled up his sleeves and thrown himself into the job, raising the kind of child that made people feel good about the world.

Stealing a glance at him across the rapidly filling lunchroom, Betsy couldn't help but feel her attraction deepening. For both him and for Callie.

“Excuse me? But aren't you Elizabeth Lynn Anderson?”

Startled, Betsy turned to find a woman with shoulder-length brown hair staring at her, wide-eyed. Extending her hand outward, she nodded. “Yes, I am.”

The woman clapped her hands. “I thought so! I heard through the grapevine that you were renting here in town but I didn't believe it.” Turning to a taller woman on her opposite side, she said, “See, Janice? I told you it was her.”

And so it went for the next hour as the parents of the students filed into the lunchroom for a reception of cupcakes and punch and stayed for a chance to chat with the novelist who'd come as a guest of Callie Brennan. Callie, for her part, was ecstatic, Betsy's presence at the reading belying any skepticism that had run amuck among the second graders at Cedar Creek Elementary School.

From time to time Betsy would look up, try her best to see if the attention was bothering Callie, but it wasn't. If anything, the little girl seemed even more excited than she'd been that morning, her contagious enthusiasm spreading to everyone around her. Surprisingly, though, Kyle wasn't anywhere to be found.

Curious, Betsy scanned the lunchroom during a break in the crowd, her eyes willing the handsome police officer to appear by her side. Instead, she found him in a far corner, a scowl pulling his mouth downward.

Somehow, in the time that had passed since Callie's poetry reading, Kyle's mood had changed. Gone was the pride etched into his face. Gone was the relaxed stance of his shoulders. And gone was the smile that had drawn her attention to his mouth and her thoughts to places she probably shouldn't be visiting during a school program.