by Abby Gaines
Kyle glanced at Jane. “Come off it, Barb. Lissa and I have been divorced as long as Daisy can remember, and Lissa dated plenty of men.”
His perspective was a welcome blast of fresh air. A reminder that Barb was speaking nostalgically, from an era that hadn’t existed in a while.
“Jane and I share some responsibility for Daisy,” he continued. “We’re spending a lot of time together and I hope we’re getting along well, for Daisy’s sake.”
And we share knowledge of the truth about Daisy’s conception. And an incredible kiss.
“Just so long as you remember,” Barb told Jane, “Lissa is Daisy’s mom, and she always will be.”
Jane knew the older woman was speaking from her pain, her loss. And Barb had no idea of Jane’s involvement in Daisy’s conception. So Jane had no right to feel hurt. “I know,” she said huskily.
“Good.” Barb patted her arm. “Kyle, when you do find someone, and heaven knows I hope you do, just remember that the woman you choose will be the nearest thing to a mother Daisy has.”
“I realize that.” Kyle clearly had no idea where Barb was going, and nor did Jane.
Barb clicked her tongue. “I’m saying, choose wisely. Find someone who’ll bring only positive associations to your home. To your daughter.” Her cheeks were pink, her eyes fixed on Kyle, so there was no chance they could meet Jane’s.
The other shoe dropped. “You mean, he should stay away from a Slater?” Jane demanded.
“Your family has baggage in this town,” Barb said. “Daisy doesn’t need that taint.”
“That’s enough,” Kyle snapped. “Barb, you need to apologize.”
“For you to say that now,” Barb said, “when for years you thought Jane an unsuitable friend for Lissa, you’re clearly more involved with her than you’re admitting.”
“Because I’m pointing out your rudeness?”
“Don’t,” Jane said. “Don’t fight. Daisy will hear.”
Both of them looked shamefaced.
“You need to go, Barb,” Kyle said. Deliberately, he put an arm around Jane’s shoulders and drew her to him. It was a kind gesture, but it didn’t take away that feeling of being a complete outsider. “You’re tired.”
“What I am is right,” Barb said implacably. “If you don’t believe me, try dating Jane openly, and see how far you get in the election. Nothing good will come of a connection with a Slater in Pinyon Ridge, for you or for Daisy.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MICKI HAD MISSED being the one to poach Charles’s eggs exactly how he liked them. The way a wife would. When he walked in today, Saturday morning, the day after Daisy’s party, and saw her behind the counter his face lit up in a way she considered more than platonic...maybe.
Result: she wasn’t able to resist saying breezily, “The usual, Charles?”
His gratitude was heartwarming, and so was his obvious delight when she set the plate down in front of him. “Micki, you’re the best cook I know.”
Ugh, she was supposed to be making sure he didn’t see her purely as a cook.
Deliberately, Micki took off her apron. Charles’s gaze flickered over her pale yellow blouse as she sat down opposite him. She liked to think there was more than just customer-to-cook appreciation in his blue-gray eyes.
Micki called to Margaret for coffee, and leaned back against the booth.
“Tired?” Charles sounded concerned.
“I’m fine. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to start so early.”
“You put in a big day yesterday with Daisy’s party. But then,” he said, almost bitterly, “you’re young. You have tons of energy.”
“And you don’t, Chief?”
He gave her a brooding look. “Let’s just say I’m feeling my age.”
“You don’t look it.” She stretched her arms behind her head, saw his eyes follow the movement. “You look good.” It was bold, far bolder than she’d been before.
Charles’s mouth opened, then closed. “Do you think Kyle’s seeing Jane?” he asked.
Micki blinked. “Jane’s never given any indication she’s interested,” she hedged. Personally, she was still convinced there was something going on. But Jane was very private. Happy to interfere in Micki’s life, and Micki believed Jane felt the same bond of friendship that she did, but the younger woman maintained a shield of reserve about her own relationships.
“Hmm.” Charles digested that, along with a forkful of poached egg. “And you’re not interested in Kyle.”
“Nope.” Micki tried not to let her disappointment show. He was still thinking of her as daughter-in-law material? “I’m not interested in Gabe, either,” she said for good measure.
Charles sighed.
“Your sons can look after themselves,” she snapped. “You should think about yourself for a change, about what you want.”
He didn’t seem surprised by her outburst; he barely seemed to notice. “What do you know about internet dating?” he asked.
“I think your sons can find their own girlfriends,” she said crossly.
“Not for them. For me.”
Micki’s jaw dropped.
A dull red crept up Charles’s face. Her irritation melted away.
“I guess internet dating’s a possibility,” she said. “I mean, if there’s no one in Pinyon Ridge you’re interested in. Maybe you should take a good look around here first.”
“I’ve looked,” he said. “It’s not like I haven’t tried dating—you know I went out with Ida Lane and Sally Beaufort a few times each.”
That had been before she’d realized what an amazing guy he was—she’d had no interest back then in whom he dated.
“Why didn’t it work out with those two?” It was so none of her business, but, hey, he’d raised the subject.
“No, uh, connection,” he said awkwardly. “I’d been feeling a little lonely, thought I should get out more. But dating those two, nice though they are, convinced me the loneliness doesn’t get better unless you’re with the right person. Not that I’m sitting at home crying into my beer,” he assured her.
“I never imagined you were,” she said.
He grinned, and there was a flash of their old ease, so familiar and warm that she wondered if it was worth risking the loss of it, if her romantic plans went south.
“So, the internet?” he prompted.
“Are you sure there’s no one else in Pinyon Ridge?” she asked. “Maybe you need to look outside the square.” Why didn’t she just put up her hand and say, “Pick me, pick me”?
“There’s no one,” he said firmly.
Her hopes dissolved, leaving her empty. Lost.
She pulled his empty plate toward her with a brisk movement, then edged out of the booth. “I know a couple of people who’ve met their partners on SingleInColorado.com.” As she picked up her cup, still three-quarters full, then his plate, she registered Charles’s distaste for the modern term: partner. “Good luck.”
“Don’t go.” Charles sounded so alarmed, for a moment she thought he’d suddenly realized the woman of his dreams was standing right in of him. “Not without telling me what you think of this. Please.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt and spread it on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat. And stopped.
“You’ll have to read it before I can tell you what I think.” She perched on the edge of her seat again.
Ch
arles bent his head over the page. “Man, fifty-nine, Summit County, seeks lady fifty-five to sixty for companionship, meals together, et cetera.” He glanced up, not quite meeting Micki’s eyes. “It’s for the internet.”
“Hmm.” She drummed her fingers on the table.
“You don’t like it,” he guessed.
“It’s kind of dull.”
He reddened. “I’m not exactly a thrill a minute, Micki.”
“Can I take a look?” She set down the cup and plate, and gestured to the paper. He handed it over. “Pen?” she asked.
He reached in his pocket and slid over the silver ballpoint Micki knew Patti had given him on some major anniversary.
Micki set to writing.
Charles noticed the way her lashes fanned above her cheeks, the catch of her teeth on her bottom lip as she concentrated. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, letting it trace a knot in the pine beam directly above his booth.
“How’s this?” Micki asked, drawing his gaze back to her pretty face. “Man, fifty-nine, intelligent and fit, enjoys good food, broad conversation and an active involvement in community and family. Seeking a lady of integrity with a passion for life.”
It sounded as if he wanted sex. Which I do. His skin prickled. “You didn’t mention her age,” he said.
“You should be flexible. What if the right woman is younger than fifty-five to sixty?”
“You mean...fifty-four?”
She gave him a secret kind of smile that baffled him and made him feel old. “I’m just saying, don’t close off any possibilities. When you specify age, you really mean maturity and how much you might have in common, right?”
“I guess.” He hadn’t been thinking much at all, just reacting to that sudden, pressing need that made him feel uncomfortable—a need he’d decided couldn’t actually be for Micki, but was in fact for some form of female companionship. He’d ended up watching Dr. Phil on TV yesterday, and learned about transference. When you want something and subconsciously transfer that want to something—or someone—near to you.
“Maybe I shouldn’t do this.” He folded the paper and tucked it back inside his shirt pocket, against his chest. He might not place the ad, but he might keep those words, written in Micki’s loopy handwriting, that described him as intelligent and fit.
“You mean you won’t try internet dating?” Micki sounded disappointed.
“Yes—no—I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.” Where was Chief Everson, the cop who always knew what should happen next?
Her face lit up, her gray-green eyes twinkling, as if she’d just heard a good joke. “I think you should do it.”
Was she laughing at him? Micki wouldn’t do that.
“Seriously, Charles,” she said. “Go for it.”
“Maybe I will.” Her approval left him oddly deflated. As if, instead of being inspired to strike out in a new direction, he’d lost a treasure he didn’t know he had.
* * *
KYLE POPPED UP the toaster SO Daisy’s raisin toast wouldn’t burn. Jane had been right: his daughter liked having him do things for her. It wasn’t laziness on her part, as he’d once suspected. When he made her toast and buttered it while it was hot so the butter formed yellow pools over the raisins, she read that as “I love you.”
So now he was making the toast, while Daisy watched a DVD in the other room.
Jane walked into the kitchen. Wearing those damn rubber ducky pajamas.
She stopped in the doorway, clearly surprised to see him—he’d been heading over to the new house early on the weekends, getting a few hours’ work done before he put in his time with Daisy. He would have gone by now, if he hadn’t gotten sidetracked by Daisy’s toast.
“Coffee?” Kyle asked.
“Uh, thanks.” Jane crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator. He tried not to notice the way that skimpy cotton hugged the rounded cheeks of her butt.
He poured her a mug from the press and set it on the island as she pulled the milk from the refrigerator. She’d gone very quiet after Barb’s outburst at the party last night, and so had Kyle. He’d spent much of the night thinking about whether he wanted to take their fledgling connection further. If Barb was right, it could jeopardize the election.
At some unearthly hour of the morning he’d concluded Barb was probably wrong. And that Jane had done so much for him, given him Daisy, that he owed it to all of them—himself, her and Daisy—to see where this might go.
Besides, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Couldn’t stop wanting her.
He would need to convince Jane that it was a good idea to move forward. He could tell from her stance, half turned away from him, that she didn’t want him to broach the subject. Given half a chance, she’d do that withdrawal thing she was so good at.
Best not to give her half a chance, then.
“I’ve been thinking....” He waited while she stirred her coffee.
“What?” Those tawny eyes met his, guarded, but not so guarded he couldn’t see the flicker of interest as she scanned him.
“About this.” He slipped his arms around her waist.
“Kyle, this is a bad idea.”
He noticed she wasn’t pulling away.
“You shouldn’t wear those pajamas if you don’t want me to think like this.” With his finger, he traced the vee of skin at the opening of the pj’s, above the buttons.
“It was these or none at all,” she said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“If I’d known those were the choices—” he flicked the top button undone, exposing a deeper vee “—I’d have opted for none.”
“I meant, these are the only pj’s I have with me.” She was short of breath, which made her chest rise and fall. All in all, a very satisfactory state of affairs, given that his hand was now caressing that chest, albeit through the cotton of her pajamas.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she said on a sharp exhalation.
“We’ll stop in a minute,” he promised, and kissed her. This time, she parted her lips right away. He pulled back for a moment. “You brushed your teeth,” he said, grinning. So much for her supposed reluctance to kiss him.
“So did you.” She tasted him, with an aggressive flick of her tongue that turned him on unbelievably.
“I’m not the one saying we shouldn’t be doing this.” But who cared who said what? He abandoned the argument and got back to the kissing.
The thin cotton of the pajamas did little to mask the soft warmth of her curves pressed up against him. His hands cupped her bottom, pulling her closer.
When her hands slipped inside his T-shirt at the same moment as her tongue trailed a path down his neck, Kyle lost all grip on his surroundings. He knew only the heated path of her caress, the feverish haste with which he pulled off his T-shirt at her wordless insistence, and the incredible sensitivity his skin seemed to have developed in direct response to the exploration of her hands.
He didn’t remember ever feeling this wanted, this wanting.
“Kyle,” Jane murmured, and his name was sweet on her lips. He pulled away, enough to see she looked gorgeously disheveled, with another button having somehow come undone and a generous cleavage now on display.
Then he heard, “Daddy?”
He swore. Jane yelped and dived into the walk-in pantry. Too late to pull his T-shirt on; Kyle spun around and began slathering butter on the raisin toast. Which was now almost cold, so the melted butter effect wouldn’t happen.
<
br /> “Here’s your toast,” he said to Daisy as she walked into the kitchen.
Jane emerged from the pantry, buttoned up, hair almost tidy, a cereal carton in her hand. “I thought I’d give this a try,” she said brightly.
“You said Cap’n Crunch has too much sugar,” Daisy said, puzzled.
Jane grimaced. “I don’t think I should criticize it without trying it first.” Resolute, she poured a heap of cereal into a bowl.
“My DVD finished,” Daisy said.
“You were watching a DVD in the room next door?” Jane asked, her voice strangled. “Did your dad know?”
Daisy’s dad tried to give her a warning look, but Daisy had no idea about such things. “Daddy put it on for me,” she said. “Sesame Street.”
“How nice,” Jane said through gritted teeth. “Such a responsible father.”
“Can I make you some toast?” Kyle offered, struggling not to laugh. He wasn’t used to kidding around like this; he suspected Jane wasn’t, either. He liked it.
She rolled her eyes. “No, thanks.”
“Are you going to work on the house?” Daisy asked.
About to say yes, he changed his mind. “Nope. We’re going to choose the paint for your new bedroom.”
Her eyes widened, and he was instantly glad he’d come up with the idea.
“Cool,” she said. “Will you come, Jane?”
“I’m kind of busy,” Jane said. “I have some emails....”
“If you don’t come, I’ll force Daisy to have battleship-gray on her walls,” Kyle told her.
Those lips he’d just been kissing curved. “Blackmail?”
“I’ve heard it’s very effective.”
“A slippery slope,” she warned.
He leaned right into her. “So is making out in the kitchen.”
She smacked his arm. “You were out of line.”
“You can spank me later.” Out of Daisy’s view, he patted her bottom, a kind of demonstration. “First we need to buy paint.”
“Can we go now?” Daisy asked. Little questions like that were such a leap forward from her silent acquiescence a few weeks ago.