Daddy Secrets

by Mia Carson

  “You know, I was worried at first…about all of this.”

  “About the ship?” Louis asked, painting the side panels for the piece carefully.

  “No, about us having anything in common, you know? I’m glad we share the same love for a few things, at least.”

  Louis’ hands stilled, and he lifted his head slowly, those familiar blue eyes wavering along with his smile. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said quietly.

  “Louis, look, I think we need to have a serious talk about all of this.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Yes, we do. We need to clear the air and take a chance to understand each other better,” Stan pushed, but Louis leapt up from this seat and rushed for the kitchen door. “Louis, you can’t keep running away.”

  Louis skidded to a stop and whipped around. “Yes, I can. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Stan opened his mouth to argue when he noticed something on the floor. Maneuvering his chair around the table, he reached it just as Louis spotted it, too, and ran over to try and grab it out of his hands. Stan kept it out of his reach until he caught a glimpse of the photograph.

  “Lara,” he whispered right as Louis snatched it out of his hands. “Louis, wait.”

  “No! She was my mom and you…you weren’t there for her. You weren’t there for either of us. You don’t get to see her face. You don’t get to be my dad.”

  “I didn’t know,” Stan yelled back, startling them both with the force of his words and the tears burning in his eyes. “I didn’t know she was pregnant with you, Louis. She stopped passing through town one day. I never saw her again.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, clutching the picture to his chest. “You had to know.”

  “Lara and I were never in a solid relationship. There were never any future plans,” he tried to explain the best he could to a kid. “She wasn’t interested in settling down, anyway—told me over and over again she didn’t want her life to be like that.”

  Louis wiped hard at his face, shaking his head. “No, you’re lying. You just didn’t want to see us. You didn’t want me.”

  “I loved her, Louis,” he said fiercely, then shut his mouth at finally admitting the truth to himself and to Louis. He stared open-mouthed at Stan as he rolled his chair closer. “I loved her, damn it, but you know how your mom was. She was a firecracker, an independent woman who never wanted anything else in her life but adventure. I guess she got that with you.”

  “Then why…why wouldn’t she tell you?”

  “Probably because I could never tell her how I really felt,” he muttered sadly. “Men can be stupid like that, but I did love her, Louis. If I’d known about you—ever had an inkling you were around—I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. I need you to know that.”

  Louis clung to the photograph, crying, but he couldn’t speak.

  Ignoring the pain in his legs, Stan stood up from his chair and sank to his knees before his son. “Louis, I would never have let your mom go through that alone. If she’d called, if she had said something…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to both of you,” he sobbed, shattering to pieces on the kitchen floor. No other word left his mouth except for sorry, and suddenly, two small arms wrapped around his body as Louis hugged him close. Stan drew him into his arms, and son and father cried together over the time they’d lost. For Stan, part of it was realizing that the woman he loved all those years ago died without knowing how he truly felt.

  But she had left Stan as Louis’ official guardian. She trusted him to take care of their son once she was gone. Why hadn’t she sent for him when she knew she was pregnant, or later when she was sick? None of it made sense, and he would never have the chance to ask her. Louis’ tears wet his shirt, but he didn’t care. For the first time in ten years, he held his flesh and blood, his son, possibly the only child he would ever have.

  He heard soft crying coming from behind him and glanced up. Remy watched them from the back door. She smiled sweetly at the two of them, backed quietly out to the patio, and closed the door again. She wiped at her eyes before she turned around and disappeared into the gardens.

  Louis and Stan stayed on the floor for a long while before the latter wiped his eyes and leaned back. “I think this calls for some ice cream.”

  Louis smiled and stood. “Sounds good to me.”

  Stan mussed his hair and Louis laughed. “You’ll just have to give me a second here to find my feet again.” He barely finished speaking when Louis pushed the wheelchair closer. “Thanks, kiddo.”

  “What happened, anyway?”

  Stan plopped back down in the seat and grimaced at the pain radiating down his legs. “A boating accident, a bad one. I broke both my legs, and they’re taking a long while to heal properly.” He didn’t mention it was mostly because he gave up on his physical therapy, but his son didn’t need to know all about the accident yet. He wheeled himself to the freezer and opened it. “Pick out what you want, but make sure you grab the moose tracks.”

  Louis smirked, standing on his toes to reach the carton. “So that’s why Mom always said that to me.”

  “Said what?”

  “Don’t be like other men and eat all the good stuff. Whenever I asked her why she said that, she would roll her eyes and say someone she knew used to do it to her all the time,” he said and Stan laughed. “So it was you.”

  “Afraid so.” Stan watched as Louis grabbed two bowls and spoons, and carried everything to the table. As Stan dug out the ice cream for them both, he chewed on his cheek, debating whether he should ask, but Louis was the only one who might be able to help him. “Sometime, if you’re up for it, I’d love to hear all about your time with your mom…with Lara.”

  Louis took his bowl of ice cream, shrugging. “I’ll try.”

  “Not now, when you’re ready. It might be good for you to talk about her, too.”

  They ate their ice cream in comfortable silence before going back to work on the battleship. The tension between them was greatly lessened, and Stan sensed more of himself in the kid beside him, a boy with a hard past who kept everything tucked down deep inside, scared to let the world see him vulnerable. He glanced towards the table where he’d tossed the business card for the doctor. Therapy sounded like a good idea—for him and Louis. His eyes drifted out to the patio where Remy was busy tearing out dead flowers from the pots and cleaning up the flowerbeds.

  Sometime soon, he would have to be sure to do something nice for her. She was a godsend he couldn’t live without.

  Remy busied herself the rest of the afternoon, digging into the dirt and tearing out the dead undergrowth while trying to salvage the few plants struggling to survive. When she heard the yelling, she rushed inside, ready to break the two of them up, but was struck instead by the raw emotion on Stan’s face as he confessed his love for Louis’ mother. To see them comforting each other and having their first breakthrough touched Remy deeply, and she did all she could think to do: back away and let them have their first, real bonding moment. She should’ve been happy, but hearing Stan say he loved Lara, a woman so strong and independent, bugged her, and she viciously dug deeper into the dirt until she was a mess with sweat matting her hair to her head and making her clothes stick to her.

  They’d only touched a few times, but each time, a spark came to life within her she wanted to explore further. But now…now, it seemed wrong to let him get even a hint of her attraction to him. She vowed to bury her feelings for Stan as deep as she could. For all she knew, it was simply lust. He was a very handsome man, but she was fooling herself. Stan drew her in with every smile she managed to draw out of him, or a laugh, or a gentle brush of his hand against her arm.

  “You hoping to find some buried treasure or something?”

  She cursed as her hand with the trowel slipped and she caught her finger. “Damn! You have got to start announcing yourself,” she said, clutching her bleeding finger in the palm of her other hand. “Or get squeaki
er wheels or something.”

  Stan gave her a wolfish grin and scratched at the scruff on his chin. “Sorry. You all right?”

  “I’ll live,” she muttered, then sank back onto her butt and laughed. “So you made some progress today with Louis.”

  “We did, actually, and I have you to thank for getting it started.” He held out his hand and she took it with her non-injured one. “Thank you, Remy, for everything you’re doing.”

  “You’re welcome, and you can add an extra thank-you for hiring a lawn service. They start tomorrow.”

  Stan chuckled. “Well, thank you for that, too. I guess having a nice lawn will be good for Louis.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I’ll get cleaned up and we can figure out dinner… what? Why are you cringing?” she asked when Stan’s face scrunched up into a guilty look. “Stan?”

  “Well, the kitchen table might be occupied at the moment, so we thought dinner and a movie? An oldie but a goodie, and one I share a fondness for with my son.”

  Remy hoisted herself to her feet, brushing dirt from her jeaned capris. “Well, I can’t argue with that. How do you feel about takeout then?”

  “It’ll save you a night of cooking—which, by the way, if you want me to find a new cook, I will.”

  “Nah, I don’t mind, really. Figure out what you guys want and we’ll order when I’m clean.”

  “Remy? You all right?” he asked when she neared the back door.

  Working to make sure her smile didn’t falter, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Yeah, I’m good, just tired, and happy for you and Louis. It’s a weird combination. I’m good, promise.” He let her go without any more questions, and she grinned at the half-made ship on the kitchen table before climbing the stairs and hoping her feelings for Stan would wash down the drain along with the dirt from her hands and face.

  Chapter 8

  Several days passed after the breakthrough in the kitchen, and each day, Stan awoke with a new sense of real bonding with his son. He spent most of his days with Louis by his side, playing games or building more model ships. He even let Louis into his workshop to watch him while he worked, though Remy watched from the doorway, biting her lip anxiously the entire time. If Louis would be living there full-time, he needed to understand what was in the workshop and why he couldn’t be in there without Stan.

  Theresa came for her first visit and left after only an hour, more than satisfied with their progress. Stan wanted to be happy. Even the pain in his legs grew less noticeable with Louis to keep him distracted, but the nagging in Stan’s gut grew worse.

  Remy’s smile wasn’t as bright as it had been a few days before, and she seemed to keep her distance from Stan. He understood her wanting to give him time with his son, but she didn’t join him later in the evening for a glass of wine and casual conversation. Even their coffee together in the morning before Louis woke up was limited to a few polite words before she made breakfast and started her list of duties for the day. Stan asked her several times what was bothering her, but she remained tight-lipped.

  But two could play at this game. She pushed him and it was his turn to push back.

  He checked on Louis, who was tuckered out from their morning visit to the park, another one of Remy’s ideas. Stan hadn’t been able to do much, but he could still toss a ball around. Remy was more than willing to run around with Louis while Stan watched on, laughing at their antics. She really was great with kids. For a second, he pictured her with her own children and what type of mom she would be. His hands froze on the wheels of his chair, and he frowned as he imagined those future kids having the same eyes as Louis.

  Shaking his head to clear the impossible image, he rolled outside to the patio and squinted in the late afternoon sun, searching for Remy. He listened close and heard grunting along with several loud curses coming from around the other side of the house. Following the stone path, he wheeled his chair towards her, being sure to announce himself this time.

  “Remy!”

  “Oh… hey,” she said, pausing in her raking to wipe her arm across her forehead. “Dinner time already?”

  “No, not yet, and Louis is passed out on the couch inside. I hoped we could talk.”

  She leaned on the rake and her eyes darted past him towards the house. “Can I shower first?”

  “No, because you’ll find something else to keep you busy, and then something else,” he argued sternly. “Something is bothering you, and I would like to know what it is and if it’s something I did.”

  Her eye twitched and she pinched her tongue between her teeth. “Are you asking as my employer?”

  “I’m asking as a friend,” he said softly. “Remy, what’s going on?”

  She leaned the rake against the side of the house and tugged at her ear. “It’s not a big deal, really, and I don’t want to put you out.”

  “You’re good at not answering questions,” he muttered.

  “A trait I learned from my mom. I’m frustrated about a few things and I don’t exactly have my usual…outlet to work through such problems,” she said with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Is that why you spend so much time in the gardens?” he asked.

  “Pretty much. That and I couldn’t stand looking at them anymore. My mom would have a heart attack if she saw flower beds this sad and neglected.”

  Stan blew out a breath of relief. At least he wasn’t the reason for the change in her, though she did say she was frustrated about a few things. He took his time studying her face and the way her jeans hugged her thighs and hips, how her damp, sweat-soaked tank showed off her curves and dipped low enough to give him a nice view of the tanned mounds of flesh his hands curled into fists wanting to touch. A sudden, burning hot longing erupted inside him, and he angled his chair so she hopefully wouldn’t catch the instant reaction his body had to his thoughts of peeling those sweaty clothes from her body.

  “Uh, what is your outlet, anyway?” he asked, the words hoarse.

  She tilted her head as she tapped her fingers on the rake handle. “I’m a bit of an artist. Painting, mostly, but I’m branching out into a few other projects. My studio is at my parents’ house because I wasn’t sure if you had room here.”

  “Please, pick any room you want and it’s yours. You’ll be here for a while, and I’d prefer my nanny to be a happy nanny since she’s also my housekeeper and my cook,” he added, meaning it to be playful but also the truth. His words had a different effect. Remy’s eyes darkened.

  “Thanks, I guess I’ll do that then. Do you think you can hold down the fort tomorrow while I go fetch everything I need?”

  “We’ll manage for a few hours without you.” His hands slipped to the wheels to leave her be, but he wanted to keep talking to her, see her smile again, hear that deep-throated laugh he never heard enough of. “Want some help?”

  “You want to get messy?” she asked, laughing.

  He shrugged. “It is my yard and here you are, doing all the hard work.” He moved his chair to the edge of the patio and locked the wheels. His arms trembling as he lifted himself up, he almost made it to standing, but his legs shook when he tried to put any weight on them. Two arms closed around his middle and he leaned on Remy as she helped him stand up straight, walk the few steps into the flower bed, and sink down to his knees. She sat with him and her arms stayed closed around his torso for another moment before she drew back with a nervous cough. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said with a look of surprise. “Nice to see you being a little more open to help and not biting my head off.”

  He cringed as she handed him the small trowel. “I am sorry about that. It seems you’re changing quite a few things about me, including my mood.” He dug at the roots of a dead shrub, working to get the plant out of the ground. Sweat beaded his brow and dripped down his back, but the labor felt good. Working side-by-side with Remy helped. When half the shrub was out, he paused, sitting back on his heels. He bit his cheek, not wan
ting to ruin the moment, but he wanted to know. “You said you were frustrated about a few things.”

  “Huh?” she asked, pausing with the hand rake as she worked the soil around the salvaged plants. “Oh, that… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  Her eyes darkened even more as her gaze lingered on his face, shifting lower over his muscled shoulders and arms. When her gaze dipped even lower than that, his cheeks burned hot, and she shook her head, sending her hair flying out of its ponytail. Her face was flushed, but whether it was from the work or checking him out, Stan was unsure. She busied herself with the soil again, pointedly not speaking about the subject.

  “You know, I think you’re more stubborn than I am,” he grunted, pulling at the roots of the shrub until they came free. He gave a triumphant yell and tossed the dead plant into the pile with the others.

  “That’s not possible.” She panted as she worked at replanting one of the small shrubs she’d pulled up from the other end of the flowerbed. “You’re the most stubborn, pain-in-the-ass man I’ve ever met in my life.”

  “You know you like it,” he teased, but her hands stilled and she blinked rapidly, keeping her gaze focused on the dirt beneath her hands.

  The tension between them ratcheted up several notches until it was hard to breathe. Stan had found her attractive the second she stepped into his life. Everything she’d done since then only made him like her more and admire her for her strong personality and take-charge attitude. For the first time since the accident, too, arousal needled its way into his body—arousal and a longing for this woman to fall into bed with him and spend the rest of the afternoon there, twisted up in the sheets and each other’s arms. He straightened on his knees and reached carefully for her hands. Her breath caught in her chest as her whole body trembled from his touch. They were so close already, all Stan needed to do was slip his hand to the nape of her neck and lower his mouth to hers. A kiss, a sweet kiss to show her this attraction he hoped to God he felt was mutual.