by Cathryn Fox
Single Dad Burning Up
Cathryn Fox
Contents
Copyright
1. Callan
2. Gemma
3. Callan
4. Gemma
5. Callan
6. Gemma
7. Callan
8. Gemma
9. Callan
10. Gemma
11. Gemma
12. Callan
13. Gemma
14. Callan
15. Gemma
16. Callan
17. Gemma
18. Callan
Afterword
The Playmaker
Also by Cathryn Fox
About Cathryn
Copyright
Single Dad Burning Up
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ISBN Ebook: 978-1-989374-22-1
ISBN Print: 978-1-989374-21-4
1
Callan
“Daddy, I’m going to miss Chester.”
I glance at my daughter, her mess of blonde hair bouncing as she skips down the near empty hallway beside me. Her bright sequined backpack is weighed down with a year’s worth of artwork and the Chester she’s referring to is the class pet, a cute guinea pig with white and butterscotch fur. With summer vacation now upon us—Kaitlyn’s last day of kindergarten behind her—Chester will be going home with the teacher until the school years starts back up in the fall.
“I’m sure he’s going to miss you too,” I say, and ruffle her hair as the last of the kids rush from the school to enjoy their summer vacation. Luckily, I have the next few days off from the fire station and I was able to pick Kaitlyn up myself.
She pouts up at me, and my heart squeezes in my too-tight chest. She’s been without a mother and baby brother for two years now, and every fucking morning, right after I peel my eyes open, I pray to God I can do right by her.
“Can we get a guinea pig?” she asks.
I swallow against the rawness in my tight throat, and grin at my little girl. I have such a hard time saying no to her, especially when she blinks up at me with those big blue eyes—her late mother’s eyes.
“Please, Daddy.”
I scrub my face, and remember the goldfish fiasco. Who knew overfeeding a goldfish would create ammonia in the bowl? I’m a firefighter, not a damn fish keeper. But, yeah, I should have Googled it. Kaitlyn shed a lot of tears in the makeshift funeral in our backyard, and I’d hate for her to go through that again. Then again, every child should have a pet, right? A guinea pig would be less work than a dog.
“We’ll see, okay?” I say.
“Yay,” she squeals and claps her hands. I can’t help but smile. At six years old, she’s smart enough to know ‘we’ll see’ really means yes. My little girl has me wrapped around her pinky finger. I’m just glad I found the nail polish remover last night, after she painted said finger neon pink. The guys at the station would have gotten a kick out of that. They’re all good guys though, even if they love to goad me. There isn’t a single colleague that wouldn’t jump to lend a helping hand, and she gets lots of motherly attention from her aunt Melissa—my late wife Zoe’s younger sister—and both sets of grandparents, who dote on her.
I arch one brow. “You promise you’ll take care of him?”
She gives me an enthusiastic nod, and I just shake my head as we round the corner. “I’m going to call him Gilbert.”
“Why Gilbert?” I ask.
Her mouth drops open, like I might be dense. She’s probably right. Just when I think I’m nailing this single parenting thing, she grows and changes, presenting different challenges and a hundred more Google searches. Can’t wait for her teen years—said no dad ever.
“Because it’s cute,” she says.
I laugh, but it dies an abrupt death when I take the hallway corner and smack straight into something…or rather someone. A squeal of surprise wraps around me as books and papers and pens scatter to the floor at my feet. I reach out to steady the woman I nearly knocked on her ass.
“Whoa, are you okay?” I ask, instantly realizing I’d plowed right into Gemma Davis, an old friend from high school. She teaches seventh grade, so we rarely cross paths in the school, but I’ve always liked her. Zoe took Gemma under her wing when Gemma moved here in high school.
“I’m okay,” Gemma says and lifts her head. A wide smile splits her lips when she sees it’s me. “Callan. Hi. It’s so good to see you, or rather, bump into you.”
I sink down and begin to gather up her books. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
Her gaze goes from me to my daughter. “How are you, Kaitlyn?” she asks as she crouches with me to clean up the mess.
“I’m getting a guinea pig,” Kaitlyn sings out.
I groan, and cut Gemma a glance. “Lucky me, huh?”
Gemma grins at me. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone. I think every child in Mrs. Anderson’s class wants a guinea pig now. Chester is awfully cute.” She gives a roll of her shoulder. “I guess it could be worse. The class pet could have been a snake.”
I eye her. “Don’t tell me—”
“Not me,” she says with a quick shake of her head that loosens a tendril of honey-blonde hair from the small clip straining to hold it all together. “Mr. Baily has one.” She holds her hands up palms out. “Just preparing you for first grade.”
I exhale, my shoulders slumping. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given in so easily to the guinea pig.” She chuckles as we finish gathering up her music sheets. “I hope I didn’t mess everything up.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to hear Beethoven played out of order.”
I cringe. “I’m—”
She puts her hand on my arm. “I’m kidding,” she says, and when she realizes she has her hand on me, she pulls it back and clutches the papers tighter. “It’s not a big deal. I have lots of time to get them in order, before my summer lessons start.”
I swallow and work to ignore the sensations trickling through me. Christ, she barely touched me; it shouldn’t be triggering any kind of reaction, especially around the vicinity of my crotch. Jesus, I haven’t been with a woman since Zoe, and have no desire to be with anyone. I might not have seen Gemma in a while, but we go way back. No way should a simple touch from her spark something deep inside me. Awaken something that has lain dormant for a very long time now.
“Sounds like an exciting weekend,” I tease. But who am I to talk? I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to Burgers and Brews Pub with the guys. Maybe tha
t’s why my traitorous cock jumped to the occasion. The guys at the station are always trying to set me up—especially my best friend Mason and his wife Lisa. When Zoe was alive, we always hung out as couples, and our children played. Maybe I ought to take them up on it. Any girl I hook up with would have to know up front that a quick roll in the hay is all I’m looking for, though. I have no more to give.
“I’d prefer a weekend with my music sheets to your dangerous job any day, Callan,” she says, her eyes wide. “Running into burning buildings.” A quake goes through her. “No thank you.”
“It’s not so bad,” I say and turn to look at Kaitlyn. She’s spinning in circles, her arms wide, as she chants Gilbert over and over. For a child who’s been through a lot, she’s always happy and that brings a smile to my face. I must be doing something right. I turn back to Gemma, find her staring at me. The last time we talked she’d just taken the job at the school and was dating a police officer. I remember him being quite a bit older than her.
“How’ve you been?” I ask. “Are you still with…Ah…” Shit what was his name?
“Brad. No, we broke up. A few months ago.”
She averts her gaze, her lids fluttering rapidly as her body tenses. Okay, I’m not an expert on reading body language or anything, but I’ve clearly hit a sore spot here. Did the guy break her heart or something?
“Oh, someone new?” I ask.
“Nope. No desire. I’ve decided single is the way to go.” I frown at that—but who am I to talk? She plasters on a big smile and turns back to me. “But I’m great. Two months off school to bask in the summer sun. Though I will be helping out at the Boys and Girls club, and a few nights a week, I’ll be giving private piano lessons.”
“I want to play piano, Daddy,” Kaitlyn says. “Can Miss Davis teach me?”
It’s not the first time she’s asked. Her mom played and always filled our house with music. “We’ll—” I stop myself before spouting out my favorite response and getting Kaitlyn’s hopes up. I don’t even know if Gemma has room in her schedule. “How about we talk about it later?” I say.
Gemma gives me a wink, like she’s fully aware of my dilemma with my daughter, and my inability to say no. “She almost had you there, didn’t she?”
I chuckle. “I’ve got to get better at saying no.”
“You’re doing a fine job with her.” She casts a look Kaitlyn’s way, a look of longing in her eyes as a small smile touches her naked lips. For a second I wonder if her break-up with Brad had something to do with wanting kids. Obviously, she longs to be a mother. “She’s a sweet little girl. Very kind and sincere. Like you.”
“Shh,” I say and glance around. “I’ve got a reputation to protect here.”
Her lips quirk at the corner, then her smile falls. “You good, Callan?” she asks, her voice soft, and I get what she’s asking, what people are still asking two years later.
“I’m good,” I lie. I’m as good as can be expected, I guess. Truthfully is anyone ever ‘good’ again after losing their wife and unborn baby boy? I was once told that when you lose someone you have bad days and days that aren’t as bad. I hate that I fully understand that now.
“Do you keep in contact with any of the old gang? Are you and Mason still friends? Wait, he’s a firefighter too, right?”
“Yup, still best friends,” I say. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
“Sure.”
We head toward the doors, and the warm afternoon sun shines down on us, but it does little to loosen the tightness in my lungs. On those bad days, I walk around with an invisible band around my chest, squeezing tight. Who am I kidding? On those days that aren’t as bad, the belt is still there. I’m not sure it will ever slacken, and maybe I don’t want it to. Maybe I deserve the grief.
Gemma leans into me, her warmth and citrusy scent stirring the controlled storm in my body. Her voice is low, for my ears only when she whispers, “If she’s serious about lessons, I do have an opening.”
I nod, and consider it. “She would probably love it. Her mom…” I let my words fall off.
“I know,” Gemma says, and glances at her feet. “We can talk about it more later if you want.”
Her reaction isn’t unusual. Most people avoid the subject of my wife. They don’t know whether it will upset me or not. I’m glad they don’t know how to react. It means they’ve not had loss.
“We can talk about it over ice cream,” I say to Gemma.
“Ice cream,” Kaitlyn belts out, and we both laugh.
“Nothing gets by her.” I shake my head. “Unless you have other plans,” I say, hoping she doesn’t.
“I do,” she says. A ridiculous sense of disappointment sits heavy in my gut and I work to ignore it. “But,” she says brightly, holding up an index finger. “Ice cream first.” A smile reaches her dark eyes when they meet mine. “It’s been too long, Callan,” she says in a soft voice. “Let’s get caught up.”
“I’d love that.”
“Yay,” Kaitlyn says, her hand sliding into mine. “Swing me, Daddy.”
I pick her up under the arms, and give her a swing, and she squeals in delight. I set her down and she grabs my hand and Gemma’s. “Now both swing me.”
“Kaitlyn—” I begin, wanting to set boundaries when it comes to other people.
“It’s okay,” Gemma says, and we both take one arm up high, so it doesn’t pop from the socket as we swing her.
“That was fun,” Kaitlyn says as we reach the car. She hops into the back to buckle herself in, and I glance around to see what Gemma is driving.
“I walk to school,” she says. “I bought a townhouse a few blocks away.”
“Oh, nice. I didn’t realize.” I pull her door open for her. “Ride me.” What the fuck. I give a quick shake of my head at my blunder. “I mean ride with me,” I say quickly.
“I know what you meant,” she says, mature enough not to needle me as she slides into the car and sets her papers on the back seat beside Kaitlyn. None of the guys at the station would have let that go, and when I say guys, I mean the female fighters. I love them all dearly, like family, but they love to ride my ass—as in harass me relentlessly, all in good fun of course. I get a whiff of her scent as she settles in my passenger seat, and I tug my hair, closing the door behind her.
Ride me?
Really, Callan?
Shit, it was a simple slip, but now that I’ve said it, I kind of can’t stop thinking about it. Me in bed, sweet Gemma on top of me. My dick twitches as I circle the car and I clench my teeth and work to purify my thoughts. Yeah, the guys are right. I do need to get laid. I never was the kind of guy to sleep around, but maybe it’s time for a one-night stand. Not with Gemma, of course. We’re just friends. Yeah, sure she was cute in high school, but four years of college later, combined with a couple years of teaching, well, let’s just say she turned into a beautiful woman. I can’t understand why she’s still single. Maybe her break-up with Brad was recent, and she’s not ready to get back into the game. I can understand that.
I back out of my spot and head toward Boston Common. Fifteen minutes later we’re walking through the park, eating our dripping ice-cream cones. Joggers run the path around the park, as families picnic, or play with their pets.
“I’m going to teach Gilbert how to fetch,” Kaitlyn states unambiguously, and Gemma stifles a chuckle when I glance at her.
“That’ll be a neat trick,” I say, and zero in on the big stain of ice cream on Gemma’s face. “You have a bit…” I reach for her face, and she jerks backward. Whoa. What the hell? “Sorry, you just have some ice cream on your face.”
“Right, okay,” she says, her eyes big as she swipes her mouth with a napkin.
Fuck, I’ve been the first on the scene in many situations, including domestic abuse. If I didn’t know better… Hell, I don’t know better. A burst of protectiveness goes through me. “Everything okay, Gemma?”
“Yeah, sure,” she says, all bright-eyed. “You just
startled me.” She turns her attention to Kaitlyn. “Will you be at the Boys and Girls club this summer?” she asks, and I don’t miss the fast switch in conversations.
“Will I be, Daddy?”
“You bet you will be. But next week you’re going to stay with Grammy and Grampy, remember?” I say, my stomach coiled tight. Is someone hurting Gemma? If so, I’d like to meet them, and introduce my fist to their face.
“Grammy has a bird,” she says.
“What kind of bird?” Gemma asks.
Kaitlyn holds her hands a couple inches apart. “It’s a perky.” She rolls her eyes. “I like him but he sings a lot.”
“Parakeet,” I correct. In the distance I spot fellow firefighter Colin and the guys playing frisbee. I waved as we pass, and inside Gemma’s purse her phone starts ringing—a ringtone I don’t recognize, which probably means its personalized and she knows who’s calling. She tenses and ignores the chime. It keeps on ringing, the caller as tenacious as a six-year-old.
“You going to get that?” I ask.
“No,” she says flatly.
I shove my hands into my pockets, and cast her a sidelong glance, aware of the tightness in her shoulders, her rapid intake of breath. “Want me to get it for you?”
“No, it’s…” Her head slowly lifts, her eyes filled with something that looks like despair when they latch on mine.
I come to an abrupt halt. “Jesus, Gemma, what is it?”
2
Gemma
Dammit, dammit, dammit.