Single Dad Burning Up

by Cathryn Fox

  “I thought we’d cook together,” he says. “Remember how we used to do that.”

  What I remember is him getting annoyed if I got in his way. “Yeah, big fun,” I lie.

  He removes the items from the bag and keeps casting glances my way. “What’s the matter, Gemma?”

  “Nothing,” I say and try to hide my rising panic. “I just, yesterday I wasn’t feeling well. I think my stomach is still upset.” I jerk my thumb toward the bathroom. “Do you mind if I run in there for a bit.”

  He pulls a big knife from the drawer and I try not to react as he slices into an onion. “Yeah, don’t be long.”

  “I’ll just freshen up,” I say and reach for my purse.

  Before I can get away, he comes to me, opens my purse and looks into it. He pulls out my Tylenol bottle.

  “What’s this for.”

  “Like I said I wasn’t feeling well yesterday and was a bit feverish. I’m going to take a couple of these.”

  He seems satisfied enough with the answer, and gives me my purse back. I hurry to the bathroom. I nearly cry out in relief when I see the window. It’s small but I’m sure I can squeeze through it, and the baby isn’t big enough for me to do any harm. I lock the door, turn on the water and tug on the window. Stupid thing is stuck. I tug some more, and it makes a loud cracking sound. I suck in a breath and go still.

  “Gemma, what’s going on in there?”

  “I just dropped my medicine bottle. I’m going to gather the spilled pills. I’ll be right out.”

  The door knob turns then stops. “Hurry it up.” With my heart racing, I lift myself up, and slide out the small window. I land on the ground with a thud, pick myself up quickly and dash to the cabin, three doors down. I knock quietly and hug myself, expecting Brad to come rushing from the cottage. The door finally opens and a middle-aged man stands there.

  “What can I do for you?”

  I nearly cry with relief.

  “What’s going on, Dennis?” a woman calls out.

  “Don’t know,” he says as I hurry inside and close and lock the door behind me.

  I take a deep breath and blurt out, “Call 911.”

  18

  Callan

  “Now what?” I ask as Amanda stares at the laptop she’s holding beside me.

  “This exit right here,” she says, and I flick on my signal.

  I turn off the highway, and we come to a fork in the road. “That way,” she says, checking Gemma’s Find My Phone app on her laptop. For the first time, I’m glad she’s always losing her phone, and installed the app on her devices.

  “Where the fuck are we?” I ask, and work to fight down the rising panic.

  Amanda glances around. “I don’t know.” Just then Amanda’s phone rings and we exchange a worried glance. She checks it, and says, “It’s Mom. What should I do?”

  “You better answer it.”

  Amanda hesitates. “I don’t want to worry her, though.”

  “But maybe she knows something. Maybe she’s heard from her. You better answer. Put her on speakerphone.”

  “Okay,” she says and slides her finger across the screen. “Hey Mom,” she says in her best casual voice.

  “Hey Amanda.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Have you been talking to Gemma?”

  “Uh, yeah, I saw her today, actually.” She fusses with the zipper on her purse, likely needing something to do with her hands. “We went shopping.”

  “Did you know she was back with Brad?”

  My heart jumps. “Fuck,” I murmur under my breath as I grip the steering wheel tighter.

  “She never told me that, Mom.”

  “I thought it was strange, too. She seemed so happy with Callan. Happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. I was rooting for those two. I must say Misty and John are happy they’re together again, though.”

  “When did you hear from her?” she asks.

  “Oh, around dinner time. We were eating at the club when she called. Brad was with her.”

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  “They were at her place, but Brad had something special planned for them.” She stares at me, and her mom’s voice pulls me back. “Amanda, is everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything is fine,” she says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “One more thing. She said she was going to call me when they reached their destination, but I haven’t heard from her.”

  Amanda briefly closes her eyes to pull herself together. “I’m sure you’ll hear from her soon enough.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Yes, please do. Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you too, dear.”

  She ends the call and when we come to a road that looks like it’s lined with cottages, I slow to a stop and gesture to the computer. “Anything?”

  She nods. “We should get out and walk.”

  “You’re right.”

  We step from the car, and instantly hear pounding on a door.

  “Callan,” Amanda says her voice bordering on hysteria. “We have to do something.”

  “Get back in the car and call 911.”

  “I don’t want to leave you out here. Brad’s a cop. He has a gun.”

  “I know.” I give her shoulders a squeeze and turn her to the car. My pulse is battering my throat as I walk toward the pounding noise and find Brad outside a cottage.

  “Open up,” he demands, his fist battering the door. “I just want to talk.”

  I exhale, and quickly figure out that Gemma is inside, and she must be safe.

  “What’s going on, Brad?” I ask and he spins so fast, he nearly falls off the top step.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Gemma and I are back together.”

  “Doesn’t seem like that to me.” Just then I catch sight of Gemma peeking out the window. I don’t let on I see her, but I’m so goddamn happy she’s okay, I can hardly breathe.

  “We have some things to work out,” Brad says.

  I take a combative stance. “Why don’t you work them out with me instead?”

  He scoffs. “Get real, Callan. I’m a fucking cop.”

  “I don’t care what you are. Come on down here,” I say wanting to get him away from the door. He hesitates for a second. “Oh, I get it, you only like picking on people who can’t fight back.”

  “Fuck off, Callan. This isn’t your business.”

  “I love that woman in there and she’s pregnant with my baby. So yeah, it’s my fucking business.”

  “She’s what?” he says through clenched teeth as I provoke his anger.

  “You heard me.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Come find out.”

  With fight or flight kicking in, and I damn well plan to fight, adrenaline floods my body. Brad stomps down the steps and the second he’s close enough, I hit him with every fucking ounce of anger in me, and he falters backward, dropping to his knees. Rage fuels me and I take a step toward him when the front door to the cottage opens, and in that split second of inattention, Brad goes for my legs, knocking me on my back. I go down with an oomph, and he climbs on top of me.

  “You dumb fuck. Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you for hitting an officer?”

  “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you for kidnapping the woman I love?”

  He pulls his arm back and I block his punch. I jerk him off me and we roll on the hard ground. As we struggle, he manages to pin me again, and I’m seconds from flipping him over when a crack reverberates in the air.

  I look past his shoulders and find Gemma there, a big motherfucking tree branch in her hands. Brad slumps over me and as I push him off, sirens sound in the distance, and I’m not certain how they got here so fast.

  Amanda comes running to us. “They were already on their way,” she says and breaks into tears when
she sees Gemma standing over me.

  “Thanks, babe,” I say, and Gemma laughs, an almost overwhelmed, hysterical laugh. She turns to hug her sister, and I jump to my feet and pull her to me when they break apart. “You’re safe, Gemma. You’re safe. I’m so fucking sorry this happened.”

  She pulls back and the strong woman that she is, she glares at me. “Don’t for one minute blame yourself for this, Callan.”

  “I know. I won’t.”

  “Good, because he was getting ready to break down that door and there could have been a very different outcome if you hadn’t showed up.” Police cars surround us, and an elderly man and woman come from the cottage and start giving all the details.

  “We’re going to need to take your statements,” an officer says to Gemma as they cuff Brad and put him in the car.

  “Can you give us a minute?” I ask. “She’s been through a lot.”

  The officer nods and I step away with Gemma.

  I pull her to me and kiss her head. “Gemma, my God. Are you okay?”

  “Just shaken,” she says, and hugs me so tight I can barely breathe.

  “I was terrified,” I admit. “Terrified something bad happened to you. I loved and lost once, and I was so scared it was going to happen again.”

  Her head lifts and she inches back. “Are you saying…”

  “I’m saying I love you.”

  A sob catches in her throat. “Callan, I have to tell you something.”

  “Before you do, I need you to know that you never have to be afraid of me, afraid of telling me anything. I’d never hurt you.”

  “I know that. You’re the best guy I know.” She glances down. “But I’m…”

  “Pregnant. I know.”

  Her head jerks up, her eyes wide.

  “How…wait. Amanda, right?”

  “Yeah, she had to tell me, and I’m so fucking sorry you were afraid to tell me, afraid I’d be mad. I can understand where you were coming from, though, Gemma.”

  She blinks. “You can?”

  “Of course. I said all along that I didn’t want more, and it was true.”

  She sniffs. “Callan…”

  “It was true, up until I met you.” I sink to my knees, and put my arms around her, giving a gentle kiss to her stomach. “I want us to be together forever.”

  “Callan, no.”

  I look up at her. “What?”

  “I don’t want you saying these things because I’m pregnant. I know you’d never turn your back on our baby, but I don’t have to come with the package. You don’t have to do the noble thing.”

  “I love you, Gemma. I fucking love you. I want to be with you forever. I want us to raise this baby together, have more. Fill our house with kids. I want us to be a real family.”

  She drops to her knees in front of me, tears falling down her face. “I love you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she says. I open my mouth and she puts her finger to it. “Don’t ask me to marry you.”

  My heart falls into my stomach. “Gemma?”

  She smiles. “Not here, not like this. My God, this is not the story I want to tell our kids.”

  Warmth and love move through me. “You’re right. I’ll make it special.”

  “Every day with you and Kaitlyn is special, Callan. I’m so crazy in love with you both.”

  I shake my head. “This is so not how I thought tonight was going to go down,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you have any doubts about my love, you won’t once we get home.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I had a special night planned, because I was going to spill my guts.” I’m rewarded with a big laugh. “But it’s all ruined.”

  “It doesn’t have to be ruined,” she says. “Let’s give our statements, call my parents, and then call Kaitlyn, tell them all the good news.”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Then we can go home, and you can show me just how much you love me.”

  I put my hand on her cheek. “I like the way you think.”

  She puts her hand on my cheek, her eyes slowly moving over my face, a careful assessment. “You good, Callan?”

  “I’m good, Gemma,” I say and this time I really and truly mean it and she really and truly knows it. “I’m really good, thanks to you.”

  “Right back at ya, Callan.”

  “Good, now come on. Let’s go get the rest of our lives started.”

  Afterword

  Thank You!

  * * *

  Thank you so much for reading, Single Dad Burning Up, book 3 in my Single Dad Series. I hope you loved this story as much as I loved writing it. Keep reading for an excerpt of The Playmaker, book one in my Players on Ice Series.

  * * *

  Interested in leaving a review? Please do! Reviews help readers connect with books that work for them. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.

  Happy Reading,

  Cathryn

  The Playmaker

  Nina

  Fat drops of spring rain pummel my head, wilting my curls as I dart through Seattle’s busy traffic to the café on the other side of the street. My best friend, Jess, is inside waiting for me, undoubtedly hyped up on her third latté by now.

  I step over a pothole and search for an opening in the traffic. I hate being late, I really do. I totally value other people’s time, but when the email came through from my editor, asking me to write a hot hockey series, my priorities took a curve. I’ve worked with Tara for a couple years now, and I know her like—pardon the pun—a well-worn book. To her, hesitation equals disinterest. She’s a mover, a tree-shaker, and it wouldn’t have taken long for her to offer the opportunity to another author. She wanted a quick reply and I had to give it to her.

  I got this!

  Yeah, that was my response, but what did I have to lose? I’ve been in such a rut lately, thanks to my fickle muse, deserting me when I needed her most. I swear to God, sometimes she acts like a hormonal teenager. I need to whip her into shape so I don’t lose this gig. The royalties from a series will help make a sizeable dent in the bills that are piling up high and deep.

  High and deep.

  I laugh. One of those self-derisive snorts that crawls out when you’d really rather cry. Yeah, that pretty much sums up the I got this response I emailed back. High and deep, like a big steaming pile of—

  A car horn blares, jolting me from my pity party. With my heart pounding in my chest, I step in front of the Tesla and flip the guy off. I safely reach the sidewalk and once again my mind is back on my job, and off the impatient jerk in the overpriced car.

  I step up on the sidewalk and lift my face to the rain, the cool water a pleasant break from this unusual spring heat wave we’re having. Pressure fills my throat. The hum of traffic behind me dulls, leaving only the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. Panic.

  Why the hell did my editor think I, former figure skater turned romance novelist, would want to write a series about hot hockey players? Yeah, sure my brother is an NHL player, but that doesn’t mean I’m into the game. I hate hockey. No, hate is too mild a word for what I feel. I loathe it entirely. But you know what I don’t loathe? Eating. Yeah, I like eating. Oh, and a roof over my head. I really like that, too.

  I draw in a semi self-satisfied breath at having rationalized my fast response.

  Except my reply was total and utter bullshit. I don’t got this. In fact, I…wait, what’s the antonym of got this? All that comes to mind is, you’re screwed. Yep, that pretty much describes my predicament.

  Why didn’t I just stick to figure skating?

  Because you took a bad spill that ended your career.

  Oh right. But seriously, a hockey series… Ugh. Kill me. Freaking. Now.

  I reach the café, pull the glass door open and slick my rain-soaked hair from my face. I quickly catalogue the place to find Jess hitting on the barista. Ahh, now I get why she picked a place
so far from home. I take in the guy behind the counter. Damn, he’s hotter than the steaming latté in Jess’s hand, and from the way she’s flirting, it’s clear he’ll be in her bed later today.

  I sigh inwardly. It’s always so easy for her. Me? Not so much. Men rarely pay me attention. Unlike Jess, I’m plain, have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, and most times I blend into the woodwork.

  I pick up a napkin from the side counter and mop the rain off my face. Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested anyway. From my puck-bunny-chasing brother to all his cocky friends, I know what guys are really like, and when it comes to women, they’re only after one thing, and it isn’t scoring the slot. I roll my eyes. Then again, maybe it is.

  And of course, I can’t forget the last guy I was set up with. What he did to me was totally abusive, but I don’t want to dredge up those painful memories right now.

  I shake, and water beads fall right off my brand-new rain-resistance coat. At least something is going right for me today. Semi-dry, I cross the room and stand beside Jess.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

  Jess turns to me, smiles, and holds a finger up. “I’ll forgive you only if you’re late because you were knees deep into some nasty sex, ’cause girlfriend, it’s been far too long since you’ve been laid.”

  Jesus, what ever happened to this girl’s filters?

  Thoroughly embarrassed, my gaze darts to the barista, who is grinning, his eyes still locked on my friend, looking at her like she’s today’s hot lunch special and ignoring me like I’m yesterday’s cold, lumpy oatmeal.

  Ugh, really?

  “Non-fat latté,” I say, and scowl at him until he puts his eyes back in his head. I might be an English major but I have a PhD in the death glare. Truthfully, I’m so sick of guys like him, one thing on their minds. Then again, Jess only wants one thing from him, so I really shouldn’t have a problem with it. Why do I? Oh, maybe because Mr. Right, my battery-operated companion, isn’t quite cutting it anymore, and it’s left me a little jittery and a whole lot cranky.