Jennifer Greene - Single Dad

She raised her eyes to Killer’s dad. “Really. The whole thing’s forgotten as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Penoyer.”

“Josh,” he corrected her, which was about the last word he said. His parental mission accomplished, he scooped up his daughter and gave her a riding seat on the back of his shoulders—where the little one was prevented from touching anything else in the shop, Ariel noted humorously. Less than a minute later, the two exited the store in a tinkle of bells.

From the window, Ariel watched him strap Killer into a dusty red Bronco, then take off. As hot and tired as she was, she stood there for a few more minutes. Belatedly she recognized that Josh had looked exhausted and hot, too, but that hadn’t stopped him from making his child’s problem a priority. That said a lot about his values as a dad. It said even more about him as a man.

She’d pegged him as a hard-core realist—positively her opposite in temperament—but Ariel had no problem admitting that she’d been charmed. Seriously and sincerely charmed. Killer’s behavior with her dad had been as revealing as a blueprint. Even when Josh had looked intimidatingly ready to blow the lid off that temper, the urchin had burrowed straight for his arms. He might get mad, but no way was his daughter afraid of him. The strong, loving bond between the two had been rich and rare, a measure of the man and his ability to love. Ariel hadn’t met a special man like that in a long time.

She abruptly turned around and headed for the back stairs. It was tempting to mull and muse all night about Josh—but far more sensible to force her mind back on butter-brickle. Her stomach was growling—a problem she could easily fix. And she’d learned young to steer clear of problems that she couldn’t. The chances of her seeing either of the Penoyers again seemed doubtful. It was best to forget them.

* * *

“She was pretty, wasn’t she, Dad? Didn’t you think she was pretty?”

Since it was the fourth time Killer had asked the question during the drive home, Josh figured he wasn’t going to get out of an answer. “Yeah, sure,” he said flatly. Truthfully, he thought that descriptive epitaph was an awfully pale peg for Ms. Lindstrom. Sexy. Wild. Flighty. Those were more like it.

“Did you like her, Dad?”

“Sure, I liked her.” He liked fireworks. He liked race cars and storms. And just because he was thirty-four and divorced didn’t mean he was dead from the waist down. He liked long-legged, long-haired blondes built with a memorable upper deck just fine. But a grown man didn’t have to dip his hand in flames to know there were unpleasant consequences to playing with fire.

“Wasn’t she nice? Didn’t you think she was nice?”

“Yeah, Ms. Lindstrom was nice. But if you think talking about her is going to distract me from what you did, you’re dreaming. I’m still mad at you. What you did was real, real wrong, Patrice.”

“I know.”

Aw, hell. Her lower lip was starting to tremble. Dammit, he hated it when the squirt did that.

Josh jammed a hand through his hair as he turned the corner. Calvin was fourteen, Bruiser thirteen. God knew they got into all kinds of mischief, but it was boy trouble, the kind Josh understood. The kind of stuff his daughter got into confused him. He was just no expert at six-year-old girls, and pretending he was qualified to be both Mom and Dad was a full-time challenge.

He sneaked another peek.

The lip was still trembling.

“Look, I can’t just forget it.”

“I know,” Killer said pitifully.

“We’ll go home. Have dinner. But after that, you go straight to your room. No playing. And no TV tonight.” His voice was stern, but he checked her face again. Was the punishment too mean?

“Okay.” A single tear dribbled down his daughter’s cheek, caught on a smudge of dirt, then drooled the rest of the way down her neck.

Josh glanced at traffic behind him, then reached over and gently wiped the tear away. “You have to have a punishment when you do something this serious. Could you try and understand that? It’s my job as a dad, for Pete’s sake. I have to do this, Killer.”

“I said okay.”

Maybe it was “okay,” but he saw another tear welling. Nothing with Calvin or Bruiser had ever been this complicated. He’d never hesitated to give the boys a swat on the behind at this age—like if they’d run in the street or broken a window—and for sure, stealing rated up there as a spanking offense. But somehow he’d never managed to lay a hand on Killer. Even when he was mad enough to strangle her—and God knew, the squirt could be exasperating—he had to work like a dog to even raise his voice. Something in those big brown eyes sabotaged him every time. They made him feel like melting. They made him feel like mush. They made him feel guilty.

Josh swung into the driveway, mentally damning Nancy for taking off on him and the kids. The divorce had been final for a year now. Whatever had gone wrong in the relationship, he hadn’t had time to figure out. He was too busy coping with work, bills, dishes, cooking, laundry, two teenage sons and a six-year-old daughter.

Still, as long as he ran sixty miles an hour, he’d really believed that he’d been coping—until a problem like this happened. “I still don’t get it. What possessed you to take that unicorn thing?” he asked his daughter.

“It was pretty.”

“Yeah? So? Lots of things are pretty, but if it’s not yours, you don’t touch it. You know that.”

“I know, Dad.”

Somehow he was failing to gain any comprehension of the six-year-old feminine mind. “Did you ever see me take anything that wasn’t mine?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Did you ever see me touch anything that didn’t belong to me?”

“No, Daddy.”

He was parked, the engine off, and she wanted out of the Bronco in the worst way. It wasn’t as if he were gaining any ground. “Okay, skedaddle. I’ll be in to make dinner in just a second.”

She skedaddled faster than a puppy with a burr, but Josh sat in the silence for a moment longer. Their house was at the end of a cul-de-sac on the hilltop. Matching frame bungalows lined the street, typical of a working-class neighborhood. Nothing fancy, but it wasn’t rough. The kids had a ravine and woods to play in. Clusters of old maples and ash and birch trees lined the block. Anyone could identify his house as being womanless, though.

Two rusty bicycles lay abandoned in the yard, not put away. The curtains in the front window didn’t hang the way a woman seemed to genetically know how to hang the blasted things. There were no flowers planted in the beds. And inside, Josh already knew he was going to find dirty glasses, thrown towels, shoes and clothes that reproduced in the strangest places, and a bathroom that risked being condemned by the health department. His bedroom may— may —have been left sacrosanct, but for sure the only company he was likely to find in that lonely double bed was one of the boy’s basketballs.

Josh sighed with exasperation. He’d screwed up plenty in his life, but he valued integrity and tried to pass on that value to his kids. The problem was, it was hard to climb all over his daughter for falling prey to an irresistible impulse...when he personally knew how easily that could happen.

He’d taken one look at Ms. Lindstrom and felt as if he’d stepped in a land mine of blatant, irresistible impulses. He’d bet the bank that silvery blond hair reached her waist in length. The green eyes and pearl skin and that soft mouth still lingered in his mind. So did the swell of her breasts peeking out of that open-throated shirt. He suddenly recalled—to the day—how long he’d been celibate, which sure as hell wasn’t his nature or his choice.