Firefighter Daddy Page 10

  Rory glanced back and surveyed the clutter with fresh eyes. The place was a disaster. “Everything’s perfect. I’ve been working on fall decorations for my classroom and I’m helping with a bridal shower for my friend who’s getting married.”

  “That explains it,” Betsy said. “I’ll let you get back to what you were doing. See you in half an hour.”

  Rory finished eating and added her plate and mug to the other dishes in the kitchen sink. She grabbed a package of microwave popcorn from the cupboard, picked up the DVD and slipped her feet into a pair of red flip-flops that matched the polish she’d applied the other day.

  Buick jumped onto the sofa and curled up in the spot she’d just vacated. “Don’t wait up,” she said as she grabbed her things off the table and dashed down the stairs.

  BETSY HAD LEFT HER DOOR from the front foyer open. “Hello?” Rory called.

  “Miss Sunshine’s here!” Miranda, dressed in a yellow nightgown that ended several inches above her ankles, emerged from a hallway and bounded across the living room. “Can I stay up an extra half hour, Grams? Please? Please, please, please?”

  Betsy was right behind her. “Maybe next time if we check with your dad, but not tonight. My son is not very flexible about bedtime,” she added for Rory’s benefit.

  “Routines are great,” Rory said. “What time is bedtime?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  Rory glanced at her watch. “That’s a whole half hour,” she said, ruffling Miranda’s blond curls. “What would you like to do?”

  “Stay up till nine o’clock.”

  “Eight,” Betsy repeated. “Now give Grams a hug and a good-night kiss, then I’ll leave you two girls to have some fun.”

  “G’night, Grams. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Miranda.”

  The affectionate exchange between grandmother and granddaughter impressed Rory. This little girl might not have a mother, but she had lots of love and stability.

  Betsy glanced out the living-room window. “Here’s Thomas. See you later.”

  “What would you like to do?” she asked Miranda after Betsy left. “We have time for a game or we can read a book.”

  “A book,” Miranda said without hesitation. She grabbed Rory’s hand and tugged her through the living room, down the hallway and through the kitchen. Near the back door, a set of stairs led to the second floor. Miranda sprinted up the stairs ahead of her. Rory followed, taking her time to look around once they were upstairs. There appeared to be three bedrooms and a bathroom. The first room on the right, with old oak furniture and an appealing patchwork quilt, must be Betsy’s. The room across the hall was Miranda’s and the bathroom was next to it. The room at the front of the house must be Mitch’s. Did she dare sneak a peek?

  No. She followed Miranda into her bedroom. “Wow. What a beautiful room.”

  “I picked out the wallpaper,” the little girl said.

  “It’s very pretty.” The paper had a charming, old-fashioned look—a pale-yellow background covered with tiny dark yellow flowers and bright green leaves. The woodwork had been painted a gleaming white to match the furniture, and a green area rug covered most of the hardwood floor. Very grown-up for a seven-year-old. Rory wondered if she’d had a little guidance.

  “Me and Grams went to the paint store together, but she let me choose. I picked this ’cause yellow is my mom’s favorite color.”

  Aha. That explained a lot, and it was interesting that Miranda referred to her mother’s preferences in the present tense.

  “My dad put up the wallpaper and Grams painted.”

  “I see,” Rory said. Moving to a new home and a new school could be unsettling for a child, so Mitch and his mother had been wise to let her have some say in her bedroom decor. “I think you picked the perfect wallpaper. I’ll bet your mom would love this room.”

  “D’you think so? I asked my dad if he thought she would, but he doesn’t like to talk about her.”

  “He must miss her,” Rory said.

  “So do I, but talking about her doesn’t make me sad.”

  “Lucky thing he’s got you. I can tell he’s very proud of you.” The conversation was quickly turning personal, and she already knew Mitch well enough to know he wouldn’t be happy that his daughter and his daughter’s teacher were having this conversation. “Now where’s that book you want to read?”

  Miranda crouched in front of a crammed bookcase. “I have a lot of books.”

  “I see that. Do you have a favorite?”

  “Could you read Harry Potter? My mom was going to read it to me, but she died before we got started.” She pulled the book from the shelf and handed it to Rory.

  This felt like dangerous territory. Reading the book might seem as though she was trying to be a substitute for Miranda’s mother, which couldn’t be further from the truth. “Maybe your dad would rather read it with you.”

  Miranda firmly shook her head. “He says Harry Potter was Mom’s book. He likes to read Winnie the Pooh, though. He always makes me laugh ’cause he does different voices for all the animals.”

  Rory tried to imagine that.

  Hi, my name is Tigger. T-i-double-guh-er. No.

  Eeyore, no problem. Tigger? Not so much.

  “I think we should ask your dad about Harry Potter.” She slid the book back into place and took out an illustrated copy of Cinderella. “This is one of my favorites. I love fairy tales.”

  “Me, too.” Miranda ran a hand over Cinderella’s ball gown on the cover. “This is like your pink bridesmaid dress, only yours is prettier.”

  “Wait’ll you see the new one,” she said. “It has a big wide skirt.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Blue.”

  “Like the sky?”

  No. The blue of those dresses was startlingly unnatural. “A little brighter than that.”

  “Can we still play dress-up sometime?”

  “You bet. Someday when your dad and your grandmother are busy, you can spend the day with me. We can pretend we’re princesses having tea with the queen.” She considered telling her about the shoes, but decided to let them be a surprise.

  “Can we have real tea?” Miranda asked.

  “For sure.” Although she’d need to make sure that was okay with Mitch. “We can even shop for cookies and petit fours to have with it.”

  Miranda looked confused. “What are petty fours?”

  “Petit fours are tiny little cakes covered with frosting and decorations. They look just like regular cakes, except you get to have one all to yourself. Petit is the French word for ‘small.’”

  Miranda’s eyes went wide. “Can we have ice cream with them?” Since last Saturday, she had mentioned ice cream and the trip to Fisherman’s Wharf several times.

  “You like ice cream a lot, don’t you?”

  Miranda’s head bobbed up and down. “Really a lot.”

  “Then we’ll have some with our tea and cookies.”

  “And petit fours.”

  “Right. Now, how about that bedtime story?”

  “’Kay.”

  “Have you brushed your teeth?”

  “Yup.” Miranda tugged at the comforter on her bed. “All except the loose one. It’s too wiggly to brush.” She demonstrated its looseness by moving it back and forth with the tip of her tongue.

  Rory laughed and held up the comforter so Miranda could crawl under the covers.

  Miranda tried to pile her pillows against the headboard. “If we put the pillows like this, you can sit beside me so I can see the pictures.”

  “Here, let me help.”

  “Perfect,” Miranda said, once the pillows had been stacked to her liking.

  Rory tucked the sheet and comforter around the little girl, then sat on the bed and leaned against the pillows.

  “Comfy?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Once upon a time…” Rory started as she opened the book, but she wasn’t thinking about fairy tales. She wa
s completely blown away by the feel of a little girl’s head resting on her shoulder and the honeysuckle-scented curls brushing her cheek.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER the story was over and Miranda was struggling to keep her eyes open. Rory stood up and slipped the book back onto the shelf.

  “Good night, Miranda.”

  Two small arms flew out from under the covers. “Hug?”

  “Of course.” Rory leaned over and accepted the hug, then dropped a kiss on the soft, smooth skin of the little girl’s forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Daddy always says ‘sleep tight.’”

  “My father used to say that to me, too.” She straightened and backed away. “Dads always say stuff like that.”

  Rory wondered if Miranda’s mother had a favorite bedtime saying. “Should I turn off the hall light?” she asked instead.

  “No, thanks. My dad waits till I go to sleep, then he turns it off.”

  Rory could imagine him coming into the room to check on his little girl and then turning out the hall light. For such a big, reserved man, he had a surprisingly gentle side, at least when it came to Miranda. Losing his wife had probably left him vulnerable, too, and he’d overcompensated by shutting down his emotions. He was a good father, though, no question about that, and Rory couldn’t help wondering what kind of husband he’d been. Very traditional, from what Betsy had told her.

  From the doorway, she glanced back at Mitch’s daughter. “Good night,” she said again.

  This time there was no reply. Miranda was already asleep.

  Rory left the bedroom door open so she could hear the little girl if she woke up. She glanced down the hallway in the direction of Mitch’s bedroom. Should she give in to curiosity? No way. It was one thing to be curious. Snooping was just plain dumb.

  Downstairs, she took the DVD and the popcorn out of the bag she’d left in the living room. She tossed the DVD onto the coffee table and peeled the plastic wrapper off the popcorn package on her way to the kitchen. After she stuck it in the microwave, she spotted a nested set of blue-glazed pottery bowls on a shelf above the counter. She reached for them, discovered they were a lot heavier than they looked, and had to do some quick maneuvering to avoid dropping them.

  The popping stopped and she dumped the steaming contents of the bag into the medium-size bowl and inhaled. “Smells good,” she said as she headed to the living room. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Colin.”

  IT WAS LATE WHEN MITCH drove down the block and hit the garage-door opener clipped to the visor. Rory’s van was parked in front of the house, but that didn’t mean she was here, he reminded himself. He glanced up at her dark window. More than likely she was out with her friends and would be taking a cab home.

  How is that any of your business? Whenever he was at home, he found himself speculating about where Rory was or what she was doing. If anyone else had been doing that, he’d say it sounded like an obsession. Lucky for him no one else knew about it, and he knew it wasn’t.

  He pulled into the garage and stepped out of his car as the door rolled shut behind him. He took off his jacket as he climbed the stairs to the kitchen, surprised to find all the lights on. His mother was militant about keeping lights turned off when no one was in the room. He flicked off the switch and went down the hallway to the living room. The lights in there were on, too, and he could hear the television. It wasn’t like her to be watching TV on a Friday night. Or ever, for that matter.

  But not even the blazing lights and blaring TV prepared him for the sight of the woman asleep on the sofa. Rory’s head rested on a small cushion and her long blond hair streamed over her shoulders, veiling what might otherwise be a breathtaking bit of cleavage. A patchwork quilt covered everything from the waist down. Everything but the red-polished toes of one foot.

  He closed his eyes and struggled to take a breath. The night before Laura had died, he had played basketball with the guys and come home to find her sleeping on the sofa. He’d carried her upstairs and they’d made love. It had been the last time he’d had intimate contact with another human being, and it felt like an eternity ago. Standing in his mother’s living room, watching Rory sleep, he didn’t think he’d ever missed his wife more.

  What was Rory doing here? He moved into the room, which must have startled her because she suddenly sat bolt upright.

  “Oh!” She stared up at him with panic-filled eyes. “I must’ve fallen asleep.” As she brushed her hair back from her face, several plastic bracelets clattered on her wrist. Her red sweater had slipped off one shoulder, exposing a thin white shoulder strap and the upper curve of one spectacular breast.

  “Sorry,” he said, using his jacket to hide his reaction to her bare skin. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was expecting to see my mother.” Then it dawned on him that maybe he should be concerned. “Where is she? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. Thomas scored some free theater tickets and I didn’t have plans so I said I’d stay with Miranda.”

  He’d been afraid this sort of thing might happen. “You know, just because you’re living upstairs doesn’t mean you should feel obligated—”

  “Don’t worry about it. It would have been a shame for her to miss the play and since I wasn’t going out, I was happy to help. All I’d planned to do tonight was watch a movie, so I brought it with me.” She swung her legs off the sofa and sat up.

  He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair, relieved to have regained most of his self-control. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked. He hoped she’d say yes. After this unexpected encounter, it’d be a while before he’d be able to sleep.

  “As long as it’s decaf. Otherwise I’ll never get back to sleep tonight.”

  “Decaf it is.” Although he knew what might cure her insomnia. And his. “I’ll be right back.”

  She grabbed the bowl from the coffee table and followed him into the kitchen. “I made myself some popcorn. I’d better wash this and put it away.”

  She waited while he filled the coffeepot, and he was intensely aware of her standing behind him. After he moved away from the sink, she dumped a few stray kernels into the trash, washed the bowl, and dried it while he scooped coffee into the filter basket and turned on the machine.

  Rory stood on her toes and tried to heft the bowls back onto the shelf. They were heavy—he had no idea why his mother kept them up there.

  “Let me help.” His hand collided with hers and they both jerked away, tipping the bowls off the shelf.

  He grabbed for them. She grabbed them. Their arms ended up tangled together and somehow the pottery was caught within them.

  “Don’t let go,” she said. “I don’t have a very good grip.”

  He didn’t seem to have a grip on anything, least of all the damn bowls.

  She laughed up at him as she freed one hand and placed it under the largest. “There. That’s better.”

  She was already too close for comfort and her sweet, citrus scent tugged at him like a magnet. Her shoulder was exposed again, and he’d never really paid attention to her eyes before, except to note that they were blue, but now he noticed the tiny flecks of black and silver.

  Her smile faded and her gaze became more cautious. “You can let go now.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He carefully extracted one hand and then the other, being careful not to upset her balance.

  She set the bowls on the counter and pulled her sweater back up over her shoulder before she restacked them.

  “Let me put them back for you.”

  “Okay.” But she didn’t move away, and he had the impression it was deliberate.

  He safely returned the bowls to their home on the shelf, and then he stood his ground. Not that he had any intention of making a move, but he was suddenly curious to find out if she would.

  “The coffee smells great,” she said.

  He glanced at the coffeemaker and back at her. “Still a couple of minutes till it’s re
ady.”

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone with a woman. To make matters worse, he was terrible at making small talk. What were they going to do while they waited?

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said.

  “What?”

  “For you to kiss me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were thinking about kissing me, and I’m telling you it’s not a good idea.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  She was looking at him as though she knew otherwise. That was not what he’d been thinking. Was it? He was pretty sure he hadn’t had a coherent thought since he’d walked in and found her asleep on the sofa, but damn it, now that she’d suggested it, kissing her was all he could think about.

  “I’m Miranda’s teacher, your mother’s tenant and we live in the same house. It would be way too complicated.”

  Finally, something they agreed on. “You’ve got that right.” He moved away and grabbed a couple of coffee mugs out of a cupboard.

  “I should go,” she said.

  He didn’t want that either. “The coffee’s ready, and it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to. I promise I won’t…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, but they both knew what he meant. He hoped she’d stay.

  “Okay.”

  The coffeemaker sputtered out the last few drops. He filled the two mugs and handed one to her. “Milk?”

  “Black is fine, thanks.”

  “After you,” he said, gesturing toward the living room.

  She curled up on one end of the sofa and pulled the old quilt over her legs. Too bad. He liked looking at those feet. He set his coffee on a small table, settled himself in the oversize armchair and lifted his feet onto the ottoman.

  “Did you have a date tonight?” she asked.

  He suspected she was baiting him, but he couldn’t tell for sure. “No. I was playing basketball with friends.”

  “I see. Did you win?”

  “We did. One of the guys on the team said he knows you.”

  “Oh.” For a split second, a look that was awfully close to guilt flashed across her face. “I’ll bet that was my friend’s fiancé, Jonathan. They’re getting married in a couple of weeks. I’m her bridesmaid. Maid of honor, actually.”