Falling For The Single Dad. Lisa Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ monitor. “Self-checkout. I do it every week after story time. I’ll show you.”

      Caroline plopped the books onto the counter. The child scanned her card under a red-eyed laser beam. A beep sounded every time she ran the bar code on the back cover underneath the beam. A final printout scrolled out of the printer, and the child tore it free with a flourish. “This way you don’t have to wait in line.”

      What line? The library appeared deserted. Not so different from Caroline’s childhood. She had whiled away many pleasant hours here in the library while Lindi dated, Amelia went fishing and Honey played house. Caroline figured old Mrs. Beal had probably long since retired.

      “Good.” Caroline slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Happy read—”

      “Wait.” The child caught her arm and halted Caroline’s bid for freedom. “Maybe we could read one of the books before you leave.”

      Caroline pursed her lips. “Don’t you have somewhere you have to be?”

      The child shook her head.

      A sense of panic mounted. Caroline wasn’t good with children. “Won’t your mother be looking for you?”

      “My mother’s dead.”

      “Oh...” Caroline’s heart thudded. “So is mine,” she whispered.

      The child entwined her arm through the crook in Caroline’s elbow. “Just for a minute.” Her face scrunched. “Please...”

      Caroline bit her lip. “The special word?”

      The child nodded.

      Caroline caved. “Okay...”

      The child let out a whoop and then slapped a hand over her mouth. She giggled. Caroline giggled, too.

      Finger against her lips, the little girl pulled her toward the sitting area near the entrance. And somehow Caroline found the both of them ensconced in a comfy leather armchair.

      “My name’s Izzie.” The little girl extended her hand, adult-like. “For Isabelle.”

      Caroline shook her hand. “I’m Caroline.”

      The little girl curled into her side while Caroline read the short depictions and flipped the pages of a picture book about turtles.

      Halfway through, Caroline glanced up to find twin pools of blue fixed on a tendril of Caroline’s hair. Which had come loose from the practical chignon she’d wound on the nape of her neck for her early-morning aquarium meeting across the bay.

      With a tentative touch, Izzie fingered the strand of Caroline’s hair, a thoughtful expression on her small face. “I wish my hair was as pretty as yours.”

      At the child’s plaintive words, Caroline laid the book across her slacks. Izzie’s hair was a mess. Did her father never take the time to brush it?

      “My hair was about the same auburn shade of red as yours when I was your age. It darkened when I got older.”

      She feathered a springy coil behind Izzie’s petal-shaped ear. “I always wanted beautiful, curly hair like yours. Mine is straighter than most sticks.” And she poked Izzy in her belly with her index finger to demonstrate.

      Caroline’s breath hitched. Where had that come from? You didn’t go around touching children. Especially children who didn’t belong to you. Further proof she was no good with children.

      But Izzie doubled over and laughed. “You’re funny, Caroline.”

      Since when?

      Lindi had been the pretty Duer girl. Amelia the tomboy and Honey the sweet one. Caroline had been known as the brainy sister.

      Izzie flipped the book right side up. Her finger jabbed the page. “That’s where you stopped. Finish...” She snuggled closer, practically in Caroline’s lap. “Please...”

      What parent left a child alone this long, even in a library? Somebody should’ve taught Izzie about stranger danger. According to the evening news, child abductions were on the rise. Not to mention serial killers.

      Though unless things had dramatically changed since Caroline was a girl on the Delmarva Peninsula, those crimes rarely occurred on the isolated strip of land separating the Chesapeake Bay from the Atlantic Ocean.

      But she couldn’t deny a frisson of pleasure as the top of Izzie’s red head scraped her chin. She inhaled the little girl scents of sea air, coconut oil and sunshine clinging to Izzie. Caroline propped the book so they could both see better.

      Not such a bad way to spend a May morning. Anything to stall the coming confrontation she dreaded with her family. Put off the inevitable with her sisters and dad.

      Because despite having returned to her Eastern Shore birthplace, Caroline feared she’d never truly be able to go home again. Not after what she’d done.

      * * *

      Weston Clark hunched over the blueprints spread over the table at the Sandpiper Café. His friend, and the former executive petty officer at the United States Coast Guard Station Kiptohanock, Sawyer Kole ran his finger across the etchings Weston had created in what would become Weston and Izzie’s new home.

      After buying the decommissioned lighthouse and keeper’s station from the Coast Guard and after six months of remodeling, he—not to mention nine-year-old Izzie—was anxious to move into the new quarters. He’d promised Izzie one of the two rooms in the tower.

      “Don’t worry, Wes.” Sawyer rested his forearms across the renderings. “It’s going to be fabulous.” He smiled. “With the ocean on one side. And the tidal marsh on the other.”

      Weston sighed. “It’s a money pit is what it is.”

      Considering some lighthouses sold at public auction around the United States in the million-dollar range, he’d bought the property situated on a neck of Virginia land at a bargain price. This spit of land and the lightkeeper’s station held special meaning for him.

      His grandfather had been one of the last of the light-savers. History come full circle, preserving Izzie’s heritage and finally establishing the home Izzie’s mother had longed for. The home he’d been too self-absorbed and rootless in his upwardly mobile Coast Guard career to provide. Until too late.

      Weston swallowed against the unexpected rush of feeling. It surprised him sometimes how grief engulfed him without warning like a rogue wave.

      He checked his watch. Izzie would still be occupied at the Saturday story hour. He took a sip from his coffee mug. “How’s Honey?”

      Sawyer’s arctic blue eyes lit at the mention of his bride of six months. Weston tamped down a prick of envy at his friend’s happiness. A hard-won happiness the onetime foster kid truly deserved. Unlike Weston.

      “Honey’s good.” Sawyer’s lips curved as if he was reliving an especially sweet remembrance. “We’re good.”

      An aching emptiness consumed him. At thirty-six, Weston believed that kind of joy had passed СКАЧАТЬ