The Seal's Secret Daughter. Christy Jeffries

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      Monica added a heavy dollop of whipped cream to the mug of cocoa and handed it to the waif of a child. “Careful, it’s hot.”

      Ethan must’ve left his own coffee back at the table and Monica couldn’t help but shoot daggers at the man who stood by the door, his hands buried in his jean pockets and his eyes darting around nervously, as though he was also plotting his own escape. As though leaving a child behind was no different than abandoning his cup of coffee.

      A knot of concern wedged between her rib cage. Monica had also grown up without a father, but at least she’d had Gran. Trina, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have anyone. Maybe someone should call child protective services or even the police department and file some sort of report. She made a mental note to do some research on it. Once she got Trina fed.

      “Would you like blueberries in your pancakes?” Monica asked.

      Trina shot a questioning glance to her father. Or at least the man who’d sired her. “Does that cost extra?”

      “I...uh...” Ethan’s normally cocky voice stuttered and Monica would’ve laughed at how many notches his ego must’ve been taken down if the circumstances hadn’t come at Trina’s expense. He moved closer and leaned a hip against the basin of the prep sink. “You can get whatever you want. Don’t worry about the cost.”

      The girl let out a breath and put an elbow onto the counter, resting her chin on her palm as she studied the man. Monica poured some batter onto the griddle and threw in a scoop of blueberries, constantly glancing back over her shoulder to watch the silent staring contest between father and daughter.

      “Only rich people say things like ‘don’t worry about the cost,’” Trina said, and Monica choked back a giggle. She was glad to see that the child was finally finding her voice and speaking up. “Are you one of those guys who lives in a crappy apartment, but you’re really a secret billionaire?”

      “I’m not rich. And my apartment isn’t that crappy. I mean it’s not really decorated or anything because I’ve only lived there a few months. And I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

      “Ethan,” Monica warned, unsure of the direction that this conversation was taking and not wanting the man to do any further damage than he’d already done by being an absent father for the past however many years. “How old are you, Trina?”

      “Eleven.”

      “Wow.” Ethan exhaled a long, slow hiss of air. “I didn’t... I don’t... I... Wow. I’ve never been in this situation before.”

      “It’s fine if you don’t want me,” Trina said when Ethan apparently couldn’t finish whatever it was he’d been trying to say. Whatever cheap apologies he might’ve offered for missing the first eleven years of her life. “I have a caseworker back in Galveston. If you call her, she’ll get me a bus ticket or an emergency foster home or something.”

      “Have you been in foster care before?” Ethan asked, inching closer, and Monica held her breath, praying the young girl had somehow had a happy and fulfilling life up until now.

      “Every year or so, my mother decides that she can’t deal with me or with life and takes off somewhere. I used to live with my grandmother, but Gran died a few months ago.”

      “Oh,” was all Ethan could say, and Monica clenched the spatula tighter, her heart clenching at the girl’s casual indifference about her situation.

      “I have a Gran, too,” Monica offered, sliding a very uneven pancake onto a plate. Cooking wasn’t exactly her forte, but neither was waitressing. “She also raised me after my father left.”

      Trina smiled and mumbled a “Thanks.” But Monica wasn’t sure if it was for the attempt at making her breakfast or for the attempt at understanding her situation. Or both.

      Ethan must’ve heard something he didn’t like, though, because he scrunched up his nose and attempted a subtle head shake at Monica. Perhaps he didn’t appreciate someone pointing out the obvious comparison to another deadbeat dad, but he couldn’t very well deny that he’d also left his daughter. Well, Monica supposed he could deny knowing about her in the first place, but he apparently knew better than to discuss all of his excuses right in front of the poor girl.

      Monica set the dish in front of Trina and said, “Eat up and then we’ll figure out who we need to call.”

      “Why would we need to call anyone?” Ethan asked. “And can I get one of those pancakes?”

      “No, you may not.” Monica squared her shoulders and turned toward him. Stepping behind Trina, who was drowning her plate in syrup, Monica jerked her thumb at the area in the corner where Freckles kept the stacks of flour and the cans of shortening for her famous biscuits. Walking that way, she had to wave an arm at Ethan who was slow to get the hint.

      It was a tighter spot than she’d anticipated, and when he wedged his muscular six-foot frame in next to her, she was hit with the lemony scent of his shampoo. His face was only inches from hers and she lowered her gaze to the soft flannel of his work shirt and the way it stretched across his broad chest.

      To get her mind off his physical nearness, Monica curled her fingers into her palms, squeezing until her nails dug into her hands. Finally, she was able to lift her head and unclench her jaw long enough to whisper, “What do you mean ‘why would we need to call anyone?’”

      “If she’s my daughter, then she’s not going back to some social worker in Galveston.”

      If she’s his daughter? It didn’t take a paternity test to prove the two looked exactly alike, including those haunted blue eyes.

      “Lower your voice,” she admonished, squinting past him to see if Trina had overheard. “She isn’t a lost puppy. You can’t just take a child home and keep her.”

      “Why not?” he asked, and her frustration mounted, heating her face. Or maybe it was the way his bicep brushed against her shoulder when he shoved his hands into his jean pockets.

      She didn’t have a legal argument, or at least she wouldn’t until her shift was over and she went to the library and did some research. So Monica attempted to argue using common sense. “Because she doesn’t know you, Ethan. She’s got to be terrified.”

      “And sending her off with some stranger to a foster home wouldn’t be even scarier?”

      “I can hear you, you know,” Trina called out, not bothering to turn around.

      Monica pursed her lips and shot Ethan a pointed look of annoyance since she couldn’t very well say, Now look what you did.

      “Sorry, Trina.” Ethan returned to where his daughter was seated.

      Monica held her breath. She really should be back in the dining room, checking on her customers. But her heart was tearing apart at the way the girl just shrugged everything off, no longer making eye contact with the man who’d fathered her.

      “I’m normally not so rude,” he offered, and Monica had to give him that. In fact, Ethan was usually quite a smooth talker. Too smooth, if you asked her. “But seeing you, finding out...well, I’ve just been caught off guard.”

      Just then, Scooter Deets, one of the old-timers СКАЧАТЬ