A Mom for Callie (4 page)

“Lila refers to her as her niece whenever she's interviewed by the press these days.” Tom chugged the rest of his beer then set the empty bottle at the end of the
table. “Not that any of this is meant to be an excuse for his rudeness, because it's not. It's just…I don't know…an explanation, I guess. He really is a good guy.”

She considered Tom's words, realized they made sense of the extremes she'd seen in Kyle. When they'd first met, she was simply Betsy—a woman sitting in the park. But later on, outside his home, she was Elizabeth—a well-known author. Her fame, or what he perceived as her fame, had stirred up emotions in Kyle she was just now beginning to understand.

“So what do you say, ladies? What looks good to you?” Tom motioned toward the menu. “I'm starving.”

Forcing her attention to the couple across from her, she shrugged. “I'm easy.”

Angela gasped. “Don't say that! We'll end up with a pizza covered in stuff that was never meant for human consumption. Besides, it's your birthday…so it's your choice.”

She pulled her cast-off menu into view once again, her finger slowly moving down the list of choices. The appetite she'd had when they walked into the restaurant had all but disappeared, her stomach queasy from tales of Kyle's atrocious ex-wife.

“I don't know.” She looked up at Tom, guilt making her head tilt. “I hate to say it but I tend to lean toward boring.”

Angela clapped her hands together as a squeal erupted from her lips. “Ooh, I knew I liked you, Betsy.”

Rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, Tom shook his head. “Don't tell me…you're a plain-cheese girl, too?”

She nodded sheepishly.

“No black olives…no 'shrooms…no buffalo chicken…no—”

“Don't you know it's not polite to coerce the birthday girl, Tom?”

Startled, Betsy looked up, her mouth gaping open at the sight of Kyle standing beside their table, his white button-down shirt pulled taut across his muscular arms and chest, his sapphire blue eyes trained on her face. Before she could formulate a response, he dropped his keys onto the table and gestured toward the empty spot on her side of the booth. “Any chance there's room for one more?”

 

H
E SLID ONTO THE VINYL BENCH
beside Betsy, his mind keenly aware of the thumping inside his chest that started the moment he spotted her across the restaurant. Sure, maybe some of it was simply discomfort at the notion he'd acted like a real jerk back at his place. And maybe some of it was the probing questions he knew he'd be subjected to at the station house the next morning when Tom and he were finally alone. But those things were a better explanation for the fleeting uncertainty he'd felt while crossing the room unnoticed. The thumping in his chest was all Betsy…

And the seemingly innocent black T-shirt that hugged her chest in a most provocative manner.

“Weren't you wearing a pink shirt this morning?”

Her brows furrowed as she considered his question. “I—I guess.”

“And an off-white sweater set when you were outside my house?”

Tom snorted back a laugh. “Looking to emulate her wardrobe there, buddy? Because, really, of the two…I'm not sure off-white is your color.”

Kyle groaned, his gaze locking with Angela's across the table. “How do you put up with this guy?”

“He's really good in bed.”

Puffing his chest outward, Tom shifted in his seat, his ensuing smile threatening to crack his face in two. “And, Ky, my man…feel free to repeat my wife's words during roll call in the morning—”

“You never said it was going to be filtered through the department, baby. You just said you'd give me twenty bucks if I actually said—” Angela's voice disappeared behind Tom's pudgy hand as Betsy's laugh mingled with Kyle's.

There was no doubt about it, Tom and Angela were the quintessential perfect match right down to the good-natured teasing that made them slip into their own little world from time to time. Seizing the opportunity his friends' playful bantering provided, Kyle turned his attention back on Betsy, her smile tugging at his heart in the same way it had that morning beside Paxton Bridge.

“Look, I'm really sorry about my attitude earlier. I think the day just got the best of me and I took my crankiness out on you. I'm sorry.”

He couldn't tell if she'd accepted his explanation, but he was grateful for her willingness to let bygones be bygones as her shoulders relaxed and conversation flowed between them. Once the agreed-upon pizza was ordered, talk volleyed around the table on everything from books to music to crazy high school memories…all harmless topics that steered them away from the one issue he wanted to avoid lest his bitterness rear its head once again. But by the time the pizza and drinks had been consumed, Kyle realized it didn't matter what the woman sitting beside him did for a living. All that
mattered was the simple fact that she was breathtakingly beautiful, full of fun, genuinely sweet and an amazing listener.

Maybe Tom was right. Maybe Lila was a fluke….

“Woo-ee, how are you able to work beside such a good-lookin' dude like myself each and every day and not develop an inferiority complex?”

Tom's words wrestled Kyle's attention from Betsy. “What on earth are you blabbering about now?”

“Over there.” His partner's hand rose into the air, his index finger directing everyone's eyes to the ceiling-mounted television screen in the back of the pizza joint. “But be honest…does the camera make me look fat?”

Kyle's laugh died on his lips as he focused on the screen, the on-air reporter standing in front of a now dark Linton Bank and Trust. As he watched, the camera cut—once again—to footage shot earlier as members of the Cedar Creek Police Department milled around outside the bank following that morning's robbery. Seconds later, Kyle, himself, appeared on the screen as he handcuffed one of the suspects and led him to an awaiting patrol car.

“Man, you were right…look at the way he's staring into the lens, looking for his moment of fame.”

Kyle nodded, his attention still on the screen.

“I don't know, baby, that doesn't look like a guy mugging for the camera to me.”

“You don't think so?” Tom asked.

“No. He looks—”

“Angry,” Kyle finished for Angela as the report ended and he turned back to his partner. “Furious, even.”

“If you ask me, it almost seemed as if he was looking into the eyes of someone he knew.” Betsy's voice, soft and clear, drew him up short.

He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“I don't know, it just seemed like his expression…his eyes…were saying something.” Betsy dropped a piece of pizza crust onto her plate and pushed it to the side as her cheeks tinged red. “I'm sorry, don't mind me. I tend to look for a story everywhere. It's a pitfall of being a writer, I suppose. My mind rarely shuts off.”

“Then you're in good company, Betsy. A cop's mind doesn't turn off, either,” Tom said as he lifted his second empty beer bottle into the air in a mimed toast.

“It looks pretty turned off to me when you're asleep on the recliner with drool pooling in the corner of your mouth,” Angela quipped as she pressed a playful elbow into her husband's side.

“Hmm. Now that sounds enticing after the day we had.” Planting yet another kiss on his wife's head, Tom nodded across the table at Kyle and Betsy. “Any chance we could pick this up another day? With maybe a few more toppings next time?”

Again Angela poked him.

“What? I'm tired.”

Betsy's sweet laugh filled the air, filtering its way into his memory bank along with the scent of lilacs that clung to her hair. “That was quick.”

“Everything, and I mean,
everything,
with Tom is quick.” Angela lifted her purse from the bench seat and smiled at Betsy across the table. “I can't even begin to tell you how incredible today was. I'm honored to have been able to spend your birthday dinner with you.”

Kyle took in Betsy's flushed cheeks as she offered her own round of thanks in return. Her response, her gestures, her mannerisms were so unlike his ex-wife who had treasured the adoration of fans as much as she did her time in the spotlight. If anything, it seemed as if
Betsy Anderson was almost uncomfortable in whatever amount of celebrity skin she wore.

“Wait! Your car is back at the bookstore.” Angela stopped midscoot and looked from Tom to Betsy and back again. “I completely forgot.”

“I'll get her to her car. You two go on home.”

Angela's eyebrow arched. “Will you be nice?”

He felt his face warm as he peeked at Betsy beside him. “Of course.”

“Because you weren't earlier.” Ang folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her gaze at Kyle as she waited for a response.

“I know.” It was all he could think to say. Telling his partner and his partner's wife that he wanted them to leave was out of the question. Though, if Angela persisted, he might have to go that route. Anything to score a little time alone with Betsy. Betsy.

Shifting his attention to the woman seated next to him, he offered what he hoped was a nonthreatening smile. “Is that okay with you? If I drive you back to your car?”

Her smile was all the answer he needed.

When Angela and Tom had gone, he studied her closely. “I just realized something.”

“What's that?” she asked as their eyes met.

“You didn't have a cake.”

Her hand, slender and petite, cut through the air, grazing his shoulder in the process. “This dinner was enough. Truly. It was fun. And that's something I needed far more than a piece of cake.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, her hair falling forward across her forehead. “I'm sure.”

Grabbing hold of the check he'd eyed Tom into leaving, he motioned toward the door, his heart rate increasing at the notion of being alone in a car with Betsy. “Shall we?”

 

T
HEY CHATTED AS HE DROVE
, her curiosity about the shops and local landmarks they passed endearing her to him all the more. If he were honest with himself, Lila had never had any interest in Cedar Creek. Except maybe for which cross-country bus line it was on. Betsy, on the other hand, seemed to be genuinely interested in his hometown, asking questions and listening to his answers with rapt interest.

“When I first came here, I wasn't sure I could explain why. I mean, I left my apartment, jumped in my car and drove all night to see some bridge that caught my eye from the pages of a calendar.” The sound of her sweet laughter made him listen even closer. “At first I thought it was about hope. And I still do. But I also think it symbolized a kind of peace that I need more than I ever realized.”

He glanced over at her, her words taking him by surprise. “I wouldn't think a place like this would hold much interest for someone who is used to the hustle and bustle.”

“Sometimes hustle and bustle makes you miss the little things. The things that matter most.” Betsy pointed at the lone car in the bookstore parking lot. “That's my car right there.”

Nodding, he pulled alongside her car and shifted his own into Park, his reluctance over the end to their evening impossible to ignore. Whatever it was about Betsy
Anderson that had stirred some long dormant excitement in his soul that morning had resurfaced in spades.

“I had a really nice time tonight. And your daughter is precious.”

He nodded again, his gaze locked on hers. “So did I. And thank you—she's the light of my life.”

“I can see why.”

“You should have heard her this evening before I left for the restaurant. She's all excited at the notion of living next to an author.” He swiveled to the side and draped his arm casually over the back of Betsy's seat. “In fact, when I left, she was making a birthday card for you at the kitchen table.”

“A birthday card? How did she know?”

“I guess I mentioned it.”

Her laugh echoed inside the closed car as she leaned against the seat, the tease of her hair against his hand sending a pulse of desire through his body.

“You know what?” she asked. “I can't remember the last birthday I enjoyed as much as this one.”

“Even without a cake?”

“A cake with candles isn't what makes a birthday special. Smiles and laughter—the kind that make you feel whole—does. And therefore I couldn't have asked for a better birthday.”

He studied her animated face in the glow of a nearby streetlamp, her sincerity tugging at his heart with an undeniable force. From the moment he'd laid eyes on Betsy Anderson he'd felt something. Something strong. Something primal. “
I
could,” he said, his voice taking on a husky tone even to his own ears.

She tilted her head to look at him, squinting in confusion. “I don't understand.”

“I think a kiss might make it even better.” Inhaling deeply, he cupped the back of her head with his hand and leaned across the center console, his mouth finding hers as a soft moan escaped her lips.

She walked from room to room, soaking up every detail of the cottage. The kitchen and its adjacent hearth room were warm and inviting with their pale yellow walls and clean white baseboards. The master bedroom on the opposite end of the house boasted neutral colors as did the spare room that would serve as Betsy's office. But it was the sunporch off the back of the house that would be where she'd write during the day as the afternoon sun danced across her keyboard.

There was no doubt about it, she was excited—excited to be embarking on a new book, excited to feel the kind of motivation she'd been lacking for entirely too long, excited at the prospect of rebuilding her life in a place where memories weren't waiting around every corner. Yet there was another layer of excitement that burned every bit as strong as all of those.

And the reason for that layer lived right next door.

Inhaling deeply, Betsy walked onto the sunporch and stopped at the window that afforded the best view of Kyle Brennan's modest home, her thoughts traveling back to the unexpected kiss he'd bestowed on her the night before. The kiss itself had been like none she'd
ever experienced, the feel of his lips igniting the firework cliché she'd only read about in romance novels.

But clichés became clichés because of their unshakable place in reality, right? The fact it had never been
her
reality didn't matter.

At least that's what she'd always thought.

Until last night.

Suddenly, the instant attraction and magnetic pull so many of her friends reported when meeting their perfect match didn't seem so far-fetched. She just hadn't realized how all-consuming that kind of attraction could be in a person's life. Nor how many times a warning bell could ring in some recess of her brain when she revisited the kiss in her thoughts.

It wasn't that Kyle Brennan wasn't gorgeous, because he was.

It wasn't that he was missing a few soft edges, because he wasn't. His interaction with his daughter was proof positive of that.

And it wasn't that he was a bum, because that wasn't the case, either. One only had to look at the way he kept the exterior of his home to draw that conclusion.

What he was, though, was a police officer—a man who was trained to put his life on the line. Caring for someone in that kind of profession had nearly destroyed her once. Opting to put herself in that position again—with a man who actually stirred real passion inside her for the first time in her life—would be nothing short of reckless. With a healthy dose of stupidity on the side.

Then again, Kyle Brennan was a police officer in Cedar Creek, Illinois, a town that seemed as far from crime-ridden as one could possibly get.

Shaking her head free of the sensation of his lips on hers, Betsy tried to concentrate on the laptop she'd
placed on the oak table in the middle of the room. In the time span of twenty-four hours she'd gone from a writer with no ideas to one who not only had an idea but the motivation to bring it to life on her computer screen.

All she had to do now was sit. And write.

The sound of a soft, yet persistent knock propelled her from the room. As she approached the front hallway, a smile stretched across her face at the sight of the child on the other side of the screen door.

Dressed, once again, in a brown vest and matching beret, Callie Brennan happily waved a sheet of paper in Betsy's direction while rocking from heel to toe on her sneakers. “Hi, Miss Anderson! Guess what I have?”

Betsy stepped outside. “I don't know…what?”

Callie jumped up and down, her excitement making the sheet of paper in her hand bounce along with the rest of her. “I have my order form this time. So you can mark the exact cookies you want.”

“What a good little salesperson you are.” Betsy reached outward, bypassing the order form just long enough to tuck a strand of hair back behind Callie's ear. Once it was in place, she looked down at the paper in the little girl's hand. “Ooh, look, there's pictures of the cookies to tempt me even further.”

“That's what my leader said, too,” Callie exclaimed as her jumping morphed into a hop from foot to foot. “She said people can't…re…resip cookies.”

“Resip?” Betsy repeated.

“She said when people see a picture of a cookie they can't resip them.”

“Oh, you mean,
resist.
”

The child nodded, her face serious. “Wow. I bet you never make mistakes with words. My grandma says you must be really smart to write a book.”

Squatting down beside Callie, Betsy met her awed gaze head-on. “I make mistakes all the time. Everyone does. It's how we learn, whether we're big or little. And as for being smart, I think smart comes in lots of packages. Mine just happens to be in a package wrapped with my imagination.”

“Imagination?” A dimpled smile lit Callie's face as Betsy's words sunk in. “That's what you need to be a writer?”

“It's one of the most important things, yes.”

“My grandma says I have that all the time! Daddy does, too.”

Betsy tapped a gentle finger on the tip of Callie's nose. “And you like to write poems, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then it sounds to me like you and I are both writers.”

A squeal erupted from Callie's mouth that made Betsy laugh, the child's enthusiasm for writing tickling her own. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” She glanced down at the order form once again, her finger gliding down the list of options. “Hmm, they all look so good. Which ones did you try at your meeting yester—”

The honk of an approaching car cut her off midsentence and she looked up. A black sport utility vehicle slowed to a crawl before pulling into the Brennans' driveway. Callie squealed again. “Daddy's home!”

Feeling her face warm at the notion of seeing Kyle once again, Betsy stood and waved, her smile slipping from her face as Callie's father stepped from the car in full uniform. In an instant she was standing in the doorway of her apartment, a uniformed member of the NYPD and the captain of Mark's firehouse informing
her of her husband's death. He was a hero, they'd said. He'd died a hero's death.

Only she'd never gotten to say goodbye.

Her stomach lurched as, one by one, her senses traveled back to a night she longed to forget—the dimly lit hallway outside her apartment, the acrid smell of smoke that still clung to the captain's skin, the taste of bile that rose in her throat as they spoke of her husband's heroism….

She grabbed the porch railing in front of her as her knees began to buckle, Kyle's confident stature registering somewhere in her subconscious.

“H-hi,” she stammered as Callie ran down the steps and wrapped her arms around her father's legs.

Pausing midstep to greet his daughter, he lifted Callie off the ground and spun her around before setting her back down with a kiss on her forehead. “So how's my girl this afternoon? How was school?”

“It was great, Daddy. We're making a surprise in art class.”

“A surprise? Hmm, should I guess?” he asked with a teasing lilt as he peered over Callie's head and winked at Betsy.

“No! Surprises aren't meant for knowing.” Callie rested her hands on her hips and leveled a look of distaste at her father. “Trying to guess is like cheating. You know that, Daddy.”

She knew she should say something, anything to acknowledge the curious way in which Kyle peered at her in between bantering with Callie, but she couldn't. There was simply nothing in her thoughts except memories—painful, time-stopping memories.

“Why don't you go tell Grandma I'm home and that
I'll be inside in just a minute.” Kyle kissed his daughter on the head once again.

“But Miss Anderson is ordering cookies.”

Betsy looked down at the order form now wrinkled inside her hand, Kyle's response breaking through the white noise in her head. “Go on and tell Grandma and then you can come back over and get your form.”

“Okay.” The child scampered across the yard and up the driveway, her white-and-pink sneakers smacking softly against the asphalt. “I'll be right back!”

“We'll be here.” Kyle turned his attention from a retreating Callie to Betsy and smiled, his long legs making short work of the distance between them. “I wanted a chance to talk to you alone…if you hadn't already figured that out.”

Betsy stood rooted to the front porch. “Is there something wrong?”

“I can't really discuss it too much at the moment, but I can say that we think your observation about the perp from the bank is right on the money.”

“My observation?”

He nodded. “Yeah, about his on-camera actions seeming quite deliberate. Looks as if we've got far more on our hands than a thwarted bank robbery.”

The sound of metal smacking against wood echoed across the yard signaling Callie's impending return.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

Kyle shrugged. “Yeah, it could be. But—” he gestured toward his daughter “—I don't want to talk about it in front of her. I don't want to scare her.”

She managed what she hoped was a nod in the absence of words but it was an effort of mammoth proportions.

He looked at her strangely. “You okay?”

Again she nodded.

Glancing over his shoulder at his daughter, who'd stopped to pick a flower from the front landscaping, he looked back at Betsy, his voice softening. “I was thinking about you today. Specifically about what happened in the car last night. And I was wondering if maybe you'd like to catch a movie tonight?”

He stepped closer and onto the porch, his various police insignia and medals gleaming in the sun.

“I—I—” She stopped, swallowed and tried again, the thudding in her chest nearly drowning out the sound of her own voice. “I can't. I have to write.”

She felt his eyes studying her and she looked away.

“Okay, then how about another night? Maybe tomorrow or sometime over the weekend? Would that work?”

Betsy shook her head, the barrage of sensations and memories jelling with a reality she couldn't deny. Kyle Brennan was, by all appearances, a nice guy and a good father. For anyone else, he'd be worth pursuing. But not for her.

She couldn't do it. She simply couldn't do it again. Small town cop or not, his profession came with danger….

“I'll be writing every day. It's the only way I'm ever going to be able to get back home where I belong.”

In an instant the smile that had lit Kyle's face was gone, in its place a dark cloud.

“I'm back, Daddy.” Callie hopped up onto the porch and extended her left hand shyly in Betsy's direction. “I brought you a daffodil, Miss Anderson. You can put it in the middle of your writing table.”

Kyle's hand closed down on his daughter's shoulder,
pulling her backward as his words bit through Betsy's heart. “I think it's high time we left
Miss Anderson
alone. Seems the hustle and bustle is calling.”