Page 27 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
I note that Charles is drinking Sprite, and Cece has some kind of red punch that has already created a mustache stain on her upper lip. He has settled into one end of the couch, with Cece lounging against him. That leaves the chair for me. I’m not sure whether to be glad or sorry about that, but decide being glad was prudent and safer.
While they get their popcorn, I select an unsweetened fruit-flavored bubbly that I like, then get my bowl of crunchy, buttery treats.
Cece watches the screen with rapt attention as the movie starts. Mr. Emory shifts so she will be more comfortable. I pretend to watch the bright, animated scenes while observing daughter and father.
When her popcorn is gone, and most of her drink, Cece whispers loudly, “Daddy, can you pause it? I gotta go!”
Obligingly, he picks up the remote and pauses the movie. “We’ll be right here when you get back, Punkin,” he says.
“I’ll just clean up a little while we wait,” I say, picking up the empty popcorn bowls. I absolutely do not want to sit in that conversation nook with my hot employer.
Charles unfolds himself off the couch. There is a popping,clicking sound. He winces and steadies himself for a moment before picking up the empty soda cans and wheeling the cart of untouched cans away to the disguised refrigerator. “Probably better switch the little soldier over to water,” he says, “Or she’ll be up all night.”
I laugh. I can’t help it; he sounds so normally parental. “Good plan,” I approve. “And maybe have her brush her teeth before we settle back down to watch the rest of it?”
Mr. Emory shoots me a finger gun. “Another good plan,” he says. “Otherwise, we’ll be waking her up or letting her go to bed with dirty teeth. Maybe a switch to pajamas, too.”
“Very wise,” I quip, “You’d almost think you were an experienced parent.”
“Four years, going on five,” he returns. “She’s been a real education.”
“I have no doubt,” I say, then carry the bowls out to the kitchen.
Keeping an ear out for Cece’s return, I clear the dining room table, and load the dishwasher. I’d planned the meal so there should not be left overs, but Cece had left nearly half of her portion on her plate. I give a mental shrug. I can mix it with Gidget’s breakfast tomorrow.
When I return to the living room, Cece, dressed in flannel pajamas with monkeys printed into the fabric, is happily demonstrating the “move it, move it,” dance. She bounces over to me, gives me a hug, then curls up beside her father who is once again seated on the couch.
I settle back into the overstuffed chair, wishing for something to do with my hands. I could crochet. Maybe I should learn to knit. With my current carte blanche for ordering stuff, I could get the materials online. Now that my classes are done, I need something besides Cece to occupy my time.
As it is, I pretend to focus my attention on the screen.Mercifully soon, Cece’s eyes begin to droop, and she falls asleep leaning on her father’s shoulder.
“Kate,” he whispers, “I won’t be able to get up without waking her. Can you get her into bed?”
I nod. Talking ran the risk of waking Cece. I go to them, lean over Cece, and gather her into my arms.
There is no way I can pick her up without touching her father and breathing in his scent. He smells of sandalwood and musk, with a bit of healthy male perspiration mixed in. Little electric tingles run through my hands as they brush his shirt. What would it feel like to be cuddled in his arms?
Cece murmurs sleepily, then leans her head against my chest. She is heavier than she had been at the funeral. Amazing how children seem to gain ten pounds when sound asleep. Perhaps she is growing, and maybe even gaining a little weight.
“Can you manage?” Mr. Emory whispers.
I nod. I get my feet in motion, carry her out the door, down the hall and into her room. I am even able to ease her down on the bed and get her properly tucked in under the covers. Mr. Fluffy follows us and hops up on the bed, nestling beside her.
When I return to the living room, the screen is mercifully blank, and Charles is going through a slow series of contortions behind the couch, using its back as a sort of puffy ballet bar.
He straightens and turns to me. “Thank you for that. I would have had to wake her. I’ve not been keeping up with my pt, and my hip stiffened up on me.”
“What is wrong with it?” I ask.
“Caught a bit of shrapnel in it. I’ve got a titanium hip that’s probably going to be due for replacement soon. They warned me when I got it that it’s probably only good forabout ten years, and I’ve used it hard, so I might have shortened its life.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, wincing at the thought. I didn’t even suggest that he go get it checked out. The hospitals are overrun, and most physicians overworked. “Does it hurt?”
He shrugs. “Nothing to be sorry about, better than a wheelchair. It only hurts when I stand or sit too long in one position. I spent a lot of time at my desk today.”
Then he changes directions as quickly as a crow fleeing a cat. “A little wine will fix me right up and let me sleep. Care to join me?”
“Ummm…” I say.
