Doorstep Daddy. Shirley Jump
For a long time Dalton stood right where he was, holding the baby, not sure whether to move or breathe. Then the coffeepot finished its cycle with a final gurgle, popping Dalton out of his stupor. “Hey, kid,” he said, thinking that would get the baby to move.
But she only snuggled closer.
He turned to talk to her again, to tell her he was no one she wanted to get comfy on, but when he did he caught a whiff of her shampoo. A sweet, fresh scent, with a touch of something he thought was called chamomile.
Beneath his nose, her hair was as soft as feathers, tickling lightly against his skin. He paused, inhaling the baby-light scent, allowing himself that one second of pretending.
Pretending she was his. That he was Sabrina’s father. He trailed a finger along the peachy soft skin of her cheek, the fantasy of this being his family, his life, continuing. He nuzzled Sabrina’s soft head and imagined carrying her upstairs, putting his daughter to bed and then shutting the door. To cross the hall and join Ellie…
Praise for Shirley Jump:
‘BOARDROOM BRIDE AND GROOM is well plotted,
and all of the characters are beautifully realised. While
it’s often humorous, keep some tissues handy too.’
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
About SWEETHEART LOST AND FOUND
‘This tale of rekindled love is right on target:
a delightful start to this uplifting, marriage-orientated
series [The Wedding Planners].’ —Library Journal.com
About NYT bestselling anthology SUGAR AND SPICE
‘Jump’s office romance gives the collection a kick,
with fiery writing.’
—PublishersWeekly.com
New York Times bestselling author Shirley Jump didn’t have the will-power to diet, nor the talent to master under-eye concealer, so she bowed out of a career in television and opted instead for a career where she could be paid to eat at her desk—writing. At first, seeking revenge on her children for their grocery store tantrums, she sold embarrassing essays about them to anthologies. However, it wasn’t enough to feed her growing addiction to writing funny. So she turned to the world of romance novels, where messes are (usually) cleaned up before The End. In the worlds Shirley gets to create and control, the children listen to their parents, the husbands always remember holidays, and the housework is magically done by elves. Though she’s thrilled to see her books in stores around the world, Shirley mostly writes because it gives her an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets and helps feed her shoe habit. To learn more, visit her website at www.shirleyjump.com
Dear Reader
I had such fun writing DOORSTEP DADDY! It brought back all those memories of having my children, of those early days when they were babies. Both the difficulties and the joys of raising little ones— and especially those sleepless nights!
Like all new mums, I made lots of mistakes and had tons of joyous days. My favourite moments of all, though, were the quiet ones. The naps on the sofa, when the baby fell asleep on my chest and I could just watch her sleep, or feel the rise and fall of that little chest. The laughter of my son, who had this deep chortle that got me every time and made it impossible to stay mad at him for more than a split second, no matter what he’d spilled or painted or ‘fixed’.
Every age has had its challenges and rewards. There were the bedtime stories and the kisses, the drawings and the basketball games, the road trips and the endless questions. My children have enriched life for my husband and I, and I can’t imagine life without them. They make every day an adventure, and bring a dash of excitement to everything we do.
But most of all they are my heart, and though they’re now way past the age of preschool and kindergarten, and closer to the age of sleepover camp and learning to drive, I still get teary on that first day of school and have a hard time saying goodbye. If I could, I’d keep them close for ever.
Until then, I’ll just keep on trying to preserve every moment I can, and look forward to grandchildren!
Shirley
DOORSTEP DADDY
BY
SHIRLEY JUMP
To my children. Every day with you is a precious gift,
and I thank God for blessing me with
two of the most wonderful children in the world.
CHAPTER ONE
HE CREPT silently into the bedroom, his footsteps muffled by the hearty drumbeat of a summer thunderstorm.
He raised the knife, pausing only long enough to delight in the quick flash of lightning that illuminated his victim’s terrified face, before—
“Dalton, I need your help!”
Dalton Scott let out a curse. Then another one. His neighbor. Viola Winterberry, one of those people who needed favors like trick-or-treaters needed another chocolate bar, was somewhere downstairs.
Interrupting. Again.
“I’m working, Mrs. Winterberry. On the book,” he called down.
“I know,” she said, her voice rising in volume as she climbed the stairs toward his office, “but I have—”
“I’m on a deadline.” He shouted the words, heavy on the hint-hint.
Actually, he was way past his deadline.
“But you have to—”
“And if I get disturbed, I lose my concentration.” He’d told her that a hundred times, yet she still walked in uninvited. It was his own fault. He’d forgotten to lock the door after he retrieved the paper this morning.
He needed a guard dog. A big one.
Aw, hell. It wouldn’t matter. His writing stunk, dog or not. Concentration or not. He’d already missed his deadline, ticked off his editor, nearly destroyed his career.
What else could go wrong?
“I have an emergency,” Mrs. Winterberry said, poking her curly gray head into his office and into his line of vision. “I know you said not to bother you, but I’m desperate, Dalton. Desperate. You said anytime I needed a favor, you’d help me out.”
She’d been desperate last week when she needed a cup of sugar from him so she could make her special raspberry cake. Desperate the week before when she needed him to come by immediately to change a lightbulb. Desperate the week before that when she’d called him four times in one day because she was sure the noise she was hearing outside her window could only be caused by an intruder.
“I’ve been calling you,” Mrs. Winterberry said. “For ten minutes.”
“I unplugged my phone.” On purpose, he’d add, but that would offend her. And told her she was the reason he kept his phone disconnected when he worked.
He liked Mrs. Winterberry. She had that grandmotherly look about her, with her seemingly endless supply of cookies and muffins, and her mother-hen ways, but that package came equipped with a tendency to pop in unannounced, needing something almost every five minutes. When Dalton really needed to get this incredibly overdue