His Daughter...Their Child. Karen Smith Rose
Then she tugged Celeste’s arm. “Can you play puzzles wif me?”
Celeste looked at Clay as if for permission.
He pointed to a stack of toddler puzzles on the bookshelf, but warned his daughter, “Celeste might have to go back to her own house. It’s getting near suppertime.”
“Can she have supper wif us? And wash my bears?” Abby asked innocently.
This he hadn’t expected.
“If you have other plans, Abby will understand,” his mother assured her, as if she wanted her to go. In fact, she got to her feet as if to signal the tea party was over.
But Clay had to find out what Celeste was made of. He had to find out if she belonged in his daughter’s life.
“You’re welcome to stay,” he said gruffly, wanting to see what decision she would make.
She didn’t hesitate. “I’d like to. But please let me help with dinner. I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“Do you cook?” his mother asked her.
“I do. It’s a hobby.”
Clay’s mother frowned. “Well, you’re certainly very different from your sister. She preferred takeout, restaurants, or else a personal chef.”
“Mom,” Clay said in warning.
His mother eyed Celeste again. “I have to be going. Harold will be waiting for me.” She gave Abby a hug and a kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow, honey.”
After an even longer look at Celeste, she said in a low voice to Clay, “I’ll tell your father you’re going to consider his ideas for your retirement account.”
“No, Mom. I’m not.”
“Humor him,” she coaxed.
Clay sighed. “I’ll speak to him about the account, but I don’t intend to change anything.”
“At least that’s something,” his mother murmured, squeezed his shoulder and then left the sunroom.
Although Celeste was already putting a puzzle together with Abby, she tossed him a quizzical look.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
“I’m not thinking anything, except maybe your dad still wants you to be a banker.”
His father had always wanted him to be a banker … just as Zoie had. “Some things never change.”
“Doesn’t he accept the fact that you’re doing the work you love? Doesn’t that matter to him at all?”
So Celeste had always realized that. The revelation settled into Clay’s being as if it was important enough to make a home there. “My father isn’t interested in the journey. He’s always been interested in appearances and the end result. He wants me to be a respected member of the community and take over for him some day.”
“Turn the puzzle piece this way,” Celeste encouraged Abby. “There you go. That one fits.”
Abby clapped her hands and hugged Lulu tighter against her. “It fits, Lulu!”
As Abby selected another piece with Cinderella’s fairy godmother stamped on it, Celeste asked Clay, “Do you still like what you do? Do you still want to get into that SUV and drive where not many people go, hike where few people dare, teach others about the beauty of this place?”
He heard passion in Celeste’s voice. He’d never thought of her as passionate. That had been Zoie’s forte. “Yes, or I wouldn’t still be doing it.” He leaned around Celeste to tug on one of his daughter’s pigtails.
She grinned at him. “Don’t tease, Daddy.”
He laughed. He knew in spite of everything, Abby was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, he had Celeste to thank for that.
Levering himself up to a sitting position again, his chest brushed Celeste’s shoulder. She glanced back at him and he studied her face. His first impression at the reunion had been wrong—she did look a bit like Zoie, but not as much as he’d thought. Her perfume was different, her gaze was, too. It was direct, not evasive. In that moment, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her—if her lips would be soft and pliant, if passion would be natural for her or a means to get what she wanted.
Abby.
He pushed himself to his feet. “We’re having turkey burgers tonight. I’ll turn on the grill and set up a washbasin outside because I’m sure the bears’ bath will get messy.”
“Can I wear my swimsuit?” Abby asked, scrambling to her feet.
He tried to let the tension he felt with Celeste ease away so his daughter wouldn’t pick up on it. “Sure.”
Celeste turned away and took a deep breath. Was she feeling chemistry, too? Why now?
Rising to her feet, she asked, “What can I do to help?”
All of a sudden, he imagined the two of them naked and tangled in each other’s arms. Where the hell had that vision come from? That rush of adrenaline that still lingered? The bite of arousal he’d relegated to a remnant of younger days?
No, he could not get involved with this woman. Or any woman. His nine-year marriage had drained all the romance out of him. Zoie’s betrayal had left him distrustful at worst … guarded at best. Why would he want to risk that kind of pain again? Why would he put Abby at risk of getting hurt, too?
Coolly he said, “The washbasin is in the laundry room. Towels, too. Maybe you can bring those outside.”
“Can C’leste help me put on my swimsuit?”
Clay’s heart took a nosedive. Already Abby was bonding with Celeste. He had to make a decision whether he should let it happen or stop it right now.
What would be best for his daughter—and for him?
Chapter Three
Celeste paced Clay’s sunroom, anxiety making her nauseous. Had she passed the test? Would he think she was good for his daughter?
Her daughter, she reminded herself. Her daughter.
They’d washed the toys and then enjoyed a pleasant supper on the patio. At least she thought it had been pleasant.
Until her gaze had met Clay’s and something electric had filled the air.
He’d turned away. She’d turned away. They’d both moved away, never getting within touching distance as they played tag with Abby and hide-and-seek and a funny little game Abby had produced with a blue elephant and butterflies.
But Clay hadn’t invited her to participate in the bedtime ritual. He’d said that she could go inside, relax and watch TV if she wanted.
But she couldn’t relax. Not waiting for his judgment call. She felt as if tonight her life could change forever. And she preferred the shadows of the sun porch to the glare of the great-room lights.
She heard Clay’s footsteps as he strode through the kitchen. Only the summer moon cut a swath of light across the yard as Clay’s voice preceded him into the sunroom. “Celeste?”
“I’m here. I was listening to the sounds—the owls, the breeze in the leaves. Most of all I like the scents—the pines and the sage.”
His voice was a deep rumble in the shadows. “I’ve centered my life around the scents, the sounds, the textures of the landscape.”
She wished he’d step into the moonlight so she could see his expression. “You made a life around it. During my life I made memories of it. As soon as I was old enough, I ran up these mountains to escape the noise of