style="font-size:15px;"> “If you’d rather I went home…” Jessica turned as if to leave.
“Stay.”
“I’m not a dog, either,” she replied over her shoulder, one hand on the doorknob. “So don’t try ordering me around as if I were one.”
“Please stay.”
He wasn’t happy about having to ask politely, there was no mistaking that in the taut line of his jaw. But he did it.
She sighed. “Let’s get to work.”
“Let’s play,” Blue said.
“First you need cleaning up.” Curt gingerly picked his daughter up, as if she were a package he was hauling from one room to another. He didn’t prop her against his shoulder or hold her in the crook of his arm. He simply lifted her—his hands spanning her waist, his arms outstretched—and marched her into the kitchen.
Jessica followed him. The living room only had a colonial-style couch in a beige-and-orange plaid that had either been a garage sale find or a sign that Curt was totally style-deprived. The only other piece of furniture was a large TV set. The man clearly traveled light. She wondered how long he’d been in Chicago? When he’d gotten the leg injury that caused him to limp? Why he’d made love to her and then acted like nothing had ever happened between them?
All off-limits subjects, she warned herself as she stepped into the kitchen.
Morning sunlight streamed through the large window over the sink. The cabinets were white, as were all the appliances and the counter top, which had nothing but a coffeemaker on it.
Seeing her interest, he said, “I child proofed all the cabinets so she’d be secure in this residence.”
“That’s good.” So Blue would be secure, but would she ever know what it felt like to have her father give her an affection ate bear hug? Or would she forever be taking orders barked out in a curt voice? Forever falling short of expectations set too high to ever be accomplished.
Jessica certainly knew how that felt. She didn’t want the same thing happening to Blue. Didn’t want to see the little girl’s natural exuberance drained right out of existence. Blue had already had enough tragedy in her life, what with her mother dying. What she needed now was stability, under standing and lots of love.
Jessica’s arms ached to hold the little girl, to give her the loving she needed. The only thing that held her back was the knowledge that she was already in way over her head. Besides, the bottom line was that she was merely Blue’s preschool teacher. Curt was the parent in this scenario.
Which only served to remind her of how she’d once day dreamed about what kind of father he’d be. During that pregnancy scare so long ago, she’d anticipated his reaction to hearing they’d made a baby together when they’d made love in the back seat of his Mustang. In her teenage fantasy he’d been surprised, and then he’d taken her in his arms and asked her to marry him. It wouldn’t matter that he’d just joined the marines. She’d wait for him.
How foolish she’d been. How dangerously naïve. She’d badly wanted a baby, wanted someone of her own to love. That hadn’t changed. What had changed was Jessica.
She no longer had to worry about pregnancy scares. Not after being gently told a few years back by her elderly family practitioner that she had a badly tipped uterus, so badly tipped that it was extremely doubtful she’d be able to conceive.
So she’d closed the door on one dream and focused her attention on her work teaching preschoolers, never thinking that one day she’d be teaching Curt how to deal with his own daughter.
Chapter 3
DISMAYED AT THE direction of her thoughts and at the unexpected sting of threatening tears, Jessica mentally changed gears. This wasn’t about her or Curt, it was about Blue.
Tugging out the yellow legal pad of paper where she’d written up her notes, she consulted the first page. “Most Daddy Boot Camps are designed for new fathers with infants,” she told him. “I’ve adapted a program to your special needs. I thought we’d cover the basics—eating, getting dressed, bathing and bedtime.”
Startled, Blue looked out the window and practically howled, “Noooo! Not bedtime now.”
“That’s right, it’s not bedtime now,” Jessica agreed in a soothing voice. “Let me see your beautiful clean hands.” Blue eagerly held them out for her appraisal. “Very nice.”
“Very nice,” Blue agreed with a nod.
“Looking good,” Curt said, tossing the dirty towel into the sink.
“Looking good,” Blue repeated.
“Is there any one of the areas I’ve listed that you’re particularly having trouble with?” Jessica asked Curt.
All of them. But he wasn’t about to admit that. Instead he said, “You might as well go over all of them. But I have a few questions for you first.” Picking up a notebook of his own, he listed them in rapid-fire succession. “How often do you have fire drills? Are you trained in CPR and pediatric first aid? Is the school registered or licensed with the state?”
She appeared to be im pressed by his questions. “I see you’ve been doing some reading as I suggested.”
“That’s right.” He hated feeling in com pe tent, so he’d made it a point to find out as much as he could in the past few days. A lot of what he read he considered to be psychological babble. He was a bottom-line kind of guy. But he was encouraged to read that kids needed schedules and routines. So did marines. The recruits he trained needed the discipline to follow orders.
Having a raw recruit overcome their fear of heights enough to finally rappel down a tower gave him a feeling of accomplishment. Maybe this was Curt’s chance to overcome a fear of his own—the fear of being a parent. Over coming fear was another big deal for a marine.
Yeah, he liked looking at the process that way.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” she asked him in exasperation.
“Yes. You said you were trained in CPR and pediatric first aid, that the preschool is licensed by the state and that you have the required number of fire drills.” Learning to concentrate on more than one thing at one time was another advantage he possessed over an average dad. Another thing the marines had taught him. “Now tell me the secrets of dressing.”
“Secrets, huh? You make it sound as if there’s only one way of accomplishing these goals. There isn’t. Some times it’s learning by trial and error. What I can do is give you some suggestions. First off, I’d mention that Blue here is a little girl, not a sack of potatoes.”
“Blue is a little girl,” Blue repeated proudly. “Is not potatoes. Is not a dog.”
“Your point being?” Curt demanded of Jessie.
“Just that you seemed a bit un com fort able carrying her.”
That’s because he was a man more accustomed to carrying an M-16 rifle than a kid.
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