“The daughter we chose,” he had told her last summer, after both their parents had overheard her saying things she shouldn’t have to Bailey.
Before she knew it, she was seated in a rocker and had a glass of red wine in her hand. Ben Kemper sat on a rolling ottoman only a few feet away. Eve’s mother had taken Rachel to the bathroom, and Seth and Bailey were both working on dinner, having turned down all offers to help.
Ben and her father discussed sports briefly, neither sounding all that interested. Then he looked at her. “Seth says you’re a social worker.”
“That’s right. I’m with the Department of Social and Health Services. I supervise kids who are wards of the court.”
He nodded; as a police officer, he’d interacted with social workers on a regular basis. It was probably a surprise they’d never met before. He asked some questions that demonstrated how knowledgeable he was. Eve admitted to occasionally feeling like a hamster trapped on her wheel.
“I run and run and run.” She made a face. “My greatest fear is letting a kid slip off my radar. I’ve heard enough horror stories of what can happen.”
Ben nodded. “I used to worry that I’d missed something when I was trying to decide whether to make an arrest on domestic violence calls. She says she’s fine, she whacked herself in the face when she slipped on the ice going out to her car, yes, she and her husband were arguing but of course he’d never hit her. I leave and think, what if she’s scared to death of him? What if he kills her next time, because I was credulous enough to buy this story she tells me with him standing a few feet away listening?” He shook his head. “But what can you do?”
“Never enough,” she said. “I tell myself I’m human and I will make mistakes, but—”
His crooked grin told her he understood. “But it’s an excuse, and it doesn’t cut it.”
“Yes.” She shrugged. “As it is, I get frustrated because of the limitations on what I can do at my best. Foster homes have to meet a minimum standard, but is that good enough? The people are feeding a girl, keeping her safe, but do they listen to her read? Pay attention to whether she’s doing her homework? Do they even know how to encourage her to excel academically? Often not. The rate of high school graduation for foster kids lags well behind that of kids living with their own parents. Never mind college attendance! And then there are the extras that are often beyond these kids—dance lessons, the rent on a musical instrument, the cost of a prom dress, clothes or things like iPods that let them fit in, the fee required for college applications. Do they ever get to museums? See art house films or documentaries versus the latest blow-’em-up multiplex hit? These kids deserve everything other children take for granted.” Almost hoarse with her passion by the time she finished, she grimaced an apology. “Sorry. I get carried away.”
His blue eyes were unexpectedly warm. She was also aware for the first time that those eyes were shadowed in a way she saw sometimes in her kids—and in her own mirror.
“Don’t apologize. You’re right. I see situations on the job where I wish I could do more, too, and can’t. But what’s the answer?”
She’d had ideas lately, but didn’t have an opportunity to share them. Her mother and Rachel returned, and then they were all called to the dinner table, where conversation was general. Her parents were excited about going to California to see Bailey graduate from USC. Bailey had been plagued again recently by a persistent journalist who wanted to write a follow-up article about her. Seth was clearly pissed about it; probably it didn’t sit well with him that he wouldn’t be there to protect her. To lighten the atmosphere, Eve told a few funny stories from her job, and Ben did the same. Rachel got brave enough to tell them about her kindergarten teacher and this boy in her class who was so wild, he liked to climb up on the table and dance and sometimes he’d start to take his clothes off. Ben cringed at hearing that one. He said something in passing that told her he was divorced. This was obviously his weekend with his daughter.
Eve kept having a feeling of unreality. Why hadn’t Bailey ever mentioned how absolutely gorgeous Seth’s partner was? Surely she wasn’t oblivious. And then there was the glint in his eyes that seemed to be only for her—Eve. As if he was attracted to her. The idea scared as much as tempted her. Men who looked like him were magnets for women. What were the odds he didn’t have a girlfriend—or a woman for every night of the week? Eve had never been loaded with confidence, and knew the last thing she needed was to get involved with a man unlikely to stay interested in her for long.
Oh, and she couldn’t forget he worked with Seth, her sister’s fiancé, which could make the whole thing awkward.
And, wow, was she overthinking this, or what? She’d have rolled her eyes if she could have done it unseen. What was she, twelve years old and signing her name “Eve Kemper” even though the boy hadn’t even asked her to dance yet?
Even so, she couldn’t take her gaze from the tall, sexy man currently smiling at his daughter as he tucked a napkin over her pretty pink shirt so she didn’t spill lemon meringue pie on it.
He won’t call.
But she wanted him to so much, the ache filled her chest. It didn’t help that tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. If he called tomorrow...that might be better than a bouquet.
Not until she was fastening her seat belt preparatory to leaving did it occur to her that she had scarcely noticed Seth tonight, and had felt not the slightest pang when she saw the way he looked at Bailey.
Heaven help her, she’d gotten over any remnants of her crush on Seth Chandler the moment she set eyes on his partner.
RACHEL HAD FUN sledding the next day—for all of about five minutes. No, that was an exaggeration, but not by much. She got cold and whined. She insisted on trying to go down a short hill on her own and fell off the sled, landing face-first in a snowbank. She cried so hard Ben was frantic, sure she’d broken a bone at least. God! Nicole would never let him hear the last of it.
Eventually, Rach settled down enough to admit she’d just been scared, and her mittens were soaked and she’d gotten snow in her boots so her toes were cold, and couldn’t they go home?
Disappointed, Ben said, “Sure,” then struggled with incredulity when not ten minutes down the highway, Rachel declared, “That was fun, Daddy! Can we go again?”
What was he supposed to say? You’ve got to be kidding? An hour’s round-trip drive for five minutes of fun and ten minutes of squalling? Maybe Nicole was right and he didn’t have what it took to be an adequate parent.
But he remembered being a lot more patient than Nicole was the first months of Rachel’s life, when she’d been colicky and content only when being carried against a shoulder. He’d walked miles those nights, gone into work feeling hollow with his eyes burning.
He was just...getting out of practice, that was all. It scared him sometimes, wondering whether his relationship with his daughter would grow increasingly distant with him such a small part of her life.
And what if Nicole remarried, giving Rach a resident daddy? Forcing him to see the woman he’d loved since they were in high school leaning against another man, her smile showing how happy he was making her.
Ben’s stomach clenched at the picture in his head. He knew she was dating; Rachel had said things, and