“What is it?” Terror, followed by a million questions. Was she in jail? Had she gotten knocked up?Had Cara’s husband done something to her?“What’s wrong, Steph?” He tried to keep the panic from his voice. Wasn’t sure hesucceeded.
“I just found out”—she was really sniffling, but clearly struggling to keep her voice steady—“that Dad—my other dad—is being transferred toNew Hampshire. And they want to move me to New Hampshire, and change schools right in the middle of high school.” Her gulp was audible through the phone. “And I was wondering if there was any ch-chance you could— Well, you could come here and I could live with you.” The last few words came out in a rush. “I know you move around a lot and you can do your work anywhere, otherwise I wouldn’t ask, but I really don’t want to move to New Hampshire.” Her voice rose in a desperate wail that she was clearly still trying to keep undercontrol.
And before he realized what he was saying, what it would mean, Declan heard the words come out of his mouth: “I think I could dothat.”
Yeah. Just likethat.
Damn-ass marshmallow that he was, he couldn’t stand to hear a womancry.
So, a little more than four months ago, just after school got out, Dec found himself setting up house with his fifteen-year-old daughter—who was now a sophomore in high school. A completely foreign entity to his thirty-three-year-old bachelorself.
“Steph! You here?” he called again, really tempted to do the back-hall-stripping thing. Usually when Stephanie was home, it was evident due to some sort of noise—most often music or her voice on the phone or Skype. Or the runningshower.
Feeling as if the coast was clear, he’d just pulled off his shirt (which, while it was still decent, made him feel a little uncomfortable around this teenager he didn’t know that well, andreallyuncomfortable when her friends were around because he always had the sense they were whispering about him and gawking) and, with a glance through the half-open door that led into the kitchen, began to unfasten hisbelt.
“Hey, Dad!” The sounds of clomping feet from the depths of the house brought him upshort.
Shit. He quickly refastened his belt and grabbed the sweaty mass of the shirt he’d discarded from the floor. He was still wearing a beater tee—which, hell, he might as well be shirtless the way it stuck to him—so he shrugged back into the sleeves of his flannel. Declan walked into the kitchen just in time to meet his daughter as she bounced in from the general area of her bedroom or thebathroom.
Hisdaughter.
Declan still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. This young woman, this bright-eyed, smart, I-can-even-talk-to-adults fifteen-year-old was his offspring. He didn’t remember himself at fifteen—or even seventeen or eighteen, or hell, even attwenty—being as mature, levelheaded, andconfidentas Stephaniewas.
“Hey,” he said nonchalantly. “How was school? What are you doing tonight? Have lots of homework?” Those were the three questions he’d come up with that seemed reasonable and logical for a parent to ask his child, and so far, she hadn’t seemed to be bothered by them or feel as if they were an invasion ofprivacy.
Stephanie was at the counter, slamming jars of peanut butter and jelly onto the granite surface with no thought to the potential result of glass abruptly meeting stone. “I think I got a job,” she said, yanking a loaf of bread out of thepantry.
She had long, dark blond hair, which she usually wore in a messy bun or spent hours either straightening or curling and letting it hang down past her shoulder blades. Today, it was long and straight, and she wore a loose, long-sleeved shirt and skinny jeans (notskinnyskinny jeans; he’d learned the difference between the two when he’d taken her shopping for school—an event he wasn’t sure she’d ever convince him torepeat).
“A job?” he repeated, eyeing the sandwich taking shape in front of her with interest. “Pass me those jars, willyou?”
“Here,” she said, passing him her just-made sandwich. “You can have this one. I’ll makeanother.”
For some reason, this made the back of his throat burn with emotion. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “Didn’t mean to take the food out of yourmouth.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes big and dark and brown. If Declan hadn’t seen the results of the DNA test with his own eyes, he would never have believed she was his child. “It’s no problem, Dad,” she said. “I can make anotherone.”
Damn, the sandwich tasted good. Particularly good. “So, a job, huh?” He tried not to sound as completely surprised as he was. She hadn’t mentioned anything about getting a job. And she was onlyfifteen…
“Yeah.” Now he could see a giddiness beneath her demeanor. “It’s like a Gal Friday sort of position. I’ll be working a couple hours after school each day, and then more on the weekend. She’s really flexible, and I’ll be able to do a lot of differentthings.”
“She? After schooleveryday? Don’t you need a work permit? Aren’t there child laborlaws?”
“It’s under-the-table money, Dad,” she said, hands on hips, eyes rolling like a pro. “Like babysitting? I don’t need a work permit for that. And if it begins to interfere with my school—which it won’t—Leslie said I just had to tell her and we’d adjust as necessary. Did you know she used to be the CEO of InterWorks?” Stephanie’s eyes were wide. “She’s almost as famous as Marissa Mayer and Meg Whitman! She was even on the cover ofFortunemagazine. And she’s only thirty-four—I mean, I guess that’s young for allthat.”
Declan’s thoughts were galloping off in several different directions, and it took more than few chews and a swallow before he could rein them in. “Leslie? As in Leslie Nakano? At ShenstoneHouse?”
“Yes! And she hired me!” Stephanie was dancing around the kitchen, heedless of the goop of jelly that splattered off her knife and onto the hardwood floor. “Can you believeit?”
No. He actually couldn’t believe it. And he wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about it, for several reasons. “You didn’t tell me you were going to get a job,” he began. “And what exactly are you going to be doing for Ms. Nakano—not Leslie,” he said firmly. “She’s Ms.Nakano.”
“She told me to call her Leslie.” Some of the giddy light was fading from hereyes.
“She’s your employer—supposedly—and you need to show herrespect.”
Oh really?The kind of “respect” you’ve been known to show some of your employers?The little voice in his head reminded him smugly of the waythathad turnedout.
He batted the thoughts away and continued his lecture. “Ms. Nakano it is—and you still haven’t told me what you’re going to be doing for her.” Already he had visions of her using a table saw, or lifting heavy sheets of drywall, or covered with dust and mold and bits of insulation that of course would have asbestos inthem…
