Chapter 2 – Dadmire

 

“I’m here to pick up Noah and Cayden Woods and, ah,” I look down at my phone to find the names of Sophia’s neighbor’s kids.  “Oh, here it is.  Jordan and Caroline Montgomery.”

“That’s Jordy and Cara.  I’ll need to see a photo ID before I send them out,” the counselor explains, as if I’m trying to break in to this high security day camp for kids.  I pull out my wallet, proving I’m not a crazy kidnapper.

“Paige Carpino,” she reads my license.  “Great, you’re on the pickup list for all of them.  Sign here and I’ll have them get their stuff.”

I sign all four kids out of what seems to be a kid’s camp penitentiary.  A couple minutes later my nephews, along with a boy who’s a bit bigger than Noah and a tiny little blonde girl come running out to me.  Noah and Cayden slam into me like usual, giving me hugs and the other two hang back a bit cautious. 

“Hey guys,” I greet my nephews and look up to the other two with a big smile.  “You must be Jordan and Caroline.  I’m Paige, Noah and Cayden’s aunt.  You guys are going to hang with me this week.”

“I’m Jordy and this is Cara,” the boy says, a bit guarded. 

Jordy’s a big kid, not just tall but solid.  He has short dark blond hair with brown eyes.  He’s the exact opposite of his little sister.  Cara’s a tiny little thing with long pale blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. 

“Well, nice to meet you Jordy and Cara.  How old are you?” I ask, as little Cara hides behind her brother. 

“I’m seven,” Jordy answers.  I look to Cara but she puts her face in her brother’s arm.  Jordy goes on, “She’s five.  She’s quiet sometimes.”

I grin at Cara as she peeks around her brother, “There’s nothing wrong with being quiet.”

“Can we have ice cream?” Noah yells up at me.

“I went to the store today and have all kinds of goodies for the week.  I thought we’d bake cookies and make ice cream sandwiches.  How does that sound?” I ask.

“I don’t wanna make cookies,” Cayden frowns.

“Then you can play outside and I’ll bake cookies.  And because I love you, I’ll let you eat some anyway,” I grin.

“Yay!” all the boys cheer in unison before we trudge out to my sister’s minivan where I make sure everyone’s buckled in.  All the while, Cara never makes a peep but she also never takes her eyes off me.  Jordy wasn’t exaggerating when he said his sister’s quiet.

“I’ve got to call my dad,” Jordy says from the back of the van.

“Oh, okay.  Here, take my phone,” I say as I try to pass it back.

“It’s okay, I have a phone,” he answers, digging into his backpack.

“You have a phone?  Aren’t you seven?” I ask, shocked.

“Yeah, but my dad wants me to call him whenever I want to call him.  And he wanted me to call him when we left camp,” he explains.

Okay, that’s weird but, whatever.  I hear Jordy make the quick call to his dad, having the shortest conversation in the history of conversations.  I guess it’s inbred in men not to be phone talkers from an early age.

I make my way to the edge of town where Sophia and Lanny live, turning into their development.  It’s not really a development, but rather a bunch of houses spread out on large lots of land, a couple of acres each.  The houses are situated for privacy with the benefit of having neighbors.  I make my way through the wooded roads and turn on the last street.  They live near the end of Athica Lane, a long winding road lined thick with trees that are in full bloom this time of year. 

My brother-in-law, Lanny, grew up loving animals.  He’s a vet and wanted the country life.  My oldest sister, Sophia, is not country whatsoever.  They finally settled on this compromise about five years ago.  I think it’s beautiful here.  The homes have been here a few decades, the trees and woods surrounding them are huge, thick and lush.  It’s the best part about the area.  Sophia’s goal was to slowly update the house, a rambling ranch with large, spacious rooms.  But they just had their third baby last year, I think it’s going slower than she planned. 

I pull the minivan into the garage and as soon as we hit the house, the boys run toward the backyard with Lanny and Sophia’s two dogs.  The day camp must not be doing its job—they don’t look worn out in the least.  The neighbor kids must be here a lot because Cara comes in and hauls her little self onto a barstool, swinging her legs while looking up at me with her bright eyes. 

I go to the sink to wash my hands before I get started on the cookies and ask, “How was camp today, Cara?  You have fun?”

She still doesn’t say anything, but nods affirmatively. 

Hmm, this could be a long week.

I try again, “What was your favorite thing about today?”

She scrunches her nose, shrugging her shoulders almost to her ears silently.

“Did you make crafts?” I ask.

She nods.

“Did you play games?” I try.

She nods again.

“Did you look for bugs?” I grin.

She quickly shakes her head no.

“Did you eat bugs?” I grin bigger.

She finally grins, shaking her head no even quicker.

I smile and decide no one’s ever accused me of not being able to carry on a one-sided conversation, so I decide to go for it, “You know what my favorite part of today’s going to be?”

With big eyes, she gives her head a little shake.

“Cookies,” I start.  “I love to cook and bake.  I love it so much I made it my job.  But we’re not doing anything fancy today.  We’re gonna keep it simple, good old chocolate chip.  And even though it would make Sophia blow a gasket because of the raw eggs, we’re going to snack on cookie dough in the process because it’s too good not to.  But just you and me.  The boys don’t get any cookie dough because they didn’t want to help.  Their loss, don’t you think?”

I’m not sure she knows what to think, but she gives me another big eyed nod anyway.

“But what’s going to make these cookies special is we’re gonna let the ice cream get a little bit soft and then plop a hunk of it in between two cookies, squeezing them together for a sandwich.  Guess what we’re going to do then?” I ask.

If it can be believed, her beautiful bright eyes get even bigger.

“We’re going to eat them before dinner,” I smile.

And, finally.

My chocolate chip cookie rant wins me a grin and a giggle. 

“If you think that makes you smile, my chocolate chip cookie s’mores’ll knock your socks off,” I add and she giggles even more.  “Do you like to bake, Cara?”

In her sweet little voice, so tiny I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t listening close enough, she utters, “I bake with my grammy.”

I smile big at my new little friend who just whispered her first words to me, “Well then, I’m sure I would love your grammy.  Crawl up here, sweet girl, let’s get crackin’.”

She smiles back, crawls up to sit on the counter and we begin to bond over cookies. 

*****

I move around the kitchen to Bruno Mars, who’s Uptown Funk-ing me up, as I clean from the chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.  They were devoured by all, Cara included, who skipped out to play with the boys.  Sophia was right—Jordy and Cara are good kids, easy and fun to be around.  The afternoon was a rush and flew by before I knew it.

Cara opened up a tad.  She talked about her daddy and brother a bit, but mostly, she listened to me go on and on about food, my nieces and nephews, and well, pretty much anything else I felt like going on about. 

I barely hear a knock on the front door over my music.  I quickly turn it down and yell before double-timing it to the front door, “Sorry, coming.” 

I get to the door, but as I’m opening it I have to keep the dogs back with my foot.   Lanny’s a vet, shouldn’t a vet have perfectly mannered dogs?  Henry is part Basset-part something or other and Ginger is a red haired Dachshund.  The two of them together are louder than the kids combined and bring berserko to a new level when someone’s at the door.

“No, Ginger,” I say, trying to keep them back. 

Over the commotion of the dogs, I hear a guttural, “You.”

That voice makes me freeze and I look up from the dogs, not caring if they run out the front door because I know they won’t go far.  I see none other than the brick wall from last week.  My eyes travel up another athletic ensemble, but clean this time.  He’s lost the ball cap and his dark blond hair is short, so short I might not be able to tell its dark blond if his goatee didn’t give it away.  But my eyes settle on his pissed-off bright-blue ones that are glaring, just as they did last week after he practically entered me into a wet T-shirt contest.

“You?” I bite back, but in a question.

“Who are you?” he demands.

Ah, hello?  Stranger-Danger 101.  No way am I telling him who I am so I ask right back, “Who are you?”

“I’m Lanny and Sophia’s neighbor.  Now who are you?”

“I’m Pai—wait,” I take a good look into his bright blue eyes.  I tip my head when I realize I’ve been looking into them all afternoon, but in a miniature, much sweeter creature who’s more endearing than the asshole standing before me.  I narrow my eyes, mumbling, “You can’t be.”

“I’m Jordy and Cara’s dad,” he informs through his frown.

“No,” I say, albeit distracted.  I turn to look through the house toward the backyard where the kids are playing while fighting with my head, trying to make it not so.  Looking back, I state while jutting my thumb over my shoulder, “Those two precious children cannot be yours.”

“You’re Sophia’s sister?” he keeps on.

“But…they’re practically perfect, as far as kids go.  And you’re…well,” I pause, searching for the appropriate word, not wanting to be a bitch.  I know I can be bitchy, but I hate being a bitch, so I opt for flipping my hand out and finishing with, “Not.”

“Shit,” he mumbles as he crosses his arms and shakes his head looking to his side. 

And from the side, I get to see him in profile.  Strong, masculine features with solid cheekbones carved into lightly tanned skin.  He has a hint of sun, suggesting he’s been outside doing something with purpose, as opposed to frolicking in the rays only to get some color.  And even though I’ve never appreciated facial hair on a man, his goatee is lush.  It frames his lips like a bowl of chocolate ganache that you want to dive into and devour, licking up every last gooey drop.  Maybe it’s because of the dark blond, but it looks soft, not wiry and prickly.  Not that I‘ve had any experience with manly facial hair, because I absolutely have not.  But his gives me the urge to expand my horizons in new and unchartered ways, which in turn, makes me fidget.

“I’ll make other arrangements for the rest of the week,” I hear and see him glaring down at me. 

I pull my attention away from his soft goatee and repeat, “Other arrangements?”

“The kids.  I’ll find someone else to watch ‘em.  We won’t have to see each other again,” he frowns.

“But, I like your kids,” I attest.  “We had fun today.  They must get it from their mom, they’re sweet.  I’m still shocked they could even be far distant cousins of yours, let alone your own.”

The brick wall huffs a somewhat sarcastic and frustrated breath, “Trust me, if they’re ‘sweet,’ they didn’t get it from their mom.”

Not understanding what that’s all about, I go on, “Well wherever they got it, they’re sweet and Noah and Cayden like having them here.  I don’t mind watching them, Cara and I baked cookies today.  She even talked to me a little bit.  I’ve made it my goal to get her to speak an entire paragraph by the end of the week.  Don’t rip that away from me, we bonded over cookie dough.  I’m pretty sure I can make that happen as long as sugar’s involved.”

“Cara talked to you?” he frowns again.

“What, she doesn’t talk?” I frown back.

“She’s shy, I can’t seem to pull her out of it,” he sighs.

“Well, I’m anything but shy so there’s no need to make other arrangements.  As long as you don’t dump Dr. Pepper on me, I’m sure we can muddle through the week.  You’ve already ruined my favorite tank,” I complain.

I don’t know if it’s the mention of Dr. Pepper or my favorite tank, but his eyes move over me in a way I can feel it.  I mean, I know I’m no catwalk model beauty queen, but it’s not like I’ve fallen out of the ugly tree.  I’ve had eyes rake over me plenty of times, but never where I can feel it.  And hell if the touch of his eyes dragging down my body doesn’t make me fidget again.  As if he caught my fidget, his blue eyes dart back up to mine.

“I’ll get the kids,” I say if for no other reason than to break his look and get him off my sister’s front porch.  I don’t need his eyes touching me any longer.

I walk myself to the patio door and sticking my head out, yell, “Jordy, Cara, your dad’s here!”

They all come bounding, little Cara and Cayden trailing behind the big boys.  The noise of kids’ voices rumble through the house as they make it to the front door ahead of me.  I hear Cara’s voice squeal, “Daddy,” about ten times louder than any sound she ever uttered with me today. 

And as I round the corner, I’m forced to stop in my tracks from the sight in front of me. 

The brick wall has picked Cara up, holding her high as he rubs his face in her neck, affirming my earlier notion that his goatee must be as soft as silk if it can make a five-year-old laugh when it tickles her.  And, as if the clouds have parted letting the sun shine through after forty days and forty nights, I see him smile through his lush goatee at his daughter while saying, “I missed my punkin’ pie.”  He then directs his gorgeous smile down at Jordy and places his big hand right on top of his head, “Hey, buddy.”

And wow.  That smile.

Seriously.  Dadmire. 

Dadmire – defined by all single women admiring a man who’s hot to begin with, but his hotness quotient increases leaps and bounds by him doing hot dad things.  Examples:  calling his girl punkin’ pie, his boy buddy and looking like there’s nothing he wants more in this world than the two kids in front of him. 

Yeah, dadmire—smothered in real whipped cream and topped with a cherry.  Maybe even sprinkles.

Shit.  I can’t stop fidgeting and I think I creamed my panties.

Because this man who has proved to me now more than once he’s an asshole, albeit a hot one, takes my breath away witnessing him with his kids.  I gaze at the scene in front of me and even though I’ve always known this about myself, now I know.  As if the fog has lifted off a dull, hazy day letting the light shine through, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt.  There’s nothing more I want in this world than to have a man look like that with kids I get to give him. 

Nothing.

He looks to me, switching his face to blank and frowns, “I’ll see if I can get away early tomorrow.”

Shaking my head a bit, I break out of my Dadmire Daze and say, “Wait.”

I turn back to the kitchen, find the wrapped plate I’m looking for and make my way back to the front door, “Here.  Cara made cookies, she worked hard on them.  You all should take some home.”

“Thanks,” Jordy says looking up to me with a happy smile.

“No problem.  I’ll see you after camp?” I ask and he nods.  I look up at Cara who’s snuggled in her dad’s neck and say, “Bye, Cara.  We’ll find something fun to do tomorrow, too.”

“Bye-bye,” she says, back to quiet. 

I give her a grin before her dad pulls my attention to him saying with promise, “Tomorrow.”  Then he plops little Cara down and belts out, “Run home.”

As Jordy and Cara head out, he turns to leave when I call, “I’m Paige, by the way.  Paige Carpino.”

Turning back to me, he says stoically, “I know.  Sophia told me your name.”

“Oh,” I say.  After a moment hangs between us with him standing on the front walk, I add, “So, are you just the nameless guy next door?  Or are you going to challenge me, forcing me to get Cara to tell me your name tomorrow.  I don’t want to push my limits with her.  Tomorrow’s only day two and I’ve got ‘til Friday to get her to speak paragraphs.”

He shakes his head like he thinks I’m ridiculous and answers, “Cam.”

“Cam?” I ask, thinking that’s strange.  “Just Cam?”

“Just Cam,” he affirms, crossing his arms this time. 

“Got it.  You’re like Elvis or Madonna.  I guess ‘Cam’ stands on its own, not needing another pronoun as an additional identifier,” I lean into the door jam.

He exhales and even his goatee twitches as he huffs, “Montgomery.”

“I knew that,” I say haughtily.  “I picked up your kids today.  I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Cam Montgomery.  Just don’t bring any beverages and we’ll be good.”

He rakes his eyes over me where I can feel them again before shaking his head and turns toward his house to make the two-acre jaunt home.  I feel myself flush, not wanting to, but liking the feel of his eyes on me nonetheless. 

Mmm.  Dadmire. 

But I put Cam Montgomery out of my mind.  He’s got a family.  Why are all the interesting ones taken?  Even if he can be an asshole who doesn’t think his wife is sweet, for some reason.

“Boys!” I yell as I make my way through the house.  “What do you want for dinner?”