Page 26 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
Over the next few weeks, I watch Charles Emory come alive while we all develop a steady routine. He ate breakfast with us, then disappeared into his study.
I spend the mornings with Cece, preparing food ahead so that I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time on cooking meals, walking the dog around the garden, teaching Cece to toss a ball for Gidget or pull a string for her cat.
After my finals were over, I started looking for practicum options, only to realize that most schools were closed. My only options for now would be teaching online, and I didn’t want to do that and take care of Cece.
Charles gifted me with the grand title “Household Manager” and gave me freedom to order pretty much anything I pleased, along with backup from Manuela. I told myself that just meant that he trusted my professionalism and my ability to look after his daughter.
We settled into a steady routine that lasted into early August.
I grew accustomed to Charles being around and didn’t focus on it too much.
Still . . . mercy me, he was good to look at. Cece just about worshiped the ground he walked on, and you didn’t get that from a kid without the sort of loving kindness that went with being a good person and a good parent. I liked that in a man.
We’d made gingerbread that day, cutting the dough into cookie shapes that included the gingerbread man, the old couple, their house, and the animals he’d met, including the wily fox.
I watch him taste testing our latest culinary efforts.
His mouth . . . mobile and expressive, as he bites into that simple piece of gingerbread, rolls his eyes and mimes its deliciousness . . . I can imagine that mouth touching mine.
How had I ever gotten up the nerve to kiss his cheek? I remember his warm, masculine scent of Old Spice, the shaven stubble of his skin . . .
I bite into my cookie, chew, and swallow. When he looks my way, I take a sip of my iced tea, using the glass to at least partially hide my face. My cheeks feel hot, and I am almost certain he could read my thoughts. James always said I had a face like an open book, with all my thoughts right there for anyone to read.
Charles asks, “Kate? Are you alright? You look a bit flushed.”
Oh, God, just take me now. Let the floor open up and swallow me.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say. “Those really are spicy cookies.”Good save. I got this, I’m just fine. He isn’t flirting with me.“Did you ask something?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Cece wanted to know if it would be all right if we all watched a movie together.”
“With popcorn and soda pop?” Cece begs. “Please, please,Miss Kate. It’s been forever since we had home movie night. Mommy wasn’t,” there is a little hitch of a sob in her voice, “home, and Daddy was really, really busy. Could we?”
How can I possibly deny her anything after that tiny almost sob? “I can’t think why not,” I say.
I can think of a thousand reasons why not. Intimate family setting. Lowered lights. An employer that I’d almost, no, had kissed in the garden. Heat pools in my nether regions.
I need to go somewhere and give myself a good talking to before I get into trouble. “What movie do you want to watch? Mr. Emory, do we have movies here?”
“We have a digital library of movies, as well as two or three subscriptions,” he says. “I’m pretty sure we can find any movie Cece wants to watch. What do you want, Punkin?”
“I want the ‘move it, move it’ movie,” she says.
A wave of relief washed over me. Madagascar II, action packed, crazy cartoon animals . . . not at all sentimental. It’s going to be fine. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll go make some popcorn while the two of you pick out your soda. Unless you’d rather just finish the ice tea?”
“I don’t think there’s much of that left,” Mr. Emory says. “Come on, Cece, let’s look in the guest fridge.”
With that, he walks across the room and opens up a panel in the dining room wall, revealing an assortment of soda behind a folding glass door. One thing for sure, we aren’t going to run out of carbonated drinks any time soon.
I murmur an incoherent excuse and flee out to the kitchen. “Idiot, idiot, idiot,” I mutter to myself as I get out the air popper, the butter flavored oil, and the extra-super fancy popping corn. It’s the kind with red kernels that you almost have to grow for yourself in order to find it. No plain old yellow corn for the Emory family!
By the time two batches of corn have popped, I mostlyhave control of myself. I gather up the big bowl of popped corn (which now looks like any other popped corn), and three smaller bowls. Individual bowls, I figure, would cut down on the chance of stray touches.
Out in the living room, Mr. Emory has the opening screen for the movie showing on a huge flat screen TV and an assortment of canned beverages on a rolling cart parked between an overstuffed couch and its matching chair.
I set the popcorn down on the coffee table that is between the couch and the screen.
“We didn’t know what you would like,” Cece pipes up, “So we got three of everything. Me an’ Daddy already got ours, so you can pick any you want.”
