Page 26 of Daddies on Ice
Carl’s shoulder brushes mine and the small touch zings through me like it forgot whose team it was playing for. I step half an inch to the right.
Keep this professional!
“After this,” he says, low enough so that only I can hear him, “we’ll have your tour credentials and the rooming list ready. You and Becky will have your own room.”
“Thank you.”
He dips his chin. “Autographs?”
“Front tables,” I say. “We’ll funnel the kids and guardians row by row. Staff will stick wristband stickers on pictures and books so we don’t have to ask every time. Suggested donation only, but Ms. Harper thinks we’ll beat their summer reading fundraiser by a mile.”
“Good,” he says. “Let’s beat it by two.”
Jake reaches the last page. The raccoon has learned his lesson, the beaver grudgingly approves, the duck claps his wings.
The room claps with him. Jake gives an exaggerated bow that somehow doesn’t come off as obnoxious, and the kids lose their minds.
I head toward the front to start the transition to autographs and I’m halfway there when the door opens behind the media cluster and a latecomer slips in.
I clock her without meaning to.
Petite.
Straight dark brown hair tucked behind her ears.
Big dark eyes in a heart-shaped face.
Coat unzipped, hand on her stomach in that unconscious gesture that might be habit or might be for show.
She looks younger than she probably is.
I’ve seen this face. My stomach drops as the woman slides along the wall toward the back, eyes scanning the room.
She’s aiming herself with slow, careful intent at the front where the kids are folding their paper crowns and the players are standing to move to the tables.
Her gaze hits Jake and locks.
It’s Krista. The woman accusing Jake of being her unborn baby’s daddy.
10
TISH
I don’t breathe until my eyes find Carl.
He’s across the room near the autograph tables, scanning the line like he’s running a penalty kill with clipboards and Sharpies.
I flick my gaze toward the back and give the smallest head tilt I can manage without looking like I’m having a neck spasm.
His eyes cut to the door where Krista stands—petite, dark hair tucked behind her ears, palm on her stomach as if to underline her point.
Carl doesn’t miss a beat.
He lifts one finger, crooks it at our event security, and points once.
The guard nods and makes his way, unnoticed by others, to the woman.
Krista glances at him, then past him to the kids. She says something I can’t hear.
