A Better Father (Harlequin Super Romance)
Read A Better Father (Harlequin Super Romance) Online
Authors: Kris Fletcher
From superstar to superdad
Becoming a single dad was never hockey star Sam Catalano’s
game plan. Now he’s turning his world upside down to give his two-year-old son,
Casey, the best life he can. And buying his own childhood camp seems like the
perfect way to do it. At least until he comes face-to-face with his new
assistant director, and old camp flame, Libby Kovak.
Sam can’t afford to be distracted by Libby
or
the constant reminders of the passion they shared.
His only priority is protecting Casey and making the transition as smooth as
possible. But Sam’s starting to believe that the most valuable thing he can give
his son, and himself, is a life with Libby in it.
“No. Wait.”
Sam crossed the room in two long strides and leaned over
Libby, hands braced on the arms of her chair, leaning forward so she couldn’t
escape. He surrounded her, hijacking her senses. Eyes as deeply brown as the
richest chocolate cake pinned her to the seat. The fresh scent of his aftershave
tickled her nose and spun her back through time, to clandestine embraces behind
the dining hall, stolen kisses beneath the dive raft, that last night when they
had spread a blanket beneath the moon and—
“I want to add a condition of my own.”
This close, his voice seemed to vibrate through her. She
tightened her fingers on the clipboard but refused to look away. Though when his
gaze dropped to her lips and his own mouth quirked, she had one wild moment of
wondering what kind of condition he was going to impose.
Dear Reader,
My motto is, “I’m slow, but I always get where I’m going.”
This book is perfect proof.
The first seeds of Sam and Libby’s story were planted back in
2001 when my husband and I took our three sons to a weekend family adventure
camp. My visions of family bonding around a campfire with hot chocolate and
s’mores were rudely hijacked by miserably cold nights, nonstop rain and some
fellow campers who seemed to believe that the only reason the rest of us were
there was to serve as backdrop for their nonstop family photos. I spent the bulk
of the weekend faking a smile for the sake of my kids, while on the inside, I
was far, far away, at a very different and much more enjoyable camp.
I wrote the first incarnation of this book later that year.
It got some very encouraging attention, but it wasn’t quite right yet.
Time went by. We added more kids to the family and I wrote
other books, but Sam and Libby stayed with me. When it came time to look at
their story again, it was like reconnecting with old friends—though really, is
it fair that I am the only one who aged over the years?
I hope that your time with Sam and Libby is as enjoyable as
it’s been for me, and that they will lead you to visit my website at
www.krisfletcher.com
, or drop me a line—
[email protected]
. I promise to
write back.
And I promise to be a lot faster at writing back than I was
at writing the book.
Yours,
Kris Fletcher
A Better Father
Kris Fletcher
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kris Fletcher was first introduced to camping by the Girl
Guides, who taught her how to tie a mean sheepshead knot, and later by her
mother, who taught her how to TP a campsite. She refuses to discuss how and when
these skills may have come in handy until the statute of limitations has
expired. Kris grew up in southern Ontario, went to school in Nova Scotia,
married a man from Maine and now lives in central New York. She shares her very
messy home with her husband, an ever-changing number of their kids, and the
occasional grand-hamster. Her greatest hope is that dust bunnies never develop
intelligence.
Acknowledgments
I owe a giant debt of gratitude to about half the people on the
planet, but especially to these folks:
The writers of
Galaxy Quest,
for
that whole “Never give up. Never surrender!” thing.
The Central New York Romance Writers, for teaching me so
much.
The Purples—Gayle Callen, Christine Wenger, Molly Compton
Herwood and Carol Pontello Lombardo—for the brainstorming, the hand holding, the
Retreats and the amazing friendship. And also for not posting those pictures to
Facebook.
The ladies of the Hive and the Series Romance loop, for
listening to me all these years without ever once voting me off the island.
Jessica Faust, agent extraordinaire, who has the patience of a
saint and the red pen of an inquisitor. I have needed both of them over our
years together, and she always, always comes through.
The wonderful ladies at Harlequin who had a hand in bringing
this book to life—Kathleen Scheibling, who gave so generously of her time,
insights and advocacy; Wanda Ottewell, who was willing to take a chance on a
too-short manuscript by an unknown author; and Piya Campana, who has been the
picture of grace and wisdom while I do the newbie dance.
And my husband, Larry, who doesn’t understand this dream but
loves me enough to help me chase it anyway. That’s what I call hero
material.
CHAPTER ONE
H
IS
NEW
HOME
.
Sam Catalano stood at the top of the hill outside the office of
Camp Overlook, sparing a moment to drink in the sight that had lived in his
memory for so long. Soaring pines and brilliant green maples. Red-roofed cabins
circling larger brown activity buildings. The St. Lawrence River beckoned from
the edge of the woods, sparkling into the horizon, a glittering blue line
separating this little piece of Ontario from the States.
Unlike Sam’s world—at least the way it had spun out of his
control over the past few months—very little had changed at the camp in the
dozen years since he last walked away. It was constant. Comforting. The last
place where his life had been simple and secure. The perfect place to bring his
son and start their new life.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for
home, needing to hear Casey’s voice again before he headed into a meeting he did
not want to have. But before the call could go through he heard another
sound—that of laughter bubbling out of the camp office. Slightly low, vaguely
husky and achingly familiar, it brought every hair on his body to full
attention.
Libby.
Oh, crap.
He’d thought he was ready to see her again. He’d done more
mental prep for this meeting than he had when he played the final game in the
Stanley Cup. Two minutes ago, he would have said, yeah, it would be awkward, but
he wasn’t about to let a little lovers’ history come between him and his
future.
That was before he heard her laugh. All of a sudden he was
eighteen again, back here at camp, smack-dab in the middle of his first real
relationship and so crazy with want that he’d actually talked himself into
believing in things like forever and happily-ever-after.
He’d made Libby believe in them, too. And then he’d walked away
from her.
“Hello?”
The sound of his sister’s voice pulled him back to the moment,
the phone, the call. Damn. Libby was messing with his mind already, and he
hadn’t even seen her yet.
Snap out of it, Catalano. Live the
goal.
“Hey, Brynn, it’s me. Just wanted to check on you and Casey
before I head into the meeting. Everything okay?”
“Fine and dandy. Casey stacked four blocks by himself this
morning, the damned dog made it outside every time he needed to go, and I was
propositioned by both Hugh Jackman
and
George
Clooney. Decisions, decisions.”
“Someday my life will be as exciting as yours. Is Casey
busy?”
“Right here. Um, you got a call from a social worker this
morning. The one who has to do the home study.”
The home study.
At the reminder of what his life had become—social workers and
lawyers and court dates, all to ensure he maintained custody of his own son—his
feet curled inside his shoes, digging into the soles in an instinctive
fight-or-flight response. His gut contracted tight as a fist and he had to
forcibly remind himself to breathe out before the black spots started dancing in
front of his eyes.
“Thanks. Text me her number and I’ll give her a call.” He kept
the words light so as not to worry Brynn. She did a good enough job of that on
her own. “Let me talk to Casey.”
“Hang on.”
He heard Brynn telling Casey that Daddy wanted to talk to
him—then the snuffling sound of the phone being passed over—then a rasping kind
of noise that probably meant the phone was being dragged over clothing—then the
wet breathing that made him grin every time.
“Da Da Da Da Da!”
And just like that, everything in him lit up and relaxed. His
boy was safe and happy and his, still his. For the moment, at least, all was
right in his world.
“Hey, squirt. Are you being a good boy for Auntie Brynn?”
“Box!”
“Yeah, I heard you were playing with your blocks. Did you knock
them down and go boom?”
“Boom!”
“Way to go, bud. I have a rock for you.” Sam scooped a
gray-speckled stone from the side of the path, rubbing his thumb over the black
band snaking across the surface. “From your new home.”
“Home?”
The plaintive tone to the word made Sam’s gut tighten. “Yeah,
Casey. Daddy will be home tonight in time to put you to bed. I have to go now
but I’ll see you then, okay? Love you.”
He ended the call, grinning at the picture he’d set as his
phone’s wallpaper, of Casey with his face painted like a pirate. His son. The
child he never thought would be his, the reason he had turned his life inside
out and upside down. The only goal that mattered anymore.
The reason he was about to face down the woman whose heart he
had broken twelve years ago.
* * *
S
TANDING
AT
THE
LONG
TABLE
that stretched across the back wall of the Camp Overlook office, Libby Kovak
snapped the rings together on the last staff handbook binder and closed the
cover with a contented sigh.
“Another check mark on your to-do list, Libby?” Myra MacLean,
the camp owner, smiled as she peeked over the top of her low-riding glasses.
Libby gave a quick nod and pushed the binder to join the others, lined up neatly
in the middle of her center of operations.
“Other than the inevitable additions and shuffling, these are
good to go.”
“And you will handle those changes with your usual gracious
efficiency, I am sure.”
Libby pushed her hair behind her ear and laughed. “If you think
I’m being gracious during the last-minute scrambles, then I should be picking up
my award for Best Actress anytime now.”
Myra chuckled softly before falling silent to look out the
window. Libby’s pulse did a hop-skip. Myra had been gazing out the window a lot
the past few weeks. She’d also been laughing a lot less than usual, which was to
be expected given her sister’s recent diagnosis. It broke Libby’s heart to see
Myra hurting. She’d lost count of the times when she had walked back into the
office after completing a chore on the grounds and found Myra on the phone, deep
in conversations that were obviously ripping her apart, given the slowness of
her responses and the way she jumped on Libby’s entry.
“What is it they say about change?” Myra mused without turning
from the window. “That it’s the only constant in life?”
“Something like that.”
Myra’s nod seemed forced. “They always leave out the part about
it not being easy.”
Ah, damn. Things must be getting worse with Myra’s sister.
Having lost her own grandmother, her only family, just last year, Libby was all
too familiar with the kind of pain and choices Myra must be facing.
“No,” she agreed softly. “It’s not easy. But somehow, we all
make it through.”
Myra turned back to her with a grateful smile. She gave the
window another quick glance, then walked across the creaking floor to flip
through the binder with something far closer to her usual spark. She scanned the
pages, running her finger down the charts, tapping at the cartoons Libby had
added to the material and smiling.
“I will never forget the day you showed up here and asked for a
job,” she said out of the blue. “There have been so many times since then when I
realized that hiring you was probably the best thing I ever did for this
camp.”
Libby forced a smile she didn’t really feel. Her own memories
of that day were a lot less pleasant, not because of anything Myra had done, but
because of the life twist that had forced her to go job hunting at a time when
she had fully expected to be starting classes at university. The fact that she’d
been nursing the rawest heartache of her life only strengthened her resolve to
forget that day.
Ah, well. That was ancient history, and while, as Myra had
said, it hadn’t always been easy, Libby had indeed made it through. And she had
landed in a pretty decent place, if she did say so herself.
She was no longer that terrified eighteen-year-old who had come
begging for a job at the camp that had been the only constant in a life spent
eluding landlords and bill collectors. She’d had a hell of a wake-up call, but
once she had accepted the fact that the only person she could count on for
protection was herself, things had turned around. Now she had her job. She had
her degree, all the sweeter to her because it had taken so long. She had the
town house where she and Gran had finally been able to settle, where they had
planted a garden and painted the walls and where Gran had been able to let go of
life secure in the knowledge that her Lillibet would be okay.
And through it all, she’d had the camp. No matter how crazy the
rest of her life became, she had spent the past twelve years showing up to work
at a place where the trees and the river and the rocks had been a constant
reminder that if she just stood strong, even if she was scared, even if she was
lonely, she would endure.
“Speaking of change,” Myra began, and something in her tone
made Libby look up sharply. Her heart began to thud in a yes-no, yes-no
tattoo.
Because along with learning that she had only herself to rely
on, Libby had learned long ago that it did no good to ignore facts out of
sentiment. Her heart ached for Myra, and she would give anything to spare the
woman the sorrow she was experiencing, but Libby had eyes and ears. She had seen
and heard enough over the past few weeks to realize that Myra would probably be
leaving the camp to care for her sister. Not right away. Hopefully not until the
end of the summer, or even later than that. But Libby’s gut told her that Myra
was getting ready to go.
And whenever she thought of that—when she got past the way her
breath seemed to seize whenever she tried to imagine the camp without Myra—she
remembered the day a year ago, not long before Gran died, when Myra put an arm
around her shoulder and squeezed and told her that when the time came, the camp
would be hers.
Myra glanced out the window once more, then gave a little gasp
and squinted at the clock on the wall. “Goodness. It’s eleven already.”
Libby checked her watch. “Almost. Do you have a hot date then?
There’s nothing in the appointment book.”
“Oh, dear.” Myra’s fingers fluttered to her lips and she
checked the window once more. “He’s early.”
Libby had spent her childhood learning to read the signs that
said problems were on the way, then honed that skill over years of working with
kids whose main purpose at camp was pulling the most outrageous prank of the
season. She could smell trouble while it was still jumping from one neuron to
another, and the scent was growing stronger by the minute.
“
Who
is early?” Libby’s palms grew
clammy at the whiteness of Myra’s cheeks. “Is something wrong?”
At that moment, footsteps sounded on the porch stairs. Myra
turned from the window and sighed.
“Libby, dear, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”
* * *
S
AM
POCKETED
THE
PHONE
and Casey’s stone before mounting the steps to
the office two at a time. He didn’t know what kind of reception he was going to
get when he walked across the kid-worn planks of the porch and stepped through
the door, but whatever happened, he would undoubtedly deserve it.
With a quick check that his collar hadn’t crept up on him, and
a deep breath of the mild June air, he gave a sharp rap and opened the door.
He found himself in the middle of a knotty pine office plucked
straight from his memory, right down to the unforgettable mustiness of ancient
wood tickling his nose. If not for the computers perched on the pair of battered
metal desks, he would have sworn the past twelve years had bypassed this
room.
Two women occupied the space. Myra MacLean stood near the
window with her hands clasped, a nervous smile lifting the wrinkles from her
face. She always made him think of the great blue herons that nested along the
banks of the river, with her long skinny legs and an even longer, skinnier neck.
Three or four decades of eating Cosmo the cook’s famously decadent chocolate
whipped cream cake hadn’t put an extra inch on Myra.
But it was the other woman who made him brace himself, the one
standing in front of a table loaded with binders, shooting looks of incredulity
from him to Myra.
Libby.
Her hair was a darker red than when he had first dared twist
her curls around his fingers. Disbelief widened her hazel eyes and parted the
lips he still tasted in occasional dreams. Sam had figured out long ago that
Libby’s lips were what God had in mind when He decided that people should have a
mouth. The kind of lips that made a promise.
“Hello, Sam.” Myra’s grin faded and her cheeks flushed as she
glanced toward the other woman. “I’m sure you remember Libby Kovak.”
Like he could ever forget her.
Libby snapped that gorgeous mouth shut, slapping on a mask of
politeness that was far too indifferent to fool anyone.
“Sam. Well.” She hesitated, then moved slowly from behind the
table and extended a work-worn hand. “Imagine seeing you again.”
To tell the truth, he had imagined it. Many times.
He took her hand more by reflex than thought. Her palm slid
into his, melded to him, and even while the rational section of his brain
reminded him to
grip, shake, release,
another, more
primitive part of him urged him to
grip, tug, pull
closer.
This grown-up version of Libby was even more magnetic than
the girl he’d left behind. Sure, he’d caught glimpses of the woman she’d become
in the pictures on the camp’s website, but in those shots she was usually buried
in a sweatshirt, hugging a kid, or hiding behind a clipboard. In person she
seemed...softer. More feminine, though maybe that was because she was wearing
some floaty kind of skirt that swayed with her every movement.