There couldn’t be any harm in giving her a snail mail address. It seemed petty to hold back. He’d given his kid so little. “Sure, kiddo. I’m staying with a friend. But I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“At least for a week, though, right?”
“At least a week, and I’ll leave a forwarding address.”
Where would he go after that? His mind actually wandered down paths of what-if he hung around here. Lauren would enjoy coming to Charleston. Teens were lured by beaches, right?
Had it been over a year since he’d seen her? What a crummy excuse for a father. He’d gone that long before because of deployments and he’d worked his ass off to make it up to her when he’d returned.
He would do the same soon when he was steadily on his two feet again and had an equally steady vision for his future. She deserved a real father.
There had to be a reason she called. Holidays? He didn’t think so since he always did come through with the holiday calls. “Is there a particular reason for this conversation? Is something wrong?”
Her deep breath rattled through the airwaves, building until the words seemed to roll free from her. “Daddy, Mom’s getting married again to this total dweeb. I can’t stand living with them anymore. It’s going to make me freaking insane if I have to listen to him call Mom ‘sugar pie’ one more time. Please, I want to come live with you.”
Sugar pie? Lindsay had obviously found the tenderness she’d always claimed Rick lacked. He was glad for her. That part of the conversation didn’t bother him—beyond reminding him what crap material he was in the relationship department.
He needed to focus on the important fact here. Lauren wanted to live with him. Now.
And just that fast, the few props he’d managed to rebuild cracked in two. He heard her request and all the pain in Lauren’s voice as loud and clear as when she’d fallen off her bike at seven.
Sure he wanted to be the kind of parent his kid could count on to tend to those wounds life inflicted on a regular basis. But he knew straight up, he wasn’t anywhere near ready to be the father his daughter needed.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Nola whispered softly, guessing Rick was awake, too, but keeping her voice low in case she was wrong.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Rick answered, a large shadow in the moonlit double bed across the garage apartment. He sprawled on his back, hands under his head, chest stretching his brown military T-shirt.
“Everything okay with you?” Nola asked from the sofa bed. She tucked her Laura Ashley comforter up under her chin. She might be on a pullout sofa bed, but that didn’t mean she had to leave her froufrou behind, the pampering that made her feel sensually a woman.
“Yeah. Fine.” The deep timbre of his voice rumbled across the room and over her heightened senses deprived of full sight.
“Finished all your prayers?” Prodding him to keep talking might be reckless. She should cocoon herself in her covers and fake sleep until reality took over. A wise woman would. But her usual wisdom rarely came into play around this fellow.
“‘Now I lay me down to sleep’ and the whole bit.”
More of that rumbly voice of his wrapped around her with more comfort than any luxury spread. She missed those late-night exchanges in the dark and couldn’t resist continuing the conversation. “Did you used to say that with your daughter?”
“When I was around, which wasn’t often.”
“So make up for it now. You’ve got time on your hands and a full disability paycheck to cover expenses.”
She sat up and hugged her knees. And yes, she couldn’t deny how much more wonderful it would be to have his arms around her instead. So why was she risking putting more space between them by venturing into the dangerous terrain of giving him parenting advice when she knew it could put them at odds? But his strained relationship with his daughter seemed too important to tiptoe around.
His feet flexed and stretched rhythmically under the covers.
Why, she wondered for a moment, then realized his legs must be bothering him. He must have pushed himself pumping those weights in the dining area. He pushed himself with everything. She’d noticed all the little repairs around her house…the door that didn’t squeak anymore. The faucet no longer dripping. A nail on the stairs that didn’t protrude.
Every time she took a shower or did anything out of his sight, she found something else fixed in her home. The man never rested and apparently his healing body was paying the price.
He hitched another pillow under his head. “You’re full of advice.”
“Unwelcome advice by the sound of your voice.” Her chin fell to rest on her knees.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
No wonder he flexed his feet—to stretch out his calf muscles. He couldn’t sleep because of the pain racked up from helping her. She’d meant to help him by freeing him from the rehab center he’d so obviously resented.
Guilt prickled over her. Maybe he’d been better off there with the more assertive care. She’d been so caught up in her car hunting and then her financial mortification—not to mention the whole stalker creepiness—she’d selfishly forgotten that Rick needed to take care of himself. “Are you feeling okay?”