Uh-oh. I’d just assumed he knew. He’d seen the way I looked that day we nearly ran into each other at the Dark Fantasies Club office. But he did seem to have a habit of blurting out obvious questions before he could stop himself.
Which was sexy as fuck.
“Yeah,” I admitted as remembrance dawned in his eyes. “I thought that was pretty much apparent by the whole taking care of my papa instead of going to college and spending every penny I earned at my crap retail job on rent and medical bills.”
“I’m sorry,” Shawn said in a rush. “I didn’t make the connection.”
“It is what it is,” I said, holding up a hand like I didn’t want to get into it any deeper. “But all of my fabulous life experience means I know what the sort of people your supper is catered toward actually need, and it isn’t a few nice Christmas presents and one good meal.”
“What is it, then?” Shawn asked, leaning toward me with interest sparking in his eyes.
“It’s jobs,” I said, leaning toward him as well. “Good jobs. Jobs that will let people do more than live paycheck to paycheck.”
“Jobs.” Shawn nodded. “Got it.”
“Ah,” I said, holding up a finger and telling him to wait a minute. “But a lot of people in my situation don’t have the skills for the best-paying jobs. See previous reference to not being able to go to college because of money and taking care of Papa.”
Shawn frowned, confused over the way I seemed to be arguing with myself. “So…job training?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said with a beaming smile. “Except there are a lot of single parents out there who have young children that they can’tjust drop to go to school or training, or leave behind when they go to work all day.”
Shawn looked more confused than ever, but he also wore a look of determination, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “So…daycare?”
“Absolutely,” I said, spreading my arms wide.
Shawn took another sip of coffee, then said, “Daycare, job training, and jobs. How do you wrap those up as gifts for a charity supper event and give them to people for Christmas?”
Hell if I knew, but I did have a few ideas I’d been thinking about as my own situation started to spiral. “It’s a complicated situation,” I began. “A lot of it has to come from?—”
My words died in my mouth and I sat up straighter as, of all people, my dad walked into the diner.
“Is something wrong?” Shawn asked, glancing over his shoulder to see what had made me go pale and bugged my eyes out.
As soon as Dad saw me, he broke into his slickest, gap-toothed grin. “Zo-Zo, my boy,” he said as he sauntered down the aisle toward us, arms spread like he would give me a big hug.
There was no way I was letting that deadbeat come anywhere near me. He’d probably pat me down and steal my wallet while I hugged him.
“Do you know him?” Shawn asked. I loved the defensive, alpha growl that had come into his voice and the way his rain scent seemed to grow stronger as my dad came nearer.
Dad heard the question and answered for me as he slipped into the booth by my side. “I’m his old man. Jamie O’Neill, at your service.” Dad extended a hand across the table to Shawn.
Shawn didn’t take it. I was suddenly so glad I’d mentioned my dad was a deadbeat when we were in the car earlier. “Mr. O’Neill,” he greeted him with a cold nod instead.
If Shawn’s reaction bothered my dad, he didn’t let on. He kept his smile in place as he pulled his arms back, then proceeded to drink the last of my coffee and eat the last piece of bacon off my plate.
“Where’ve you been lately, Zo-Zo?” Dad asked, taking a piece of pancake off Shawn’s plate while still chewing on my bacon.
“Don’t call me that,” I grumbled. “Papa called me ‘Zo-Zo’. You’re not allowed to use that name.”
My dad shrugged and ignored me, as usual. “I stopped by to see how my dear son was doing the other day but you weren’t home.”
Under the table, Shawn’s foot made contact with my leg. It was endearing how he was trying to look out for me, even though I’d faced this situation a million times in my past. I smiled briefly at him to let him know it was okay, then turned to my dad and said, “I’ve been busy with work.”
“I know, I know,” Dad said. “I dropped by the store yesterday and had a lovely chat with your boss, Mr. York. I tried to pick up your check. You know, to keep it safe for you. That bastard wouldn’t let me.”
I never thought I would say or even think the words “Thank God for Mr. York.”
“It’s not your money, Dad, it’s mine,” I said, feeling like a broken record. “I don’t owe you anything, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have anything to give you. I’m going to be paying off Papa’s medical bills until I’m fifty.”
