All the breath flees my lungs when I peek around the corner for confirmation.
It’s twenty minutes before my wedding, and the man who’s supposed to become my husband is kissing another woman.
Chapter 9
Harlan
“Elvis Presley is in the house!” I shout as I crank up the volume to “Hound Dog,” and Abby lifts her chin to howl at the moon.
I clap, keeping rhythm as my six-year-old uses a wooden spoon as a microphone, crooning along with Elvis’s tune.
She breaks off to grab a rubber spatula from the flour-and-cherry-covered kitchen counter. “You need a mic too, Daddy,” she says, thrusting it at me.
I take the instrument and we slide into our best imitation of The King as we wait for the pie to bake.
We finish our daddy-daughter duet as the timer bleats, and Abby points wildly to the oven. “It’s ready! We can eat it now.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You know the drill. You’ve only made, what, ten million pies with me? We have to let it cool.”
“Ten million and fifty!” She bats her lashes. “But I was just hoping maybe this time.”
I ruffle her curly brown hair, chuckling at her attempt to make me bend. “Hope is a good thing, little bear,” I tell her as I turn off the timer. “But pies don’t cool with hope. They cool with time. Also, you know this pie isn’t for us.” I grab a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer potholder, open the oven door, and slide out the cherry pie. I set it on a rack on the counter, then use my hands to direct the scent of sweet and tart fresh fruit and crumbly crust our way.
“It smells so good,” Abby says, bouncing on her toes as she inhales.
“’Course it does. We made it. We rock. And your mom is going to love it.”
Abby arches a mischievous brow. “What if I eat it all first?”
I bend to drop a kiss onto her nose. “Then you’re going to have the biggest bellyache in all of San Francisco,” I tell her, then rub her tummy.
“Fine. I’ll wait. But I hope she lets me have some tonight,” she says with a touch of worry. “I really, really hope so.”
Ah, the dilemmas of youth.
I worry whether this city’s NFL team will offer me a contract next season and if I’ll even want it, whether my kid is making friends at school, and whether she’ll want to find a new gymnastics class, since she decided to quit the one she was taking.
She worries about pie.
It’s a fair trade-off.
An hour later, we’re ready to go. I grab a pie box from the stash I keep, pop in the tasty treat, and tell Abby to find her overnight bag.
It’s bowling night with the guys, so I’m dropping Abby at her mom’s house. I don’t always bring pies, but Danielle and her hubs dig them, so I try to do so as often as I can. Also, it doesnotsuck making pies with my little girl. Win-win.
Abby snags her panda backpack from the hallway and slings it onto both shoulders. “And now I am officially ready.”
I swing open the door. “Panda is on the back, so it’s go time.”
On the sidewalk, Abby reaches for my hand. I take her little one in mine and we head toward California Street.
She looks up at me, concern in her hazel eyes. “Are you sure you have to go to training camp next week?”
Okay, not all her worries are of the sugar variety. This kid misses me when I’m out of town, and I sure as hell miss her.
I throw her a them’s-the-breaks smile. “I do. The Renegades won’t let me play if I don’t show up. But I’ll talk to you every day.”
“I know. I just miss you when you’re gone,” she says, matter-of-factly as we near the corner.
