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Look at that?! Makes me feel all traditional and romantic and doing good service in the name of single fathers everywhere! Fathers who have daughters, coz as a Daddy's girl myself, I've made my father suffer. Suffer! The things that man has done with patience and a sigh and most probably several cigarettes after I've gone to bed. So this story is for the Dads to daughters. Fathers who will trek with their daughter to Topshop and endure the trauma so they can buy that skirt everyone's been on about. Fathers who will wear earplugs while their daughters sing along loudly and badly to their favourite boyband who they will marry. They totally will marry every member. Not the fat one though. Fathers who will watch that boy from across the street with suspicion because he is not allowed to look in his child's direction. Fathers who will iron school uniforms, do Design Technology homework before it is burned into a crisp, remember a much needed tennis racket and sneak a cheeky champagne to their daughter just so she knows the difference between the fake stuff and the good stuff. Thank you. You don't get enough credit.
http://www.sharaazod.com/ebook/sweet-child-mine.html
Le Blurb
Liam McNamara has enough on his plate. As a widowed father to a daughter he doesn't recognise, he really has no time for his mother's interference with his love life. She and her church friend can stop handing out photos of him to the single ladies of the congregation and let him try to be the paternal and maternal figure his daughter so desperately needs.
Abigail Yeboah ignores most of what happens in her mother's church. She's focused on her budding business and she's certainly not interested in playing Evil Queen to Liam McNamara's brat. But when Abigail catches his daughter in an act of vandalism, she finally understands it's not only the child who needs her, but the man.
La Excerpt
Abigail carried on clearing down the tables. “I’d like to be home before
half eight,” she said. “I’m listening, but I do need this done.”
He leaned over and took the cloth and table spray from her hands. “Hold
on a moment.”
His palms were warm and rough around her wrists. It made her freeze.
Er...hello? Did she miss a conversation where this was all right? He gently
tugged her in front of him, looking her directly in the eyes.
“I’m sorry about Leila’s behaviour. And I do appreciate you being
decent, rather than taking her to the police station. It’s what I would have
done. I’m sorry for snapping at you. It was uncalled for.”
She carefully pulled her wrists from his grasp and returned to cleaning
down the tables. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing was broken.” The sigh that came
from him forced her to look up. There was some truth in her mother’s words. The
man was lonely. “Do you want to talk?”
“To a professional?” he asked ruefully.
She lifted one shoulder. “To me. I feel like you need to talk to someone
who isn’t related to you or your vicar.”
He wavered, rubbing a palm over his beard. “Are you sure?”
No. “I’ve offered, so I’d hope so.”
Bowing his head, he stared at his shoes for a moment. “I’ll drop Leila
with my mother. Shall I meet you somewhere in half an hour?”
“Just come back here,” she suggested. “Get a cab, come here. We’ll get
on the wine I can’t serve until my licence kicks in. Get a cab home.”
He grinned. “You said the magic word. Wine. My mum was right
about you. I’ll see you in half an hour.”
His mother was what? He disappeared, leaving her speechless, holding the cloth and cleaning
spray like a doofus. Crap, did she have makeup in her bag? Hurriedly finishing
the cleanup, she closed the café and rummaged through her bag to find a bit of
blusher and lip-gloss. A little powder toned down the shine on her nose, but
nothing was going to rescue the tired T-shirt printed with Books Are Friends
or her torn jeans. She brushed a hand over her cropped hair—the cut that made
her mother cry for two weeks straight. It did provide endless compliments as to
how it emphasised her jawline and the shape of her eyes and drew attention to
her mouth. Still, she looked boyish. Hell, Liam had more hair on his head than
she did. What was she doing? Why was she getting overexcited about a grieving
man?
Just as she thought about how to tell him to keep his widowed arse at
home, he strolled back into the café.
“You should lock that,” he said, pulling one of her mismatched chairs
from the table and sitting down. “Where’s this wine you promised?”
“Aren’t we bossy?”
“We,” he pointed his thumbs to his chest, “are in need of alcohol. A lot
of.”
She bolted the front door, picked up a bottle of Pinot and a corkscrew.
“You open that. I’m getting some food.”
He perked up. “Food? What do you have?”
“Goat cheese tarts to start and chicken parmigiano.”
His mouth parted for a moment before he burst out, “Jesus Christ, you
fucking angel.”
“Calm down.” She laughed. “Just open the wine and I’ll bring it out.”
In five minutes, she brought out the warm tarts with onion marmalade.
The smile in Liam’s eyes was enough to make her feel weak and all too aware of
her femininity. “Before you say, this was all made fresh this morning. I just
put it in the oven to reheat.”
“This is such a luxury, I can’t tell you.” His praise was all in his
groan of appreciation after his first mouthful. “I’m a cheese monster.”
“Good for you,” she teased, taking a sip of wine. “Don’t you cook?”
“I have to. But I’ve been cutting corners recently. Trying to feed a
twelve-year-old who thinks you’re Satan out to ruin her life means food needs
to be done in fifteen minutes or less. I used to bake.”
Abigail choked on her tart. “You used to what?”
“Bake,” he said, barely pausing in between forkfuls of tart and salad
leaves. “Bread, cakes, quiches. We’d do it together.”
Abigail tried not to tense, but the sensation invaded her shoulders. The
image of his demon child and his perfect wife all laughing and giggling,
throwing flour at each other, did not sit well in her stomach. “Why don’t you?
Any more?”
“No incentive.”
“Come on. Having fresh bread is always an incentive.”
“Nice idea,” he murmured, flicking his eyes up from the plate to rest on
her. “What’s happening with your licence?”
Normally, people only ever stared that intently at her to request
service or more chocolate cake. “Refused for some unknown reason. Probably
because Mrs. Dalbury-Scott’s husband is the local councillor. He deals with
licences and she’s called The Library
a ghetto.”
The woman had an issue with Abigail ever since she offered a breakfast
and tea menu for local schoolchildren at a very reduced price. It was to help
out struggling parents who had to rush to get their children to school and
themselves to work. More so, it ensured those children ate well before and
after a long school day. Apparently, Abigail was simply encouraging riffraff
into the area and alcohol would increase the number of ASBOs the council would
have to give out. Abigail wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Dalbury-Scott to
imperiously command her husband to refuse the licence without thinking. Only to
be petty and completely fuck up Abigail’s revenue.
Liam’s brows rose. “Does she know half the kids from her daughter’s
fancy school are here every day?”
“Like yours?” she countered.
“Without the egging. I’m sorry about that... You don’t want to listen to
me complaining about my child.”
Not really, but if he carried on talking she’d try to ignore what he was
saying and instead focus on his voice—deep and smooth and as rich as the wine
they were enjoying. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”
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