The Seal's Secret Daughter. Christy Jeffries
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Trina returned from the restroom. Out of all the questions she wanted answered, the first one that came tumbling out of her mouth was, “Is she yours?”
Monica winced at her own words, her whisper-soft tone not making the personal question sound any less rude.
But Ethan either hadn’t been bothered or he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the impolite tone. He shrugged his shoulders, the expression on his face almost trancelike. “That’s what her mother said when she left her on my front porch this morning.”
“What do you mean, her mother left her on your front porch?” Monica had to brace her hand on the cowhide printed backrest of the booth. She was no longer whispering, drawing the curious stares from the other side of the restaurant.
“She knocked on my door this morning. I didn’t even recognize her.”
“Trina?” Disgust rose in Monica’s throat. How had the man not recognized his own daughter?
“No. Her mom. I guess we dated in high school and...” Ethan gave another shrug and it was all she could do not to grab two fistfuls of his plaid work shirt and shake the rounded muscles of his shoulders.
“You guess?” Monica swallowed a lump of annoyance. She wasn’t only ticked off with his answer, she was angry with herself. Disappointed at how easily she’d been blinded by her building attraction to a man who didn’t seem to know anything about his own daughter—including her existence. “So where is her mother now?”
“Her mother?” His brows formed a V and Monica rolled her eyes in frustration. She could handle Ethan easily enough when he was being a charming flirt, or even when he professed to be interested in her tongue-in-cheek book recommendations. However, if he was hoping this whole confused pretense would draw her sympathy, he was sorely mistaken.
“Yes. The person you dated back in high school? The mother of your child?”
“Right. Chantal drove off. She said she wasn’t any good at being a mom and threw Trina’s bag of clothes at me, telling me it was my turn to step up.”
There was nothing more reprehensible than a man who didn’t take care of his responsibilities. No amount of sex appeal or charm could make up for a lack of character. Her own father had been the same way and Monica shuddered at how close she’d come to falling under Ethan’s spell.
At how close she’d come to repeating her own mother’s same mistakes.
Monica’s growing revulsion was soon replaced with pity as Trina returned from the bathroom, her chin low and her face averted from the curious stares from the other customers as she carried a balled-up blue sweatshirt under one arm. Monica took in his daughter’s lanky unwashed hair and the oversize T-shirt advertising Mesquite Muffler Mart and Automotive Repair. Not exactly a fashion staple in most preteen girls’ closets.
The child’s voice was low and gravelly when she whispered, “Why do they all keep looking over here?”
Monica glanced toward her Wednesday morning regulars. Scooter and Jonesy, the two older cowboys, were mostly harmless although a little gossipy at times. She couldn’t say the same for the other three ladies, who apparently weren’t in any hurry to leave, despite the fact they’d already paid their checks and had their own local businesses to open.
Monica had grown up in Sugar Falls and, as much as she withered under the curious stares and wagging tongues, at least she was used to the presence of the small-town busybodies. It had to be twenty times worse for a child who was also an outsider.
“You know what?” Monica stood up straighter. “The cook is out on a smoke break. Why don’t you guys come on back to the kitchen and I’ll fix your breakfast myself? It’s much more private back there.”
She was still holding the mug of hot chocolate and tried to give Trina a reassuring smile before leading the way toward the swinging door. It took a few seconds before the girl followed, and Monica pulled out the single wooden stool near a stainless steel counter for Trina, not bothering with a thought for where Ethan would sit.
He could either plop himself on the ground or go on and slither out the front door for all she cared. Instead, she had to hold back every insulting word on the tip of her tongue when Ethan finally wormed his way back into the kitchen. After all, it wouldn’t be fair to say anything that might upset Trina, the poor little girl who’d just been abandoned by her own mother.
Monica added a heavy dollop of whipped cream to the mug of cocoa and handed it to the waif of a child. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Ethan must’ve left his own coffee back at the table and Monica couldn’t help but shoot daggers at the man who stood by the door, his hands buried in his jean pockets and his eyes darting around nervously, as though he was also plotting his own escape. As though leaving a child behind was no different than abandoning his cup of coffee.
A knot of concern wedged between her rib cage. Monica had also grown up without a father, but at least she’d had Gran. Trina, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have anyone. Maybe someone should call child protective services or even the police department and file some sort of report. She made a mental note to do some research on it. Once she got Trina fed.
“Would you like blueberries in your pancakes?” Monica asked.
Trina shot a questioning glance to her father. Or at least the man who’d sired her. “Does that cost extra?”
“I...uh...” Ethan’s normally cocky voice stuttered and Monica would’ve laughed at how many notches his ego must’ve been taken down if the circumstances hadn’t come at Trina’s expense. He moved closer and leaned a hip against the basin of the prep sink. “You can get whatever you want. Don’t worry about the cost.”
The girl let out a breath and put an elbow onto the counter, resting her chin on her palm as she studied the man. Monica poured some batter onto the griddle and threw in a scoop of blueberries, constantly glancing back over her shoulder to watch the silent staring contest between father and daughter.
“Only rich people say things like ‘don’t worry about the cost,’” Trina said, and Monica choked back a giggle. She was glad to see that the child was finally finding her voice and speaking up. “Are you one of those guys who lives in a crappy apartment, but you’re really a secret billionaire?”
“I’m not rich. And my apartment isn’t that crappy. I mean it’s not really decorated or anything because I’ve only lived there a few months. And I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”
“Ethan,” Monica warned, unsure of the direction that this conversation was taking and not wanting the man to do any further damage than he’d already done by being an absent father for the past however many years. “How old are you, Trina?”
“Eleven.”
“Wow.” Ethan exhaled a long, slow hiss of air. “I didn’t... I don’t... I... Wow. I’ve never been in this situation before.”
“It’s fine if you don’t want me,” Trina said when Ethan apparently couldn’t finish whatever it was he’d been trying to say. Whatever cheap apologies he might’ve offered for missing the first eleven years of her life. “I have a caseworker back in Galveston. If you call her, she’ll get me a bus ticket or an emergency foster home or something.”
“Have you been in foster care before?” Ethan asked, inching closer, and Monica held her breath, praying the young girl had somehow had a happy and fulfilling life up until now.
“Every year or so, my mother decides that she can’t deal with me or with life and takes off somewhere. I used to live with my grandmother, but Gran died a few months ago.”
“Oh,” was all Ethan could say, and Monica clenched the spatula tighter, her heart clenching at the girl’s casual