by Rachel Cross
Taylor Johnson. Kaylee’s older brother and the one person he needed to see but hadn’t yet had the courage to face. It was another conversation ten years in the making. Gabe was right. He owed it to their family.
Gabe released him and stepped back. “I should warn you. With me taking leave from the hotels until after Lilly has the baby and his setback, Dad’s chomping at the bit to find someone to fill my position until I get back. Three guesses who he has in mind.”
Michael shook his head. “Sorry, but he can keep on looking. I’ve got my own shop to run. I know darn well it’s just his way of trying to reel me in.”
The thought of running the hotels wasn’t what bothered him. Oh, sure, he hated wearing monkey suits. Give him a comfortable pair of jeans over a tie any day. Bliss was being elbows deep in an engine and covered in grease. But he could work the hotels if he had to.
It was the principal of it that got to him. Growing up, his father always seemed to be trying to mold him into something he wasn’t. Michael had built something all on his own, and he was proud of it. He wanted his father to be proud of him, to see his shop in L.A. as the accomplishment it was, but Dad only seemed to see that his youngest son hadn’t come into the family business. From his father’s point of view, Michael turned his back on his family.
Gabe clapped his shoulder. “Well, good luck then. Dad won’t be happy to hear it.”
“Is he ever happy with me?” Michael gave a miserable shake of his head and shoved the door open, steeling himself for what was to come. Two steps in, he halted dead in his tracks. A sense of mortality—his own as well as his father’s—grabbed him by the throat. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this.
The old man sitting up in bed looked nothing like the father he’d known his entire life. His father had aged over the last two years. Dark, almost black hair had turned gray. His skin was paler, his eyes more sunken and rimmed with shadows. He was a lot more fragile under the baby blue, knitted blanket that covered his hips. Nothing at all like the strong, retired United States Marine who ran his family like a military platoon and expected every bit as much from them.
It didn’t matter anymore what had gone between them. They needed to forgive and forget and move on. Too many years had passed in silence, and it had to end here. His mother was right—next time might be too late.
Neatly trimmed gray brows came together as the coal eyes staring back at him narrowed. “You just couldn’t show up when promised, could you?”
In other words, you screwed up again. Michael expelled a heavy breath and let his shoulders slump. If that wasn’t the story of his life.
“Good to see you, too, Dad.” He shook his head as he moved farther into the room.
His father wasn’t going to make this easy.
• • •
An hour later, Michael paced the same invisible line on the hospital floor, back and forth between two bright orange faux leather kitchen chairs that sat against the window. Eyes on the black and white checkered tiles, he clutched the keys in his right jean pocket until the metal bit into his hand. Only his respect for his father’s heart condition kept the slew of retorts currently sitting on his tongue from leaving his lips.
Everything grated on his nerves, his body more on edge with every step he took. The sterile smell. The clean white walls closing in on him. The machines’ steady blips and bleeps increased the pounding in his skull. His father’s rant hadn’t stopped since the opening shot. He’d tried conjuring images of Cat, to reclaim the ease he felt in her arms, but the old man droned on in a scolding tone that made him feel like the teenager he’d once been. Just like then, no amount of distraction worked. No amount of explanation soothed his father’s tirade.
“Maybe if you’d married that girl like you were supposed to—”
Michael rolled his eyes. The same argument. It started exactly as Gabe told him it would—with his father insisting he step up and take his place in the family business—and derailed on a downhill slide from there. He’d hoped they’d gotten over this one by now. That maybe, somehow, time had eased the wound.
“Don’t go there again, Dad.” Michael slowly faced his father. “We’ve been over this a million times. I didn’t want to marry her.”
“She was carrying your child.” He slammed his shaking fist against the bed, the soft mattress absorbing the sound. Anger radiated from his black eyes. “It was your responsibility to do right by her.”
Ten years ago, his father’s voice would have thundered around the room, but now it came out weak and breathless. Despite the misery of seeing his father’s weakened condition, Michael couldn’t stop the old, familiar anger from rising in his stomach.
To think he’d given up a leisurely morning he could’ve spent in Cat’s arms so he could listen to his father tell him repeatedly what a failure and disappointment he was. What the hell ever made him think he could bridge the gap between them? The man heard and believed only what he wanted to.
“Dammit, Dad.” He drew his brows together and met the old man’s heated glare with one of his own. “Did it ever occur to you to ask if the baby was mine?”
When his father went silent, Michael snatched his jacket off the gray overstuffed chair in the corner beside him and left the room. If he didn’t get out of there, his head would explode. He’d also end up saying something he’d probably regret later. Like telling his father where to shove his condescending attitude or suggesting the old man go take a long look in the mirror before pointing any damn fingers at him.
His mother waited in the hallway. Her normally bright eyes clouded with sadness. She took his hand and quietly led him into the waiting area down the hall. Once there, she pulled him into a seat beside her and turned to him, her brows knitted together in worry.
“You need to tell him the truth, Michael.” Her forlorn expression made the guilt in the pit of his stomach rise. The pleading in her eyes penetrated and made him feel like he was fifteen all over again, caught sneaking out of the house.
“I know.” He ducked his head and pushed his hands through his hair, releasing his anger on a pent-up breath. “I’m sorry. He just . . . he gets to me. He doesn’t ever listen. He just says what he wants, and that’s supposed to be the truth.”
“Your father’s a hard man, sweetheart. He’s that way because he loves you so much.” She paused, staring intently at him. “All he wants is to see you happy. He worries about you.”
“He sure has a funny way of showing it.”
“I know he does.” She sighed. “I know you want him to give you the benefit of the doubt, but there is too much water under that bridge. There’ve been wrongs done on both sides and you know it.”
He could only nod. She was right. He’d been a hateful teenager full of too much pent-up anger.
“It has to start with you, sweetheart. You give and he’ll give.” She touched his arm. “Go make peace with him, Michael. Make this right. You may not get another chance.”
Shoulders slumped in defeat, he nodded and rose to his feet. This was the entire reason he came back two years ago, but the day had been eight years in the making, and he hadn’t been prepared for the fight he’d gotten. Too many years of silence and pain had passed between them, too many things said in anger he knew damn well neither of them really meant, and he’d left town the same way he had the first time—angry and hurt.
His mother was right. The endless cycle had to stop with him. He wasn’t that twenty-year-old kid anymore. He was an adult, and it was time to put this to rest.
Returning to his father’s room, Michael took a seat in the chair beside the bed. His father’s face was somber, a hard edge in his eyes. The old man was dying, but he was still prepared for a fight. Michael took a deep breath and touched his hand.
“We need to talk, Dad.”
Chapter Five
With a heavy sigh, Cat leaned her head against her father’s shoulder, a combination of worry and sheer nerves, leaving her stomach a turbulent me
ss. The two of them stood side by side at the front counter of his small bookshop, staring at the newspaper laid out across the counter.
Most days she loved being here. She always felt the most at home among the books. She loved research and had worked in the library in town until it closed two years ago. Now that she’d quit her job with Nick, working for her father felt like coming home again.
Today, however, Cat wished she could be anywhere else. Unfortunately, her father already had the newspaper out when she entered the shop five minutes ago and had seen the picture on the front page.
His continuing silence proved hell on her sanity. Her father staring at those pictures made her want to crawl in a hole. She enjoyed her night with Michael. Enjoyed how feminine and wanted he made her feel. It had been hers and hers alone. Now it was all over the front page of the town newspaper. Would people remember her mother? Wonder if this meant she’d become just like her? Or would they give her the benefit of the doubt this time? She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
“Was he nice to you?”
She turned to her father. His eyes held nothing but gentleness and understanding, but the look did nothing to ease her nerves. “He was a gentleman, yes.”
Her father nodded before turning back to the newspaper. “That’s all that matters.”
She turned to a box of books on the counter and pulled the flaps open. Was it really that simple? Could it be?
“Do you think it’ll affect sales?” She asked more out of a need to fill the uncomfortable silence than an actual need to know.
He let out a quiet laugh, his shoulders shaking. “When you moved into town nine years ago, it actually increased sales. They all came in here to gawk.” Her father joked about it back then, too. He always seemed to take things in stride. Not much ever bothered him. It was a personality trait she wished she shared, but unfortunately she hadn’t been able to laugh about it nine years ago and she couldn’t laugh now, either.
She let out a heavy sigh. “They really are shameless about it, aren’t they?”
Her father threw his arm around her shoulders, drew her gently against his side. “You worry too much, sweetheart. It’s just a kiss.”
“Dad, the entire town now thinks I . . . ” Her cheeks grew hot, the words refusing to leave her mouth. She swallowed and tried again. “They know who Mom was, and this is just another ugly reminder.”
“I should never have let your mother leave with you.” Regret etched from her father’s voice. His hands gripped her shoulders. He turned her toward him and cupped her face in his palms. “You are not your mother, Catherine. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Somewhere deep inside, she knew he was right, but it still felt good to hear him say the words. She’d be forever grateful to her father. He’d always been her biggest supporter. Without him, the leftover shame would have swallowed her whole a long time ago. “Thanks, Dad.”
He dropped his hands to his sides and turned back to the newspaper. “The town will get over itself and move on to bigger and better news. It always does.”
She hoped he was right. Despite the awful gossip, Crest Point was home. Judy had been more of a mother than her own, and when she died two years ago, Cat felt the loss every bit as keenly as her father.
She had allowed the pressure to make her leave once. She and her mother had lived in Crest Point until Cat was twelve. After Senator Brant paid her mother to leave quietly, they’d spent a few years wandering from city to city, everywhere from Seattle to Las Vegas. When her mother dumped her here at sixteen, the rumors got to be more than she could handle. Kids, unfortunately, could be so cruel to each other. So she’d left, ending up in San Diego. After having grown up with her mother, dealing with the stigma she left in every single town, all Cat wanted was peace. To finally be able to stand on her own two feet and judged by her own merits. If the people of Crest Point were going to judge her, then to hell with them.
But Judy had gotten sick, and Cat realized she’d allowed the town to drive her away from the only home she’d ever known. She came back determined to prove she was the absolute opposite of her mother. Determined they wouldn’t push her from her home again.
Now this. Old wounds died hard. Despite knowing she had nothing to be ashamed of, her stomach still knotted wondering what people would say. She still wanted to hide in a hole.
The bell over the door chimed, signaling a customer’s entrance. She and her father turned. The sight that greeted her stopped her heart.
Michael.
He stood frozen two steps inside the entrance, one hand holding the door open. His eyes widened. Her heart hammered like pistons as she stared at him. She’d known she was bound to run into him sooner or later—the town simply wasn’t that big—but she was unprepared for the actuality of it. Looking at him, she heard again every sinful tidbit he murmured in her ear, felt again his soft, warm hands sliding over her skin . . .
Heat flashed in his eyes, telling her he remembered as well. Electricity zipped between them, hot and tangible, thickening the air. She hadn’t realized how much she longed to see him again until this very moment. Everything inside of her ached with the need to go to him, to press herself against him. She yearned to be back in his embrace, lost in the urgent heat of his kiss.
He was completely out of her league. Yet there he was, and her heart fluttered with hope even as fear reached up to grab her by the throat. It was supposed to be one night of passion. She wasn’t supposed to see him again . . .
Drawing her brows together, she shook her head in miserable confusion. “What are you doing here?”
• • •
Michael’s mind went blank. The words he’d been about to say evaporated into thin air as he soaked in the sight of Cat. She’d been on his mind all morning and suddenly there she was. She looked even better than when he left her, dressed simply in a T-shirt and khaki shorts. The way the shirt hugged the curves of her body, outlining the shape of her full breasts, made his palms sweat. Made him remember cupping the weighty mounds in his hands . . .
He glanced at the older gentleman beside her—a man in his mid to late fifties with a full head of salt and pepper hair—and noticed the open newspaper on the counter in front of him. He easily recognized the picture on the front page.
When Gabe pointed it out to him an hour ago, he hoped somehow Cat hadn’t seen it. Judging by the look on her face, she obviously had. His heart sank. That meant not only did she know who he was, but the whole ugly story had been rehashed in the newspaper. She now knew why he left ten years ago.
Cat twisted her hands together, confusion dancing in her eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder—did knowing the truth change her view of him?
His whole life people treated him differently, his parents holding him to almost impossible standards, all because his family was well-known. His grandfather’s affair had dragged their name down along with him, and life had always been about repairing the damage and putting out the right image. An image he thrived on going against once upon a time, because he felt compressed and cornered by the pressure. His rebellion had gotten not one, but three people killed, all of it outlined in that damn article. It all made him wonder: Would Cat care? Would it change the way she saw him?
Sucking in a deep breath, he turned to the older gentleman beside her, forcing his mind back to the reason he came in here in the first place. A safer alternative at the moment.
“Actually—” He stepped farther into the shop, the door swooshing closed behind him, setting the bell tinkling again. “I came looking for Jonathan Edwards. I was told I could find him here?”
Disappointment flitted across Cat’s features as she turned to the box on the counter and began pulling out books. The look twisted at something in his gut, made him wish they were alone.
Either oblivious to the tension between him and Cat or too polite to say anything, the older man flashed a pleasant smile and stuck his hand out in greeting. “You found him.”
Stopping in f
ront of the counter, he accepted the man’s handshake and tried his damndest not to stare at Cat. Or lean across the counter and inhale the now familiar scent of her skin. “Michael Brant. I come on behalf of my father. I’m told you were the one who found him?”
Jonathan nodded. “On the side of the road, just off the highway. Seemed like he was having a heart attack. How’s he doing?”
“Fine, thanks to you. My mother tells me you followed him all the way to the hospital and stayed with him until she arrived.”
A smile touched Jonathan’s mouth. “Never would have forgiven myself if something had happened to him. My late wife used to say nobody should die alone.”
Michael offered a polite smile. “My family’s very grateful to you. My father said four cars passed him, but yours was the only one that stopped. He’d like to thank you in person. I’ve actually come to extend an invitation. My folks throw a barbeque every year for the Fourth, just family and friends, nothing huge, and they’d like you to come.”
Pulled by the power of her presence, he looked over at Cat. She peeked at him from beneath her lashes as she stacked the books on the counter. Something flashed in her jade eyes, but she quickly diverted her gaze before he could register what it had been. It ate at him. She didn’t look pleased to see him. She seemed . . . torn, tormented. Did the damn picture in the paper have anything to do with it?
Hope fluttered in his stomach as an idea flitted through his mind. He kept a careful watch on her expression. “My mother said to make sure to tell you to bring your family.”
As hoped, Cat looked up.
“Since my wife died, it’s just the two of us.” Jonathan wrapped an arm around Cat, something akin to amusement and challenge flashing in the old man’s eyes. “This is my daughter, Catherine, but I suspect you know that already.”
His face heating, Michael rubbed the back of his neck. Well, that confirmed his suspicion that Jonathan was her father. Coming back to town, he hoped to avoid this exact problem.