Did that mean he should never be part of Clare's life?
No.
But shouldn't he be the one to make the first move?
As much as Sammie would like to say yes, she knew he never would, not after everything he'd told her. She didn't want to understand his reasoning, didn't want to sympathize, but she did.
No matter what may have happened between them, no matter how much he had hurt her by walking away the way he had, he didn't deserve to be estranged from his own daughter.
Sammie sighed and leaned her head against the sofa, her gaze drifting over to her own father. Big, loud, larger than life. Always there for his family. A rock, even in times of upheaval—like her and her sisters' teenage years. Sammie tried to imagine what life would have been like growing up without her father. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't. Her father had been too large an influence on her life. He still was.
Didn't Clare deserve the same thing?
But what if Sammie did this, and Jon walked away again? He'd done it once, nothing was stopping him from doing it again.
But what if he didn't do it again? Was it right for her to take that chance away from him and his daughter?
Sammie wished she could talk to someone about this, wished there was someone she could discuss her fears and hopes with, someone who would listen and play devil's advocate and give her advice. But there wasn't anyone.
She glanced over at the family gathered in the large dining room, laughing and talking. She couldn't ask her sisters or their husbands, they would never understand. And certainly not her parents. Sammie had never told them all the details, but that wouldn't make a difference—they were firmly anti-Jon at the moment, had been since she moved back here, freshly divorced with a six-month-old infant and no place to call home.
And she couldn't talk to any of her teammates, not about this. Taylor was convinced she should just move on. Shannon thought she needed closure before moving on. And the others…well, none of them really knew the details, and Sammie had no plans to tell them.
Which meant the decision was hers, and hers alone.
"Hey, Boo. Come here with Mommy."
Clare looked up from the block tower she had been ready to knock over then frowned. And oh God, that was Jon's frown, no doubt about it. Sammie swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat then forced a smile to her face.
"Don't even think about saying no, young lady. Come here, Mommy wants to ask you something."
The frown disappeared from Clare's face and she hurried over to Sammie, jumping in her lap with a quiet giggle and wrapping her small arms around Sammie's neck. "What, Mommy?"
"You feel like going for a ride with Mommy?"
Clare laughed then jumped up and down, making Sammie wince when one of her feet connected with her kneecap. "Yes. Yes, yes, yes."
"Go get your shoes and some toys while I get ready." Sammie dropped a kiss on the top of Clare's head before she scampered off then pushed herself up from the floor. Both of her parents watched her as she moved toward the kitchen, their gazes curious and questioning.
"You didn't tell us you had plans, dear."
"Um, yeah. I didn't before." Sammie tossed a smile at her mom then grabbed a large, flat container from one of the cabinets and started going through the leftovers. Turkey. Stuffing. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Sauerkraut and kielbasa. Two rolls. No, make that three.
Her father moved into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, his arms crossed in front of him. His dark eyes followed her as she grabbed another container, smaller this time.
"Sam, what exactly are you doing?"
"Just, um, putting some food together, that's all." She spooned out some cranberry sauce, added a few slices of cold ham and a couple deviled eggs, tossed in some of the raw veggies from the platter in the refrigerator.
"Who's the food for?"
"Um—" Sammie focused on snapping the lids on both containers, trying to figure out how to answer. She didn't want to lie to her parents, but she didn't feel like getting a lecture, either.
"Samantha. What, exactly, are you doing?"
She winced at her father's use of her full name then turned to face him, hoping there wouldn't be a battle over this. "I'm taking Clare to see her father. I thought I'd take some food with me."
Silence greeted her words. Not just silence from her parents, but from her sisters and their husbands, as well. Her mother pushed away from the table and hurried toward them, placing a steadying hand on her father's arm. One glance at their faces told Sammie all she needed to know.
"No. Absolutely not."
Her mother squeezed her father's arm, either reassuring him or trying to silence him, then turned back to Sammie. "I don't think that's a good idea, dear."
"Probably not," Sammie agreed. She placed both containers into a large carry-tote and zipped it up. "But I'm doing it anyway."
"I don't—"
"Dad, please. It's something I need to do, okay?"
"Are you thinking about getting back with him?"
"No." Sammie shook her head. Of that, she was positive. This wasn't about her. This wasn't about a reconciliation. This was about Clare, nothing else. She told them that, her voice as clear and adamant as she could make it. But she saw the doubt in their eyes and readied herself for more objections, wondering if this was going to lead to a huge family squabble.
Clare came running in, dragging her small backpack behind her and holding one tiny shoe up. "Ready, Mommy!"
Sammie laughed, grateful for the distraction. She scooped Clare up and sat her on the counter, then busied herself with untying the knot in the shoe and getting it on her daughter's foot.
"You're making a mistake—"
"Dad, I know—"
"I forbid you to leave this house."
Sam blinked, her mouth hanging open in surprise. She snapped it closed, darted a glance toward her mother, then looked back at her father. "Dad, I'm twenty-four. You can't forbid me to do anything."
"As long as you live in my house—"
"Dennis. Stop." Her mother's calm voice eased some of the tension that had spiked at her father's words. "Sammie, you need to think about what you're doing. Think about the possible repercussions—"
"I have, Mom. This is something I need to do. Okay?" She held her mother's gaze for several long minutes, silently willing her to understand. Did she? Sammie wasn't sure. How could she expect her mother to understand, when she wasn't sure she understood herself? But her mother slowly nodded, although the worry was still clear in her eyes.
Sammie heaved a sigh of relief then lowered Clare to the floor and grabbed the tote filled with leftovers. "I won't be too late."
She ushered Clare to the door, bundled her in her coat and hat and mittens, then shrugged into her own coat and gloves before moving outside.
It wasn't until she reached the end of the long driveway that she realized she had no idea where Jon lived.
Chapter Thirteen
"You, my man, are a complete fucking idiot."
Jonathan paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth, just long enough to shoot Mac a death glare, then took a long swallow. The beer was just this side of lukewarm and too bitter. His lips twisted in a grimace and he placed the bottle back on the low table in front of him.
Mac ignored the glare and kept talking, calling him every name in the book and some he just decided to make up. Jonathan tuned him out, trying to focus on the football game playing out on the television across the room.
Then Daryl started in, adding his own colorful insults and ruining any chance Jonathan had of focusing on the game.
"Seriously. What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking she had a right to know."
"Not about that. That, I get. But you don't just fucking drop shit like that on someone with no experience. No wonder she ran off. You probably scared the fuck out of her."
"She didn't run off." Not really. Jonathan had simply told her to leave—and sh
e did.
Mac laughed, the sound a gravelly bark of sharp noise. "Yeah. Uh-huh. Knowing you, you probably told her to leave."
"What the fuck were you even thinking?" Daryl repeated the question around a mouthful of cold pizza. "You totally ruined our plan of making the former Mrs. Reigler the future Mrs. Reigler."
"There was no plan."
"The hell there wasn't." Daryl tossed the crust into the opened pizza box then grabbed a napkin and swiped it across his mouth. "You were supposed to ease into it. Get her used to seeing you again. Let her get comfortable with you. Let her get to know you again. Not strongarm her into meeting you in some stupid fucking parking lot then dropping that fucking bombshell on her. Hell, I would have run off, too."
"Yeah, well. Not like it matters. None of this shit was going to work anyway."
"Fuck. Not with that attitude, it wasn't." Mac leaned back on the sofa, draping both arms along the back, then turned to study Jonathan. Intense. Serious. Seeing way too much.
Jonathan shifted and looked away, wishing again that he hadn't said anything to either of his buddies. Telling them had been a mistake.
But who the hell else was he going to talk to? The three of them had been through hell together—more than once. They had each other's backs, no matter what. They were more than buddies. More than comrades. They were brothers—closer than brothers.
"Okay, so Plan A didn't work. Now we just need to come up with Plan B. And make sure you stick to it this time."
"No, no Plan B. Or C or D or anything else. It's done. Time to move on to something else." And fuck, why did saying that hurt so much? Jonathan had known, even before moving back here, that this wasn't going to work. Sammie was no longer part of his life. She had moved on—and he had helped her do just that by giving her the closure she needed.
Yeah. That was really fucking big of him.
Fuck.
He swallowed back the bitterness threatening to overwhelm him and changed the subject. "So when does the contract get finalized?"
"Trying to change the subject, huh?"
"There is no subject. That subject is over. Done. Closed."
"You're a fucking fool."
"Thanks for your support."
"I just don't understand—"
"Yeah, you do." Jonathan met Daryl's unflinching gaze, refusing to look away. Refusing to hide his deepest thoughts. Daryl heaved a sigh then sat back and placed the heels of his boots on the coffee table.
"I head back to DC Monday. Everything should be finalized by then."
Mac leaned forward and grabbed the last slice of pizza. "And then what?"
"Then we finalize the financing we need and start from there. Should be a piece of cake."
"That's still a hell of a lot of money. And lining up the equipment—"
"It's already lined up. I told you that."
"Well, I'll feel a lot better when the shit's in our possession."
Mac snorted his agreement. "Yeah. And when we actually get our first big fucking job. I'm getting antsy, doing all this little shit. Nothing more than busy work. I need some action."
"We’re doing okay so far. We all knew this was going to be slow-going. And we have that gig with the Blades now, remember?"
"Um, about that—" Jonathan cleared his throat, exchanged a quiet look with Mac, then turned to Daryl. "It's a shit job, and you know it. We need to let it go. Farm it out. Something. That's not what we do, and you know it."
"Yeah, I know. I was just trying to help you out."
"Well, you can unhelp. We need to unload it."
"No, I don't think so."
Jonathan and Mac both opened their mouths to voice their disagreement, but Daryl cut them off with a brush of his hand. "We're not unloading it. It's a nice little side gig that isn't costing us anything."
"You mean other than time and money?"
"I already have that taken care of. I lined up a couple of guys to take over. What we're getting more than makes up for their pay."
"Why would you even waste time—"
"Because of the contacts. The team's owner is a big name in the private sector. You know as well as I do that connections are everything in this business. Add that to the contract we're getting from DC, and we'll be set."
"You really think this is going to work?"
"Yeah, I do. Trust me—in six months, we're going to have more work than we can handle. Which means we need to start adding some talent, get names lined up."
Jonathan settled back on the sofa, letting Daryl's words sink in. Six months ago, the three of them had said goodbye to the military and moved here to start their own personal security firm. It had been nothing more than a half-baked idea back then, something to talk about to take their minds off the hell they lived every day. But at some point, the aimless chatter had turned into a real plan, one that grew a little clearer with each passing day, until Cover Six Security became a reality.
They'd been doing odd jobs, nothing big or newsworthy unless you counted the payout, while Daryl worked his contacts to open the door to the gray networks that worked behind the scenes of the polished surface of DC politics. Their patience was finally paying off.
Which suited Jonathan just fine, especially now. He needed something to get his mind off everything else. Had he really thought he could make Sammie forget what he'd done?
Yeah, he had, in that small fantasy that lived deep inside him.
Which was fucking stupid. So fucking stupid. He should have known better. Maybe, deep down, he had. Yeah, right. Sure he had. That's why the disappointment still ate at him, slowly chewing away what was left of his fucking soul.
"Snap out of, Reigler."
Jonathan looked over, surprised at the sharpness of Mac's voice. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit. You're moping."
"I said I'm fine."
"You're a fucking liar."
"And I said—"
"Would you two knock it the fuck off? You're like two little kids, and you're giving me a headache." Daryl's quiet voice broke into their bickering, silencing them. Jonathan tossed a last dirty look at Mach then pushed up from the sofa.
"I'm grabbing another beer. Anyone want anything?"
"Yeah, I'll take one."
"Might as well make it three."
Jonathan grunted, grabbed the empty pizza box and bottles from the coffee table, then made his way into the kitchen. He heard the low hum of conversation, Daryl and Mac discussing strategy and plans, but he didn't pay attention. He was too focused on Mac's accusations.
Was he moping? Yeah.
Was he a liar? About this, probably. He had hoped, prayed, that he'd get that second chance. But the guys were right—he had fucked up. Again.
It didn't matter. Sammie had deserved to know. And if telling her had given her the closure she needed…well, he could only hope for her happiness.
Yeah, because he was fucking honorable like that. Yes, he wanted Sammie to be happy. But dammit, he had really thought she could find that happiness with him.
Fuck.
The sound of the doorbell chiming startled him. He wasn't expecting company, had no idea who it could be. And he wasn't in the mood to deal with anyone. Hell, just dealing with Mac and Daryl was enough of a challenge today.
He dumped the pizza crusts into the trashcan then popped his head around the corner. "Can one of you get that? And get rid of whoever it is."
"Yeah. Sure. Whatever." Mac kept grumbling as he got to his feet. Jonathan simply ignored him and went back to cleaning up, bending the pizza box in half so he could jam it into the trash can.
He heard the door open, heard the odd silence that followed. And then he heard a voice that made him wonder if he was hallucinating, made him wonder if he had finally lost it.
"I'm sorry. I was looking for Jon Reigler."
Chapter Fourteen
Sammie stood just outside the door, her purse, Clare's backpack, and the tote bag filled with leftovers in one hand. Her other hand was w
rapped around Clare's, trying to hold her still. Her daughter kept squirming, clinging to her leg then moving to her side so she could peek up at the man who answered the door. He was tall, broad, with a military haircut and a gruesome scar that sliced across the lower half of his face. Sammie forced herself not to stare, forced herself not to turn and run.
"I'm sorry. I was looking for Jon Reigler." Had she said that already? She thought maybe she had because the man smiled down at her and stepped back. The smile transformed his face, but Sammie wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. And she certainly wasn't about to step inside, even if he was inviting her in.
The man's brows shot up in something that might have been amusement. Or maybe it was just a silent acknowledgment of her stares, like he knew she was unable to stop being so rude.
She forced her gaze from his face and glanced down at Clare, expecting to see her daughter trying to hide from the strange man and the gruesome scars covering his face. But Clare wasn't trying to hide, and she didn't look scared at all. She looked fascinated. Curious, even, with her head tilted to the side as she studied him.
"You've come to the right place. He's in the kitchen." The man looked over his shoulder and raised his voice. "Hey, Reigler. Your wife and daughter are here."
The words shocked Sammie. How did he know who she was? Heat rushed to her face and she shook her head. "I'm not his wife—"
"Ex-wife then. For now." The man smiled again then dropped to one knee, wiggling his large fingers at Clare in a silly wave that looked totally at odds with the man himself. "And aren't you completely adorable? You don't look a thing like your dad. That's probably a good thing. I'm Mac. What's your name?"
Sammie tugged on Clare's hand, ready to pull her down the hallway and out the door. But her daughter stepped out from behind her legs and offered the man a wide smile.
"I Clare."
"'I am Clare.'" Sammie automatically corrected her then winced. What was she doing? She shouldn't be standing here, correcting her daughter's grammar. She should be running out to the car, fleeing to safety. She had called Jon's sister, asking for his address even though she hadn't seen or talked to Crissy in over a year. Had the woman sent Sammie to the wrong place on purpose? Was this supposed to be some kind of joke?
Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2) Page 9