by Julie James
Cade knew enough of the story, although it had taken him years as a kid to piece it together. Noah Garrity got his mother, Christine Morgan, pregnant during their last semester of high school. Christine’s parents had remained surprisingly levelheaded that their homecoming queen daughter was going to have a baby; Noah, on the other hand, had freaked out. His older brother had flunked out of Illinois State University and decided to move to California with a buddy to open a landscaping business. When they asked Noah to join them, he packed his bags for the sunny west coast, and broke up with Christine by leaving a note in her school locker. Don’t hate me, babe. I’m just not ready to be someone’s father.
Luckily for Cade, Christine realized that—ready or not—the arrival of a baby, one she’d decided to keep, meant that somebody needed to act responsibly. She finished high school and enrolled in the local community college. Cade, never one to cause his mother too much trouble, conveniently arrived during winter break, allowing Christine—with her mother as a babysitter—to resume classes by February. After two years, she received her associate’s degree and transferred, with Cade, to Northern Illinois University where she earned a nursing degree.
When Cade was about five years old, right around the time he and his mother moved back to the Chicago area and she took her first nursing job, he began to ask questions about his father. Quickly, he realized it was a sore subject. His grandparents tried to skirt around the topic as much as possible, and his mother, only twenty-three years old at the time, talked about Noah exclusively in the negative: how he’d dropped out of school, how he’d flaked on them when she’d gotten pregnant, how he’d never tried to contact them once. Eventually, Cade just stopped asking.
Until the day, five years later, when his mother came to him.
He’d been in his room, playing Super Mario Land on his Nintendo Game Boy before bedtime, when she knocked on the door and said they needed to talk.
Cade knew exactly what that meant. Trou-ble. “It was Sean’s idea to put the cricket down Mandy Franklin’s dress during the assembly.”
His mother folded her arms across her chest. “I hadn’t heard anything about the assembly. But now I know what we’ll be talking about next.”
Oops.
She sat down on the bed next to him. “That phone call I just got, the one I took in the bedroom? That was your father.”
Cade pushed the Game Boy aside and sat up. His. . . father? “What did he want? Did he say anything about me?”
“He did. He’s back from California and he asked if he could see you.”
Cade got an excited but nervous feeling in his stomach, like when he was waiting in line for one of the upside-down roller coasters at Six Flags. “What did you say?”
“I told him that it was up to you,” she said.
When she said nothing further, Cade wondered if this was some kind of test.
“Will you be mad if I say yes?” he asked cautiously.
She shook her head. “I won’t be mad, sweetie.” She reached over and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “This is your decision to make.”
Cade thought that over. “When does he want to see me?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I want to see him.”
His mom nodded, as if she’d expected that answer. “Okay. I’ll let him know.”
“You’re making that weird smile,” Cade told her. “The fake one you make whenever Mrs. Kramer comes over to remind us that our grass is getting a little long.”
“Yes, well, Mrs. Kramer needs to find something better to do with her time than monitor the length of her neighbors’ front lawns.” She suddenly reached over and pulled him in for a hug. “I’ll work on the smile for tomorrow, Cade. For you.”
She’d tucked him in and then lay down on the bed next to him, something she only did when he was sick or on nights like the one when he was positive he’d heard a strange scraping noise in the closet after his friend Sean’s older brother had let them watch A Nightmare on Elm Street. “Is there anything you want to ask me?” she said as they both looked up at the ceiling, her head on the pillow next to his.
“Maybe you can just tell me something about him?” Cade paused. “But, Mom . . . how about if you tell me something good this time?”
His mom swallowed, and wiped her eyes. Uh-oh, Cade thought. Maybe he’d pushed it with that one.
She turned to face him. “I haven’t totally messed you up, have I?”
Cade pretended to think about that. “Even if you have, I probably wouldn’t know it.”
She smiled, just like he’d hoped. Then she tucked her arm under the pillow, getting more comfortable. “All right, three good things about Noah Garrity. He can make people laugh. Back in high school, everyone wanted to be friends with him. Second, he was an awesome football player. Whenever he had the ball, the entire stadium cheered so loud you could probably hear it a mile away. And last,” she stopped for a moment, as if this one was most important, “for the homecoming dance, he told me he’d spent an hour picking out the flowers for my wrist corsage. He said he couldn’t find anything as pretty as me.”
Cade parsed through these precious nuggets, the most information he’d learned about Noah Garrity in ten years. He thought the part about the flowers sounded a little mushy and lame, but the other stuff was good to know. And he couldn’t resist one last question. “Do I look like him, Mom?”
She touched his cheek softly. “The spitting image.”
All next morning, his stomach was doing the roller-coaster thing again. His mother seemed about to say something when he came out of his room dressed in his best button-down shirt, but then she bit her lip and went back to making their breakfast.
Just before noon—a half hour late, probably just because of traffic—Cade heard a car pull up in the driveway. Unable to help himself, he ran to the living room and looked out the front window.
It was him.
Cade watched as a man wearing a brown leather jacket climbed out of a black car with a few dents and scratches. Noah stared at the house for a moment, then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and walked to the front door.
When the doorbell rang, Cade hung back, unsure what to do or say. His mother answered the door, said a few things in a low tone that he couldn’t hear, and then, after ten years, his father was there, standing in his living room, looking very tall and cool in his leather jacket.
And suddenly, everything changed. Cade no longer felt nervous, or even excited.
He was angry.
Ten years it had taken him to show up.
“Holy crap.” Noah shot a look at his mom. “He looks just like me.”
She flashed him one of those fake Mrs. Kramer smiles. “That probably wouldn’t come as such a surprise if you’d been around before this.”
Noah pointed to Cade. “Are we going to do this now, in front of the kid?”
“The kid was thinking the same thing,” Cade interjected defiantly.
Both Noah and his mom looked over at him. Cade braced himself for the lecture—no sassing, always be respectful to adults—but none came. Instead, she nodded. “Well. I’ll let you two talk.”
With a wink of encouragement at Cade, she left them alone. A moment later, he heard the clinking of bowls in the kitchen.
Noah shifted awkwardly. “Talk. Right.” He gestured to the couch. “Maybe we could sit down? I bet you have a lot of questions for me.” He laughed at that, like this was so funny.
Cade followed Noah to the couch, thinking that his mom should’ve mentioned a fourth thing last night—that his father was a douchebag.
He sat on the opposite end of the couch, determined to look tough. He had lots of questions, all right, starting with one in particular. “Why haven’t you come to see me before this?”
Noah blinked. “Sure. Okay. I respect a man who says what’s on his mind.” Another laugh.
Cade glared.
Noah cleared his throat. “Um, well, it’s complicated, C
ade. I was just a kid when your mother had you.”
“She was the same age, but she still wanted me.”
Noah flinched. “Christ, you don’t pull any punches, do you?” He sighed. “I needed to figure things out with my life, I guess.” He glanced over. “I know you don’t understand that, but maybe someday when you’re older, you will.”
“Is that why you’re here now? Because you figured things out?”
“You’re like a lawyer with all these questions.” Noah smiled. “Your mom told me last night how smart you are. You get that from her, you know.”
Cade thought it was best to keep silent on that one. But duh, obviously. “You didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out.
“I’m trying to figure things out, Cade. I’m really trying.”
There was another long silence.
“I heard you like football,” Noah finally said. “You know, I used to play myself.”
Cade tried to seem disinterested. “Were you any good?”
Noah cocked his head and took him in, sizing him up. “How about I show you?”
Startled by the offer, Cade looked around. “Right now?”
“Yep. Go grab your football. I’ll meet you in the front yard.” As if that was settled, he got up from the couch and headed out the door.
Not sure what else he was supposed to do, Cade went into his room and got his football. He stepped outside and saw Noah waiting on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette.
He exhaled, then nodded at Cade. “What position do they got you at?”
“Quarterback.”
He took one last drag, and then tossed the cigarette into the gutter. “Let me see you throw.” He positioned himself at the far end of the lawn, only about ten yards away.
Cade stepped back to the driveway and threw. Without having to move an inch, Noah caught the ball neatly at his chest.
“Not bad,” he said. “Now hit me again while I’m running.”
“Mrs. Kramer says we’re not supposed to run across her lawn.”
“Is that right? Well, let’s see if I can get her to make an exception.” Football tucked under his arm, Noah walked up the path to Mrs. Kramer’s front door and rang the bell. A few moments later, she answered.
Cade watched from his driveway as Noah said something, then gestured to the football. Then there was some smiling, and more talking, and to Cade’s shock, Mrs. Kramer actually laughed. He didn’t even know that was possible.
Shortly after that, Noah walked off with a wave. He moved fast and fired the ball at Cade.
“We’re good to go,” Noah said after Cade caught it.
And with those four simple words, Cade found himself playing football with his father on a crisp, fall afternoon. A moment that was so simple—two people just tossing a ball around—and yet so perfect he thought his face might crack from smiling so much.
He didn’t want to like Noah—well, not mostly—but the guy was really good at football. Sure, his mom tried to help him practice, and sometimes Grandpa Morgan, too, but both of them missed his passes so much they spent half of the time digging around in Mrs. Kramer’s bushes for the ball. And neither of them could ever keep his calls straight, so the other half of the time his mom would be standing on the sidewalk for a skinny post when she was supposed to be running up the middle after a handoff. But Noah . . . well, he got it just right.
A couple of times, Cade saw his mom peeking out the window to check on them, and he waved to let her know he was fine. He figured she was probably secretly relieved seeing them—now that his dad was back she didn’t have to worry about doing football duty anymore. Probably, there were other things Noah could teach him, like how to fix cars and leaky dishwashers and furnaces so they didn’t always have to call a repairman every time something went on the fritz. He bet Noah knew a lot of things like that.
After a couple of hours, when they both were so tired they could barely walk, Cade collapsed on the ground next to Noah. Noah pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the back pocket of his jeans and lit one up.
“Your mom was right. You are good.” He reached over and ruffled Cade’s hair. “Give it time, you might even be better than me one day.”
Cade’s chest squeezed so tight with pride, all he could do was nod.
Noah rested his arms on his knees, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “So listen. I’ve got a buddy who has two tickets he can’t use to next Sunday’s Bears game. He offered them to me, and I was thinking maybe you’d like to go.”
“With you?” Cade asked.
Noah laughed. “Yeah, with me.”
In his excitement, Cade could barely get the words out. “That’d be great!” He paused, then something inside him, something tentative and awkward and yet hopeful, made him go on. “Thanks, Dad.”
Noah’s expression changed, a momentary falter in his smile, before he nodded. “Sure, kid. No problem.”
On Monday, Cade bragged to his whole fifth-grade class that his father was taking him to the Bears game that weekend. Even Sean, who’d gone to a few Cubs games that summer with his dad and brother, was impressed. By Saturday night he was so excited he could barely sit still through his mother’s bedtime lecture about how he and Noah weren’t allowed to go anywhere—and she meant anywhere—except to the game and back, and how she’d stuck extra quarters in the pocket of his jacket so he could call her from a pay phone “just in case.”
The next morning, he got dressed and wolfed down his breakfast. The game started at noon, so Noah had said he’d pick him up at eleven. At ten forty-five, unable to restrain himself any longer, Cade sat by the living room window to wait.
At eleven fifteen, he was still waiting.
“He was late last time, too. He’ll be here, Mom,” he told her.
By noon, when the game had started, he knew.
Noah Garrity had given him a tryout, Cade’s one and only chance to have a father.
And he’d failed.
* * *
CADE EXHALED, RUNNING his hand over his mouth as he stared out his office window. He’d buried his issues with Noah Garrity a long time ago, and they needed to stay buried.
Luckily, it was Friday evening, which meant he could leave work, pour himself a stiff drink at home, and forget all about—
He suddenly remembered.
Friday evening.
Shit.
Cade checked his watch, and saw that he was ten minutes late for his meeting with Brooke Parker. He thought about sending her a text message to say he couldn’t make it, but she was probably already waiting for him at the restaurant, undoubtedly thinking up all the sweet-as-pie sarcastic barbs she was going to hurl at him when he finally showed up.
He couldn’t decide if that made him more or less eager to go.
He grabbed his briefcase and shoved in a few files he wanted to review that weekend, then headed out the door to grab a cab. Bar Nessuno, one of Sterling’s restaurants, was an Italian pizzeria and wine bar just off of Michigan Avenue. The street was a one-way going the opposite direction, and traffic was as bad as always on a Friday evening, so Cade had the driver drop him off a block away to save time.
He walked briskly to the restaurant and pushed through the door. Against the warm exposed brick décor, the first person he saw was Brooke. She was chatting with the hostess, looking exactly as he’d imagined her that afternoon—sophisticated and all-around sexy in her skirt and heels.
He approached her. “I’m late. I know,” he cut her off the second she opened her mouth. “Sorry. It’s been . . . a strange afternoon.”
She gave him a long once-over. Belatedly, he realized he’d loosened his tie and had yanked open the top button of his shirt while ruminating over everything Zach had dumped on him earlier that day. And he was pretty sure his hair was standing on end from running his fingers through it. Not exactly the way he normally presented himself in a professional setting.
Cade braced himself for the inevitable quip or comment.
“You look like you could use a drink, Morgan.” Then, unexpectedly, her expression softened. She cocked her head in the direction of the tables. “Shall we?”
Out of nowhere, Cade felt a sharp tug in his chest—like a sailboat bobbing around in rocky waters that was suddenly righted by a warm, calm breeze.
As they followed the hostess to their table, he glanced sideways at Brooke. “Thank you.”
She met his gaze with a slight smile. “I’ve had days like that myself, Cade. Plenty of them.”
Eleven
ALMOST IMMEDIATELY AFTER they’d been seated, undoubtedly having been alerted to Brooke’s presence by the hostess, a waitress stopped by to introduce herself and take their drink orders.
“I’ll have a bourbon and bitters.” Brooke caught Cade’s look of surprise. “House specialty.”
Cade turned to the waitress. “In that case, make it two.” He pushed aside his drink menu, his eyes never leaving Brooke.
Something had changed. She didn’t know if it had anything to do with this “strange afternoon” he’d had, or if it was the simple logistics of their meeting—a cozy bar on a Friday evening—but there was a new undercurrent in the air between them. Something bold in his look that said they were playing a different game now.
And sitting across from him, taking in his strikingly handsome appearance—the finger-raked hair and devil-may-care loosened tie—Brooke wasn’t entirely sure she objected to the new rules.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” she led in.
“This mysterious favor.” Cade stretched an arm across the back of the booth. “What is it you need from me?”
“A name.”
“Whose name?”
Brooke lowered her voice, careful to make sure that none of the restaurant staff could hear her. “The name of an employee who hacked into Sterling’s expense account database.”
That seemed to pique his interest. “I’m listening.”