Page 72 of Fated to the Alpha

Too baffled, she remained by the sink as her parents made breakfast together like … Well, like a real married couple. She had never seen them like this. If her father ever had to set foot in the kitchen, it was out of necessity or desperation. If Stacy was close by, she got his drink, refilled his coffee, cooked the meals, washed the dishes, everything. The kitchen was her domain. Yet, here he was, operating cooking tools like he had been doing it all his life, and it didn’t bother him to be doing a woman’s job.

Stacy glanced over her shoulder and seemed to see her daughter’s dazed expression. “Go on and sit. Don’t need too many hands in the kitchen.”

Thankful for the order, Kimberly grabbed the back of the chair she sat in the night before, then hesitated. Which was Patrick’s chair? Where did he usually sit? She didn’t want to make a mistake like that. Patrick could be just as territorial over his seat as his home.

Neither of her parents seemed to register her dilemma. “Which is Dad’s chair?”

Patrick looked up, his eyes jumping from her to the chair and back. “Doesn’t matter,” he replied in his deep, baritone voice, edged with that familiar grit. “Sit wherever you want.”

She blinked and wondered if this was a test. With a quick sniff of the dining room, she couldn’t distinguish which chair belonged to whom. No chair seemed more worn than the other. There was no hint to tell her which belonged to her father, so she took the risk and sat in the chair most familiar to her.

“How did you sleep?” Stacy asked over the sizzle of the frying pan.

“Fine. The mattress is comfortable.”

Kimberly and Stacy talked about the guest bedroom, where the furniture came from, and the decor inspiration. She was careful to keep all of her comments positive, knowing her father detested negativity or criticism, except when it came from him. Patrick stayed quiet and finished making the French toast right about the time the kettle whistled.

Afraid to upset her father by letting the kettle scream for too long, Kimberly braced herself to stand, moving as if a fire had sparked on the stove instead.

Patrick shot out his hand in a muted command for her to freeze, then picked up the kettle himself. Kimberly froze, half hunched as he moved toward the mug she previously prepared with a bag of breakfast tea near the sink. She watched him pour the steaming water and set the kettle aside on a cloth trivet.

She dropped back into her chair and took the steaming tea from her father when he offered it.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Too many feelings softened her voice to a near whisper.

Patrick said nothing, only turned and brought the two plates of French toast to the table. One for her and one for him. Stacy made a bowl of oatmeal with blueberries and strawberries. She joined them with a glass of orange juice and brought Patrick’s coffee to him. No one picked up a utensil until all three were seated.

Patrick and Stacy started discussing their plans for the day. Her father had business on the farm, and Stacy had errands in town. They talked as if it were any regular day instead of something straight out of the Twilight Zone.

“You’re welcome to join me, honey,” Stacy told Kimberly. “Unless you want to take the day for yourself.”

Like dusting off an old reflex, Kimberly turned to Patrick, waiting for him to interject his own thoughts on how his daughter should spend her free time. He said nothing and didn’t even look up from his food.

She had enough of this. “What’s going on?”

Her parents looked up, confused.

“What do you mean?” Stacy asked.

“Dad is … not Dad.”

Realization shone in their eyes, and Stacy watched her husband, letting him take the lead.

“It’s been a long time, Kimberly.” His voice dropped. “I’m not the same man you might remember.”

Stacy reached over and touched her husband’s arm. “Why don’t you two take your breakfast out on the porch and talk? Or better yet…” She stood with her oatmeal, “I’ll go. It’ll be less messy with the syrup.”

Kimberly and Patrick both made noises of helpless disapproval, but Stacy didn’t hesitate. She walked down the hall with her bowl of oatmeal and the back door shut behind her.

Father and daughter looked at one another, but Kimberly would not be the first to speak or pepper him with the questions that hung in the air. If he wasn’t the same man, let him prove it.

Patrick pushed away his plate and folded his big hands on the table, powerful fingers laced together. “Your mom told me a little of what you two talked about last night.” His throat worked through some nameless emotion. “I’m still processing that, but I get the feeling that … that I made some changes to my life a little … a lot too late.”

Kimberly sat back against her chair. Her father never looked so embarrassed or demonstrative.

“When you turned, and we found out that you had no dominance, I didn’t take it well.”

“You were ashamed of me.”