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Irish lost the smile and glanced between her and James. His face went from pure amusement to pure shock.
Hannah knew that look. She was used to that look. She’d been getting it since she was seventeen, and it stung just as much now as it had then. She wondered if it would ever go away. Maybe when she was thirty. She ruffled James’s hair. “Irish, this is James.”
Her son leaned into her and looked up at Irish. “Are you a fireman?”
Irish still looked shell shocked. “Ah . . . yeah.”
“Do you want to see my Lego house?”
“Um—”
“Maybe later,” Hannah said. “Go wash up for dinner.” She gave James a kiss on the forehead. “Especially this sticky face.” He took off.
Her father held out a bottle of beer to Irish, keeping one for himself. “All I have is light.”
It seemed to break through Irish’s surprise. “No. Thank you, sir.” He shrugged. “I’m still on call.”
Hannah rolled her eyes at the sir and dutifully pulled glasses out of the cabinet, then started filling them with ice and water from the dispenser on the front of the refrigerator.
Irish appeared at her side and put out a hand. “I can help you.” “I’ve got it.”
“You’re going to carry four glasses at once?”
Something about him being here was pricking at her nerves. She couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe it was the extra formality in front of her father. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he’d seen James. “Sure,” she said. “In one hand. While twirling. Watch.” Then she picked up the four glasses—two in each hand—and carried them through the archway into the dining room.
Without twirling.
Irish followed. “I didn’t mean to take you off guard.”
That made her look up. “What do you mean?”
“By coming here. Marshal Faulkner invited me to join him for dinner, but I didn’t know—”
“You didn’t know he was my dad?” She placed the last two glasses. “Come on.”
“No—I didn’t know you still lived at home.” He cleared his throat. “Or that you had a son.”
She didn’t know how to read his voice. It wasn’t quite judgment, but it wasn’t full of sunshine and flowers and acceptance, either. “Don’t worry. You’re not the father.”
“Who is?”
The question hit her like a hammer to the temple. He hadn’t meant it to be invasive—but it was, and she didn’t have her usual deflection ready. She wiped her palms on her jeans and couldn’t look at him. “I’m going to grab the salad bowl.”
Her parents were speaking in low tones when she walked back into the kitchen, and they shut up quick when she came through the archway.
Her eyes narrowed. Everything about this evening left her feeling like she was missing something. “What?”
Her mother pushed the salad bowl across the island. “Your father and I are talking, Hannah. Please take the salad out and give us a minute of privacy.”
Well.
It wasn’t often her mother used her I-mean-business voice, and Hannah knew better than to argue with that. Unfortunately, it meant she had to go back in the dining room to entertain Irish. She grabbed the bowl, wishing she could fling it on the table and keep on walking out to the backyard.
And then keep on walking for miles.
No, she could never do that. Not with James at the center of her orbit, drawing her back from wherever life took her.
Irish looked abashed when she returned to the dining room. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t know—”
