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But…
Hypothetically speaking, if I were to find a way to create a process to do something like this annually, I would seriously consider it. And based on how much Jenna’s connected with this group, I have no doubt she’d be willing to be a part of it too.
I can’t help but smile as I help Eli onto my lap. He snuggles into my chest, both his tiny hands clasping mine over his tummy, and I press a kiss to his blond curls, fully aware of Jenna’s soft smile aimed at us.
As far as I’m concerned, today has been one of the best days of my life, and I don’t think there’s anything that can shake that.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Seth
Idon’t do empty promises.
Hence the reason I’m turning into my driveway a lot later than I typically stay out on nights before I work a twelve hour shift. But I promised Jenna we’d properly finish our kiss later when Ella and Eli nudged their way in, so I couldn’tnotdeliver. As grateful as I am to have good relationships with the teens and no matter how much I love my sister and Marshall, the hour I just spent with Jenna was much needed. We danced barefoot in between cleaning up the kitchen, we talked, and we kissed.
And yeah. I strongly considered calling Judge Warner Chapman at ten-thirty on a Saturday night to see if he’d meet us at the courthouse. I rarely pull rank, but…surely he wouldn’t mind, right? I mean, I’ve already been so spontaneous tonight. I may as well—
I’m cut off mid-thought when my truck’s headlights illuminate a sedan in my driveway. A sedan that is sleek and dark gray and most definitely not my clearly marked cruiser. One, because my cruiser is a Charger, not an Audi, and two, because my cruiser is parked in my garage.
My first instinct is to get close enough to snap a picture of the license plate and head back down the road, far enough out of sight to call it in. I don’t know who the crap would be at my house this late when I’m not home—especially not a shiny sports car, because other than Pete, I don’t know anyone with a vehicle like this.
I don’t notice any lights on in my house or flashlights bouncing around, so that could be a positive. Of course, my truck would’ve alerted them of my presence. I ease in just close enough, my headlights angled perfectly to catch the license plate. Then I freeze as I’m reaching for my phone.
Colorado.
Colorado plates.
A knot of dread starts forming in my abdomen, because I have a gut feeling it isn’t someone who got lost and ended up at my house. The only person I know—used to know—from Colorado is the person I honestly haven’t wanted to see ever again.
But unless I turn around and avoid them altogether, I have no other option.
A myriad of emotions—shock, disbelief, and outright fury, to give you a taste—whirl within me as I pull intomydriveway atmyhouse. It’s like a big black tornado appeared out of nowhere because my cold and hot feelings clash, and its intent is to destroy everything in its path.
I’ve been intensely trained over nearly fifteen years of my life to keep calm under every circumstance. To remain void of emotion in my expression and often present a foreboding presence. I don’t spend my days shaking hands and kissing babies to make people like me. I don’t give a damn who does or doesn’t like me, and most of the people I put in cuffs fall under the latter category. My circle is small, and I like it that way.
I am not, however, trained in how to confront the father I haven’t seen in twenty-two years. Does he realize, by chance, that I own several guns and he’s trespassing on my property?
Still, I thrive on confrontation. I pull the keys from the ignition and step out of my truck, the door slamming a little harder than necessary. I’m about to take the first step onto my porch when I hear the telltale creak my porch swing makes when someone eases to their feet. My eyes adjust to the dim light of the sconce beside my door and my gaze lasers in on him.
My father.
In the flesh.
On myporch.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I’m standing on my porch now, straightened to my full height, and I’m willing to bet my glare is resemblant of a fiery iceberg. Somehow, that is possible.
He lifts one dark brow, hands in the pockets of his black slacks. “That’s no way to greet your father.”
I laugh bitterly. “Uh, I don’t know if you don’t remember or what, but I haven’t seen you or heard from you in over twenty years. Pardon me if my greeting isn’t normal, considering you are onmyproperty without any prior communication.”
Any other person would probably flinch under my authoritative tone, but not my father. Jude Johnson will do no such thing. Maybe back when I was little, because I remember instances where he was more of a dad and respected authority, but things started changing sometime after my eleventh birthday. I’ve had my suspicions for a while now that he was probably involved in drugs for no less than a year—the chances of someone being arrested in as little a time as he was are slim to none—but I have no proof.
The Jude standing in front of me, however, I don’t know. I was a child the last time I saw him. A lot has happened since then for both of us, the only side of which I know is about myself. I know the bare minimum about Jude—he lives in Colorado, is a silent partner of a billion-dollar architectural firm, and he’s remarried. The only reason I know that last one is because he’s wearing a wedding ring. It’s not the plain gold band he wore when he and Mom were married. This one is textured gold with a diamond in the center that reminds me exactly of the ring that left me with a scar above my lip ten years ago.
First impressions make quite a difference in how the rest of a conversation goes, and so far, this one hasn’t gone well.
“Well?” I raise my own brow, holding my ground. “What are you doing here? And don’t you dare tell me you’re here to say hello because I won’t buy it.”
