Page 275 of Unexpected Ever After

The choice is easy.

“Excuse me,” I whisper as I untie my apron and hand it to Pops before making my way up to the stage. I pull Merritt into my arms when she joins me.

“Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, baby girl. Missed you,” I whisper back.

“Ready?” Gus asks us and we both turn to smile at him.

Merritt and I each pick up a mic and get lost in the song Run. Like we always do, we sing and dance around, laughing the whole time as we sing about everyone being born to run in one way or another. When the song is over, we set our mics back in the stands and Merritt turns to me.

“What’s for dinner?”

“You never change,” I laugh. “What do you feel like?”

“Pancakes.”

“You got it,” I tell her. “Is your truck here?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll meet you at home.”

“Sounds good.”

“Besides,” she says. “Wyatt seems like he’s in a good mood. I need to escape before I tip his scales.”

“Sure thing.” But as I let her words play over and over in my head, I can’t help but wonder if maybe Pops is right and there’s more than what meets the eye going on between my youngest daughter and the rigid SAR captain.

I watch as she heads out the door, glad that she’s home. She keeps an apartment above her hangar but it’s still nice to have her under my roof for a meal every now and then. And if my girl wants a late dinner of pancakes, then I’m going to make that for her.

“I’m gonna head out,” I tell Pops as I lean in to kiss his weathered cheek.

“Drive safe going home,” he says.

“Always do.”

“Love you, darlin’ girl.”

“Love you more.”

“Impossible.”

I highly doubt that, but I don’t challenge him. This man, who is not my biological father, is more a father to me than my own ever was. I’m forever indebted to this man who saved me and my children and showed us that a beautiful life is possible after trauma and tragedy.

But then again, he’d say we saved him too.

I make my way to the bar and grab my purse from where I stowed it. I sling it over my shoulder and fish for my car keys, which are always buried under something in the bottom of my bag, when a hand wraps around my arm. My vision narrows like the tuner going out on an old TV set. I bite the inside of my lip until I taste blood, discreetly trying to fill my lungs with oxygen. It’s taken me years to not flinch or panic when someone touches me. Once, I even threw myself on the floor of this very bar when a customer told me I gave them too much change.

I slowly turn my body around, one muscle group at a time, one vertebra at a time, to look at the person who grabbed me—gently—but he has his hand wrapped around my upper arm. Still, in my logical mind, I know that he means me no harm. And a quick glance at his face shows that Court has no idea he just scared the shit out of me.

“Yes?”

He seems to watch me for a second, making me fidget like a teen, and I think for a moment that maybe he does see everything I desperately hope he doesn’t, when he finally comes to some decision.

“Have dinner with me?”

“Why?” I blurt out.

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