Page 131 of Perfect Pitch

Like a panther, he stalks toward me until he meets me face-to-face. “I want you off my detail.”

Even knowing this was a possibility, I still feel the sensation of free fall at the loss. “I understand. I’m sorry if my service to you—‍”

He cuts me off. “You know shit. From this moment forward, your job is to protect my daughter.”

I shake my head. “No. I will never have her think I’m with her because of something you ordered.”

He quickly backtracks, “No, wait. That’s not what I meant. I just want her to be protected and since you’re already a part of her life.”

“A part of her life, Beckett. Not protecting it.”

“Would you not take a bullet for her?” he demands.

“Without question. But I’d do that simply because I’m the man in her life, not her bodyguard.” With that parting shot, I stride toward the doors.

He calls my name one more time.

“What?”

“For your sake, you’d better hope that doesn’t change.” His words are ominous, but I don’t give them much thought. I don’t plan on leaving Austyn.

Not as long as she’ll have me.

* * *

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

People are more aware of the loss of loved ones during the holiday season.

—Beautiful Today

The lights are out in the condo. I’m not really seeing New Jersey as I stare out across the Hudson where I’m leaning against the window. I don’t move when the door opens behind me. Even if he hadn’t texted to let me know he was on his way, I feel the air change with his presence.

I’ve been contemplating what to say to Mitch. I no longer feel the desire to release anger over his silence about my life, my family. I can’t quite pinpoint when I came to the conclusion he did nothing more than what my mother did. Maybe it was when he burst into the conference room at LLF and Beckett—Christ, my father—sent him a furious glare.

I wanted to leap in front of him to protect him from his employer.

The door closes softly behind me. I hear his wingtips on the parquet floors.

Reflecting on the events of the last few days, I realized I’d been raging over my impotence against the wrong done to me by my parents, not enacted by my boyfriend. All he’s done is stand for me. Without turning around, I ask him, “Were you trying to ease me into knowing Beckett’s my father?”

He stops just short of reaching me. “What I was trying to do was confirm my suspicions.”

“To tell him?”

“So when it came out, you would hurt less.”

Accepting that, my heart mends, no longer feeling like a fissure from a natural disaster. My pain diminishes to only the level of a train wreck. “I honestly don’t know what to feel.”

“Give me a chance to apologize. Let me tell you how sorry I am I didn’t share my suspicions before,” he pleads.

I slowly turn away from the view and meet his stoic face. But it’s not there I find the burden he’s been carrying—it’s in his eyes. That’s where I find him awaiting whatever sentence I bestow upon him.

Stay or go.

Love or hate.

I move away from the window and approach him, my hands balled in fists at my side. Time stills. The entire building could fall and I’m not certain either of us would recognize the shift. Our focus is wholly on the other. I stop moving a few feet away from him, memorizing the play of emotions across his face.

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