Page 19 of Manic

My throat goes dry as I drink her in.

"Thanks, Meg," I manage to say, my voice huskier than I intended.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, it's like no time has passed at all.

I clear my throat, tearing my gaze away from Meghan's intoxicating eyes. "I can't wait to get my eyes on these goodies," I say, letting my voice drop an octave lower.

The double entendre isn't lost on Meghan, whose cheeks flush a delightful shade of pink.

We share another intense staredown, the air between us crackling with unspoken tension.

I notice Tindra looking between us, confusion etched on her young face.

Good.

The last thing I need is for her to pick up on the heat simmering between her mother and me.

Licking my lips, I take a long sip of my latte, savoring the bitter taste that grounds me in the moment. "Well, ladies," I say, setting the cup down with a soft clink, "I've gotta get going... but pop by the clubhouse sometime. Everyone would love to see you."

Meghan's eyes widen slightly, a mix of excitement and apprehension flashing across her face. "I... we'll stop by after we get settled," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I hope you do," I reply, my gaze never leaving hers.

The intensity of our connection is almost palpable, and I find myself reluctant to break it.

With a final nod to Tindra, I walk away from the pickup counter and head for the door.

The cool air hits me as I step outside, clearing my head slightly.

I climb into my truck, the leather seat creaking beneath me.

As I drive back to the clubhouse, my mind races.

Tindra's face swims before my eyes—that dark hair, those light sage green eyes, just like her mother's, set in a face that's the perfect blend of Meghan and... me?

The timeline fits.

She's fourteen, going on fifteen.

And if my math is right...

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white.

Why wouldn't Meghan tell me if Tindra was mine?

The possibility gnaws at me, a constant ache in my chest.

I try to push the thought aside, focus on the road ahead, but it lingers, persistent and undeniable.

The clubhouse looms into view, a familiar sight that usually brings comfort.

Today, though, it only serves as a reminder of all the years I've missed—years that might have included a daughter I never knew I had.

I make it past the gate and park, walk into the clubhouse, my mind still reeling from the encounter at the coffee shop.

The usual buzz of conversation fills the air, but I barely register it.

My eyes scan the room, taking in the familiar sights—the long, curved bar with its intricateknarrcarvings, the scattered tables, the pool tables in the corner.

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