Page 47 of Knocked Up in Alaska

Chapter Fourteen

Ford hated Anchorage. Even the airport represented everything he’d wanted to escape by moving to Captivity. Crowds, chain restaurants, piped in Muzak—though, to be fair, the crowds were thin at this time of night. He’d parked Mad at one of the few chain restaurants still open in the terminal and stood off to the side from a sparse group of people waiting at the foot of the escalator to baggage claim for the passengers deplaning from Flight 731 out of Seattle.

He’d told Mad the basics—the daughter he’d essentially given up at birth had recently discovered his existence and run away from troubles at home to meet him. His mission? Intercept her at the airport, put her in a hotel for the night, and escort her onto a six thirty a.m. flight back to Seattle, thus initiating the first leg of her already booked return trip. Jen would pick her up tomorrow night in Pittsburg, ground her for life, and this entire nerve-fraying odyssey would be over. Mad had to fly back to Captivity tonight in order to do his scheduled runs tomorrow, but something between moral support and curiosity had compelled him to “stick around” until “the package” was secure.

The frontrunners from the flight appeared at the top of the escalator. Ford moved a little closer, feeling the rush of adrenalin his central nervous system flooded into his bloodstream. No need for it. He’d studied the photos Jen had texted, as well as the general details. His five-foot, seven-inch, one hundred and twenty pound, dark-haired, hazel-eyed daughter wouldn’t escape his notice. But she also wouldn’t be looking for him, or anyone, to meet here at the airport, so it was on him to spot her.

“See her yet?”

He’d been so deep in his thoughts that Mad’s sudden appearance at his side and innocent question sent another dose of adrenalin surging through his over-jacked system. So much for his well-honed senses and lightning reflexes. “Not yet. What are you doing here? I told you to wait at the fucking Starbucks.”

“Hey now. That’s no way for Daddy to talk.”

He turned to the blond playboy pilot. “Go away. The last thing I need right now is—”

“Holy shit. Is that her?” Mad thwacked him in the chest with the back of his hand. “That’s got to be her.”

He turned, looked up the escalator as a tall, slim girl rolled a hard-sided carry-on bag onto the first step. She wore black Doc Martens, black-and-white striped tights, a short black jean skirt, and a snug red tank top that showed an illicit amount of teenage cleavage under a black leather motorcycle jacket. Inky black bangs swung across her forehead, merging into shoulder length locks on one side. On the other side, the hair was buzzed from part line to ear. Heavily lined eyes peeked out from beneath the bangs and focused on the phone in her hand.

“I think you lost count somewhere along the line,” Mad muttered. “No way is she fourteen.”

“Shut up.”

“Just sayin’.”

“I’m just sayin’ I’m going to punch you if you don’t shut up.” But he wouldn’t. He was too busy drinking her in. Jen was right. She looked like a Langley. Langley height. Langley eyes and chin. She looked like him, only…stunning. And no, she didn’t look fourteen. She sure as hell didn’t look like the tiny baby he carried around in his memory and his wallet.

About halfway down the escalator, she sensed his attention. Her bored gaze drifted from the phone screen to the people waiting below and clicked with his unwavering one. Would she recognize him from Jen’s old picture or whatever she’d found online? He waited, oxygen trapped in his lungs, and watched as awareness crept into her eyes. She straightened, and that little effort at self-presentation released his backed-up breath. Then she smiled. Just the faintest curving of lips, and he felt his lift in the same expression.

No. No smiling. Be a hardass. It’s for her own good.

He firmed his features into a mask of intimidation. Stern eyes. Tight jaw. He lowered muscles in his forehead to put the forbidding double lines between his brows.

Her smile simply kicked higher at one side of her mouth, and then she schooled her face into a scowl that almost perfectly mirrored his.

“Chip off the old block,” Mad muttered.

Okay. It was going to take more than a hard look to scare her into tucking her tail and running home. “Go away.”

“Nuh. I haven’t seen this episode of Dr. Phil. Oughtta be good.”

He allowed himself a silent sigh, then stepped forward as his daughter neared the end of the escalator. Stepped forward, then stopped, unsure of what to say despite the hours of mental rehearsal he’d undertaken from the moment he’d gotten off the call with Jen. Hours spent in preparation for this moment.

Despite the ambush, no hesitation showed in her expression or movements. She stepped nimbly off the escalator, walked straight up to him wheeling her bag behind her, and looked him square in the eye.

“Mia,” he managed and realized he wanted to hug her. Hold her. Wrap her up in his arms, bury his face in her hair, and breathe her in. Instead, he held out a hand for her bag.

“Ford,” she replied in a low, calm voice that held notes of her mother’s smooth, self-possessed tone. So self-possessed, she didn’t hand over her bag. “Or should I call you Mr. Langley?”

“Ford’s fine.” The question, with all its inherent awkwardness, drove home a late-breaking epiphany. Her world had sustained a serious rocking a short time ago—a series of them, actually—strong enough to send her across the fucking continent, alone, to try and stabilize it.

Sympathy seeped into the spaces between his full-blown anxiety and deep-seated uncertainty about how the hell he was supposed to handle this situation. He’d been viewing it through the jaded lens of a mother dealing with an escalated episode in a wearying pattern of teen rebellion. He should be viewing it through the eyes of a kid who’d just learned her parents’ marriage was crumbling, the once-secure family environment she’d thrived in was fracturing, and, oh, by the way, the man she’d spent her whole life believing was her father? Not strictly, biologically accurate.

“Ford’s fine,” he repeated, to fill the stretching silence. Then duty kicked in. First things first. “Call your mother. She’s frantic.”

Dark brows rose, followed by a narrow shoulder. “Oh. Is she back from Orlando?”

Sympathy to her circumstances didn’t extend to tolerating disrespect toward her mom. “Cut it out. Obviously she’s back, and obviously she’s been through a living hell worrying about you—as you intended, or you wouldn’t have left a vague note and taken off like you did.”

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