Page 12 of Under Daddy's Spell

ChapterFour

JORDAN WAS ALL SHEcould think about on her run the following morning. Allison had bailed on her—although that wasn’t unusual for a Saturday. But with a fried oyster platter, of which she’d inhaled every morsel, to work off, Tessa couldn’t afford to skip it. That made it only her and Rufus. The big guy next door would not approve.

Her five miles were uneventful, and she arrived at her store to a line of waiting customers fifteen minutes before opening time.

Once the breakfast rush slowed to a steady trickle, Tessa retreated to her office with an extra-large vanilla latte. Angie was busy baking to replenish what the hungry horde had consumed, but Martha, a retired teacher and her only part-timer over twenty-five, was available to mind the register.

Once she sat behind her desk in her blessedly quiet office, her first order of business was checking her messages.

“Hi, Tess. It’s Dad. I can’t wait to see the box of first editions you called about. From the few pictures you sent, they look intriguing. If you send photos of the others, I can do some preliminary research before Shelly and I come for our visit. Unfortunately, that won’t be until next month. We’ll plan on a long weekend and, while I’m there, I can check out whatever treasures have fallen into your lap for a buck. I still can’t believe that. Flight info to follow. Talk to you soon, sweetheart. Bye now.”

Tessa stared at her phone with mixed emotions. She loved her dad and had missed him dearly since relocating to Boston. Her step-mom, Shelly, not so much.

Maybe it was the fact she was thirty-four, only six years her senior, and two decades younger than her fifty-four-year-old father.

Then again, it could be the fact she was loud, boisterous, had a nasal voice, and saidwickedevery other word. She worked as a field reporter at a local television station in Boston, news broadcasting the polar opposite of her serene book world.

But the most likely reason Tessa didn’t much care for Michelle Tranbarger, was that she wasn’t her mom. After losing a three-year battle with cancer, Amalie Delacroix had been taken from her husband and teenage daughter much too soon. She was entering her senior year of high school when her mother was diagnosed. Then, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, the summer before Tessa’s junior year at Tulane, she was gone.

Her dad hadn’t handled it well. He couldn’t bear being bombarded with memories of her in every room of the house or in the city they both loved. So, he packed up and moved 1500 miles away to open a secondTournez La Page, leaving his twenty-year-old daughter to manage the family bookstore while juggling a full college course load. Not to mention she was processing her own grief and dealing with the memories she had in the house they’d shared.

Was she bitter? Yes. Did she take it out on the woman he’d married within six months of landing in Boston? Tessa tried not to; it wasn’t her fault. But she had a feeling she wasn’t very good at hiding her resentment.

Her dad was a kind man, but he became consumed with his projects. He was the academic type, not adept at picking up on social cues or the emotions of others. Her mom always said he had book smarts, not street smarts, which was why she took care of the business end of things—scheduling staff, ordering stock, managing the finances—while he hosted weekly readers groups, arranged for author lectures and signings, and researched the rare and vintage tomes that came his way.

He relied on her to point out things he missed, like when Tessa’s first boyfriend broke up with her, leaving her crushed, or how she struggled with her mother’s illness. It was how they worked, personally and professionally.

Tessa didn’t cut him as much slack as she had. She always thought that as a husband and father, he should pull his head out of his...uh, research, and pay attention to the world around him every once in a while. Which, of course, he didn’t do until his own emotions were in turmoil. Then he cut and ran.

Still, he was family, and all she had left. Therefore, she tamped down any lingering resentment and put up with his flaws, as well as his choice of a wife.

With a sigh, she looked at her half-empty cup. “Coffee isn’t gonna cut it this morning.”

Leaving her phone and its seven other new messages on her desk, she was through the door and striding with purpose toward the front. Minutes later, she returned with a freshly baked blueberry muffin the size of her head.

Yeah, she had a habit of eating her feelings. Thus, the tits and ass Jordan mentioned—not in those specific words, but that was basically his point—and her need to run five freaking miles every other day.

With the rush of sugar coursing through her veins, she could focus on her messages again. She had a mouthful of still-warm blueberry goodness when the next one, from an unknown number, played. Mid-chew, she froze, as a milk-chocolate-smooth baritone filled her office.

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