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  “Don’t you think fathering them demands you take care of them? If you knew how Adrienne and Alec grew up—”

  “Did you suffer for anything?”

  “No, but we were the exception.”

  “Then don’t fight their battles. I sent money for Adrienne and Alec until I realized Jody was spending it on her drug of choice. I helped Lana awhile, and then it became too much. Plus I wasn’t making money for a time.”

  How had he survived?

  He shifted the half-eaten piece of pizza around with his fork, a frown creating wrinkles between his dark eyebrows.

  She picked up her water and sipped it.

  “Eventually they all made it, Miska. They all made more than I did. And Lana took my book advance, so we were even.”

  She choked on her water, a few drops sputtering from her mouth. His what? He handed her a napkin, and she dabbed her chin. “You wrote a book?”

  “On poetry during the Civil War. The university I taught at published it. Then Lana sued me for child support. Long story short, I lost my job and the advance, and left the country.”

  “You wrote a book.”

  He nodded as if she were slow. “Yes.”

  Her chest tightened. “I write too. Well, I edit, but I love words. I write when I have free time. Mom was such a numbers girl that I wondered where I got it.”

  “You and Adrienne.” His eyes flashed with fatherly pride. “My girls. My wordsmiths.”

  My girls. Adrienne had no idea what she was missing.

  Mom and Wade and Zane—they’d been bored with the written word, always wanting to do something rather than read something. Now it made sense. This man, this mostly stranger, had made her who she was, even without being around.

  Adrienne was wrong. He’d given them much, and Miska was grateful for the chance to bond with him, even if there had been almost three decades of neglect. What mattered was today, this chance to know the father who’d suddenly gifted her a sense of belonging. “Jack, why have you come back?”

  He grabbed her hand, squeezing like she mattered most. “Because I know how much I missed. And I’m tired of it. I don’t want to miss any more.”

  *****

  Jack took a cab to work while Miska walked the few blocks home. Her phone rang outside her building.

  It was Mark.

  She answered as she pushed the building’s revolving door. “Hey, how are you?”

  “Busy, baby. I’ve missed you. Thought about you every day since I left.”

  “Me too.” She hated going so long without talking to him. If only they could snuggle through the phone. “You looked so good last night.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t thrown a complete game since—”

  She laughed. “No, I meant you.” She lowered her voice. “You looked wonderful. It made me hurt to watch you.”

  “Did it?” His voice lowered too. “Wish I could drop by for an afternoon.”

  “Milwaukee’s only two hours away. When’s your next off day?”

  “Thursday.”

  The word was full of promise. He’d visited her during the off season but never on an off day. She waved at the doorman behind the desk and opened the glass door to the elevator bank. “Should I work extra hard tomorrow so I can take Thursday off?”

  He groaned. “I think so. You’ll definitely have company.”

  “What time?”

  “I’ll surprise you. Be ready.”

  She would be.

  Chapter Five

  Miska’s alarm woke her Wednesday morning. She went through her routine—washed her face, brushed her teeth, dressed in black running pants and a soft gray and white striped hoodie, and pulled her hair up. She took the stairs to the lobby and headed into an overcast, cold May morning, following her usual route around Buckingham Fountain and the lakefront.

  On her way back, she stopped beside the fountain to catch her breath and guzzle her water. The fountain’s basins mirrored the metal gray of the sky. Miska looked toward the lake and instead found Dillan Foster several yards to her right, watching her.

  Well, good morning. She waved her fingertips as she finished her water bottle.

  He strolled to her, his head turned toward the lake as if he suddenly couldn’t tear himself away. What a confusing man. Here he was, watching her, when almost a week ago he’d given every sign of being uninterested.

  “Hey, there,” she called as he neared. “What a lovely March morning, huh?”

  He chuckled, hands stuffed into the pockets of his navy blue running pants. “May, March. What’s the difference?”

  Already the warmth from her run faded, and she fought to keep her teeth from chattering. “You’re a hardcore runner, coming out in this cold. Or did you move here from Alaska?”

  “There’s a place I’d like to visit. Like in August, when it’s ninety-five here.”

  “Right now ninety-five sounds wonderful.”

  He smiled, scanning the watery horizon.

  What was he thinking?

  He wiped his forehead with the collar of his sweatshirt.

  “I don’t know how I ever lived away from the lake.”

  He looked at her. “Where’d you move from?”

  “New York.”

  “You like it?”

  “To visit. Not to live.”

  “What brought you back?”

  “The publishing house laid a bunch of us off when the economy tanked. I came back here, bought this place, and started my own editing business.”

  “So something good came from the bad.”

  Interesting, now that she thought about it. “That might be a first.”

  “You’re just young. Give it time. You’ll see more.”

  “Young?” That was relative. “I’m thirty.”

  He eyed her. “No, you’re not.”

  “Want to see my license?”

  “I thought you were twenty-five or six.” He chuckled as if it were funny.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  She sent him a come-on look, and he laughed. “Tell me,” she said.

  “It’s not that funny.” He peeked at her, humor tugging at his lips. “You’re older than me.”

  “Oh, sure. Rub it in.”

  He snickered.

  Miska stuffed her smile away. “It isn’t easy turning thirty. The body starts to slow down, you can’t go without sleep like you used to—”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” He searched the space around them. “Where’d I put that violin?”

  She smacked his arm, and he fake-stumbled sideways, his grin erupting. She knew hers matched his. “Just so you know, you could pass for thirty.”

  His smile vanished. “Hey now. Play nice.”

  “If you’re not thirty, how old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-eight for… three more weeks.”

  “So you’re almost my age.”

  “Almost. But not.” He raised his eyebrows, a smirk on his lips.

  She rolled her eyes, walking away to throw the bottle in the trash.

  When she turned back, he still watched her. “What kind of books do you edit?”

  “Fiction. Romance.”

  He nodded and looked back at the lake.

  “My favorite was a historical during the Chicago Fire. Really interesting stuff.”

  With one foot, he nudged the decorative fence surrounding the fountain. “Chicago history is full of good coming from bad.”

  “Like?”

  “Like Grant Park here. Rubble from the Chicago fire? Under our feet.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Lots of debris and rubble were thrown out here which made the land eat into the lake and the park grow larger. People got sick of its ugliness and the squatters and turned it into the showpiece it is.”

  “Huh.”

  “So without the fire and trash and rubble, Grant Park isn’t nearly this big, and we don’t have our view. Good from bad.”

  “Interesting. Is that why you
like Grant Park?”

  “That and the fact that the Cubs used to play here.”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  He crossed his arms. “Oh. Okay.”

  “I’ve never heard that. Where’d they play?”

  “Randolph and Michigan Avenue. Northwest corner of Millennium Park.”

  She studied the skyscrapers providing a silver backstop for Millennium Park. “When was this?”

  “Before the fire. They lost everything, then rebuilt the ballpark a few years later. Didn’t stay long, though.”

  Mark would love this bit of trivia. “I’ll have to check your Cubs info myself, just to make sure you aren’t dreaming it up.”

  He shrugged as if what she thought didn’t matter.

  “Well, I’m freezing. I’m heading back.” She turned to go.

  Dillan stayed where he was.

  “You coming?”

  He jerked his head toward her as if he hadn’t heard. Then he nodded and fell into step beside her, and they began jogging.

  She matched his pace, pleased that it pushed her a little. “I don’t know what you do for a living.”

  “I’m a pastor.”

  A pastor? She shot him a glance, trying to picture him in clergy robes or that collar Catholics wore. Strange. He seemed so normal, except he never showed interest in her. This sure explained it—he wasn’t allowed to marry. “How long you been doing that?”

  “Five years. I’m the assistant.”

  “What’s the assistant do?”

  “Everything. Run the youth group, behind-the-scenes stuff, teach a Sunday School class—lots of variety.”

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  He looked her way, his smile a bit smug, as if he knew she was faking interest. Guess his job made him good at catching little white lies.

  “What’s Garrett do again? And Tracy?” she asked.

  “Garrett’s a lawyer. Tracy’s a nurse for a pediatrician in the suburbs.”

  “So that’s why she isn’t living with you guys.”

  “Well…” He quieted as they turned west toward their building, cars whizzing by. “They’re waiting until they get married.”

  What? Seriously? She shot him a look, but he focused ahead as if what he’d said was normal. They were waiting to what? Live together? Or have sex? “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Can a pastor marry, or are you single the rest of your life?”

  “We can marry. The Bible doesn’t say anything about pastors not marrying.”

  “So why haven’t you?”

  “Haven’t met her yet. You?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You are thirty.”

  “I’m seeing someone.”

  “Ah.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  His forehead crinkled. “That I was listening?”

  “Wasn’t an I’m-listening kind of sound.”

  “What kind of sound was it?”

  Miska studied his profile. “It sounded judgmental.”

  “Did it?”

  “It did.”

  “Huh. Strange.”

  She waited for him to say more, but he kept silent. A car honked as it flew by. Ahead of them, traffic flooded Michigan Avenue. “You’re judging me for dating a married man.”

  “Who?” They stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, the don’t-walk hand flashing. He planted his hands on his waist and gulped in air. “That guy you were with when we moved in?”

  “Yes. Mark Scheider. That guy.”

  “He’s married, huh?”

  “His marriage was over before we met.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  There he went again. “Stop it.”

  The walk sign flashed.

  He took off across the intersection, and Miska raced to catch up. “It’s the twenty-first century, Dillan. We’re not in Victorian America.”

  “Aren’t you perceptive.”

  They dodged a car trying to turn and jogged onto the sidewalk. She grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. “You don’t have any right to judge me.”

  “You’re right. I’m not the one you answer to, but you keep hearing judgment when I haven’t said anything. So maybe what you’re hearing isn’t coming from me.”

  She tossed her head and studied him. He was right; she’d overreacted. It was probably her own past that haunted her.

  But Mark and Darcie didn’t have children, no little boys or girls growing up in a dysfunctional family. It’d be best for her to break them up before Darcie went and got pregnant. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  Dillan held up his hands. “Like I said, you don’t answer to me.”

  They trudged to the revolving doors where he motioned for her to go first.

  First?

  Miska straightened, her fatigue gone. What if she got pregnant first?

  That would change everything.

  *****

  Dillan ran with Miska Thursday morning.

  But not on purpose.

  He left earlier than usual, but she was stretching in front of the elevator when he reached their floor’s lobby, one hand holding her foot up behind her, her other hand bracing herself against the wall.

  She nodded over her shoulder. “Hey, there.”

  He grunted, hoping she took it as an insult.

  She didn’t, instead flashing a beautiful smile.

  The elevator doors opened, and they rode down to another cool morning which she loved and told him so.

  Something had her in a good mood.

  All he could think about was the way he’d copped out the day before, trying to get her to think about her conscience and God, hoping she’d figure it out on her own.

  Didn’t seem like she had.

  He endured the forty-minute jog and said good-bye outside his door. Inside the condo, he slid down the hallway wall and let his head thump it. Why did he have to run into her?

  “What’s with you?” Garrett stood beside him, dressed in another one of his expensive suits.

  Nice tie, though. “Went running.”

  “Figured that. You look frustrated.”

  “Little bit.”

  “Don’t forget the couch is being delivered.”

  “Right. Sometime between eight and six.”

  “Or nine. They just called. Don’t spill anything on it or cut yourself and bleed all over it. Tracy would shoot me. Or you. Probably you.” Garrett flashed him a grin, stepped over him, and left.

  With time to kill, Dillan lazed through his routine. He showered and dressed, had his devotions, watched the lake awhile, then obeyed his growling stomach and headed to the kitchen. Great chef he wasn’t, but he could make an omelet with the best of them. With his earlier start, he needed a full stomach to make it to lunch.

  He grabbed eggs and milk, tomatoes, green onions, and cheddar cheese from the refrigerator. His stomach tightened and growled, jabbing him from deep inside.

  He should have eaten first.

  He mixed eggs and milk, then set them aside to chop vegetables.

  What next? He pulled a skillet from the cabinet. Oh, salt and pepper.

  He set the skillet beside the cutting board, but his aim was off. The skillet’s handle banged the knife, and the knife flipped over the edge of the counter, somersaulting toward his feet.

  Dillan jumped out of the knife’s way. His toes hit the floor but slid from beneath him. The floor came up fast, and he flung his hands down. His chest smashed on top of his arms. Something snapped, and pain rocketed up his right arm while his forehead smacked the bottom corner of a cabinet.

  A warm, sticky liquid filled his eye. Oh no.

  He rolled onto his back and wiped his left hand across his right eyebrow. Blood slid down the side of his head, into his hairline, into his ear.

  This was bad. He forced himself up, wincing at the slightest movement of his arm.

  Blood poured down his face, a thick, wet curtain over his eye. His pulse throbbed in his wrist.
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  On his feet, he teetered and leaned against the counter. He had to stop the bleeding. He rooted through the few kitchen towels Garrett had, streaks of blood following his hand. “Sorry, Gare. I owe you towels.”

  Not that these were in good shape anyway.

  With his left hand, he held a beige towel over his right eyebrow, his right arm tucked against his chest. It felt like a bad game of Twister. How was he going to get to the hospital? He couldn’t drive.

  Dizziness washed over him, and he sagged against the counter. He’d have to call 911—over a cut and sore wrist. Man, this was messed up. He’d never hear the end of it.

  Where was his phone?

  He used his one clear eye to scan the kitchen and living room. The phone wasn’t in sight, and he couldn’t make himself think. This wasn’t good—

  Miska.

  While he growled at the idea of asking her for help, relief sagged his shoulders. He couldn’t drive, he couldn’t find his phone, but Miska was home. She would have to do.

  Chapter Six

  The drive home from the hospital was less tense with rush hour over and Dillan no longer bleeding. Miska peeked at him, crammed into the front seat of her Volvo, his fingers tapping his jeans.

  The ER hadn’t been busy. By the time she’d parked and made her way inside, they were stitching him up. When they finally let her see him, X-rays had already shown a broken bone by his wrist. She waited while they splinted his arm. What were neighbors for? Besides, Mark was probably still sleeping. She’d be home before he knew she’d been gone.

  Dillan sighed.

  Miska glanced at him. “So what story are you going to tell Garrett? That you were making breakfast or shaving with a chainsaw?”

  “I might go with the chainsaw.” He shifted and gritted his teeth. “You look like you’re going out.”

  She glanced at her dark skinny jeans and gauzy, scoop-necked shirt with cutaway shoulders. “I’ve got plans later on.”

  “Hope I didn’t ruin them.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Good.” His fingers resumed their tapping. “Have you heard from Garrett?”

  Dillan had asked her to let Garrett know he’d miss a couch delivery. “No.”

  He shrugged, hissed in a breath, and resumed staring out the window.

  She parked in their building’s garage. Silently they rode the elevator to the building’s main level where she called an elevator for their floor.