Chapter Eight

It’s just my dad. No big deal.

The cat was out of the bag. Bright and early Monday morning, her father had texted, “A little bird told me you’re in Uncertainty. We should grab coffee tomorrow afternoon.”

Violet wondered if Dad truly hadn’t known. Yes, she’d kept a low profile, but she suspected there’d been mention of Maisy’s sister. Or, at the very least, a woman helping redecorate the bakery.

Instead of letting that sliver of doubt dig deeper under her skin, she decided to congratulate herself on her ability to lay low.

Thanks to Ford getting her out of the bakery in time.

Conversely, he was also the one who’d challenged her to a game of pool, so those two things might cancel each other out.

“Did you want something to drink yet, ma’am?” a teenage boy in an apron asked.

What she wanted was for him to stop calling her ma’am, but in this part of the south, there was no fighting it. Yay for respect—if only it didn’t make her feel so old.

“I’m still waiting.” Violet gestured to the empty chair across from her when the kid seemed confused. “Remember how I told you earlier that I was here to meet somebody?”

Kid. Guess I am old.

“Oh. Right.” He shook the hair out of his eyes. “It’s just been twenty minutes, so…”

Violet worried her brittle smile would shatter and reveal how very aware she was of the time. Her heart twanged with each beat, the pumps sending alternating bursts of doubt and justification.

No wonder she hadn’t told Dad she was in town. The guilt she’d pretended not to feel over not visiting since Maisy’s wedding dimmed.

Why had Dad asked her to meet him at the coffee shop? To stand her up and remind her how much she embarrassed him? Both by daring to be born and again recently, when felon was added to her rap sheet?

Mason earns heaps of praise for how far he can toss a football, but no one mentions my stellar golf swing. Joking about her life fails helped her cope, but today’s feeble attempt wasn’t enough to combat the sting.

Her eyes burned, and pressing a fingertip to the corner confirmed that, yep, tears were forming. Violet scooted out her chair, ready to hang her head and take her leave.

Then the door swung open, and there Dad was. Dressed in a suit, dark hair contrasting his ivory skin and combed in the same conservative style as always, though it’d thinned, and strands of gray glimmered under the overhead lights.

He strolled over and plopped in the seat across from her.

Violet waited for a “sorry I’m late” or an explanation of why, but it never came. Instead, he tugged at the lapels of his jacket and studied a menu he must’ve read a hundred times.

“Hello, Father. Good to see you.” At least her sarcasm was fully intact.

He cast her the briefest glance. “You, too. What would you like to drink?”

The overly formal greeting had gone over his head. If only it’d slammed into his face and shaken loose some emotion. Ugh, why couldn’t she stop caring? Why did it hurt every single time he showed how little he cared in return?

“What I’m really hankerin’ for is a cupcake,” Dad said.

“We should’ve met at Maisy’s, then.”

“Nah, Cheryl goes in there too often.”

Ouch.

Her face must’ve dropped, because Dad stretched out his arm and patted her hand. “I didn’t mean it that way. You know how Cheryl gets whenever you visit.”

“Guess that means you didn’t tell her we were meeting up this afternoon.”

“I…” Dad pressed his fingertips to his forehead and exhaled. “I’m planning on it. Heaven knows there’s no such thing as a secret in this town. She’ll likely hear about it before I get home this evening.”

And the hits kept coming.

Comprehension spread across his face. “Not that I’m hiding it. Work’s been extra busy, so I simply haven’t had the chance to mention it.”

Sure. Whatever. Admitting hurt feelings hadn’t changed anything in the past, so Violet didn’t bother.

After a minute chock-full of awkward, Dad asked what she wanted and headed to the counter to order their flavored coffees. He wisely waited for them to be brewed, saving them another few minutes of wrenching silence.

Dad returned, two large mugs in his hands. He set her vanilla latte in front of her, and she smiled at the leaf pattern and well-loved teal mug. Under other circumstances, she’d enjoy the quaint coffee shop. Places like this and Maisy’s bakery were upsides to the tiny town where people lived at a slower pace, and she was holding on to those pros for dear life right now.

The wooden chair creaked as Dad settled into his seat. “I heard you were at the Old Firehouse with Ford McGuire.”

Violet sipped her latte, biting back a curse at the impatience that’d earned her a burned mouth. She licked at the foam on her upper lip. “I was there, yes. There was a whole group, and Ford was part of it. Why?”

Dad fiddled with his mug. “I realize it’s a bit late for me to jump into the protective father role—”

“You’re right. It is.” She probably should’ve held her tongue. After he’d breezed in twenty-three minutes late, only to make her feel like a skeleton he wanted to shove back in the closet, she needed to get in a hit. Otherwise she’d leave feeling like a punching bag that’d been worn down and broken, vulnerability seeping from the cracked leather.

Nonetheless, her ire wasn’t going to help their strained relationship. I’ll put in my time, and then I’ll go back to Maisy’s and give her a hug so I can focus on the good that came from being Dad’s dirty little not-so-secret.

His sigh carried his impatience over to her. “All’s I’m trying to say is you might want to be careful with that boy. The McGuires don’t come from good stock.”

“Good stock? Isn’t that what you say about cattle and horses?”

Another sigh, but Dad slid aside his mug and charged on. “Funny you mention horses. Back in the day, they used to be horse thieves. They’d come in the middle of the night, steal ’em away, and keep them up in the mountains.”

“Did I just step into a wild west soap opera? That had to be, what? A hundred years ago?”

“More like seventy. But the next generation made their own moonshine, and Ford’s grandpa frequented the county jail. His father graduated the same year I did. Jimmy’s got four kids with three different women.”

Anger roiled, heating her blood, and she didn’t care if her latte scorched every one of her taste buds. She downed a few gulps, needing the time to gather her thoughts and process instead of reacting in a way that’d cause permanent damage.

One more perfectly warm slug, and Violet slammed down the mug. “Seems hypocritical, coming from a man who also has kids with more than one woman.”

Okay, so she couldn’t hold it back. But did Dad sincerely not see the connection?

“At least I learn from my mista—”

Dad didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

The leg of her chair caught in a groove on the tile floor, and Violet nearly tipped it and herself over. That would’ve been a more dramatic exit than she intended. “This mistake is done trying. Goodbye, Dad. I think it’s best if we keep our distance while I’m in town.”

A dejected expression overtook Dad’s features as he stood as well. “I get it; I always manage to say the wrong thing. And you don’t give me an inch. In fact, every time I try with you, you lash out.”

If this was his trying, she might prefer for him to quit. For both of them to accept their relationship was doomed from the start. Maybe then they’d both stop feeling like failures.

Violet’s throat tightened, oxygen harder and harder to come by.

“I saw how badly Benjamin hurt you,” Dad continued, “and I thought I’d save you from another heartbreak. Ford might be a better man than his father or his grandfather—time’ll tell. But besides one on-and-off-again relationship that was tumultuous at best, I’ve never seen him out with the same woman twice. He’s not the settling-down type, honey. Tigers don’t change their stripes.”

Somebody tell Alanis Morissette I can help her define Ironic, and it’s that statement, coming from Dad’s lips.

A wheeze fell from her lips, and her throat was only growing tighter.

And itchier.

And her tongue didn’t seem to fit in her mouth anymore.

She eyed her now-empty mug. “What was in…” Wheeze. “That latte?”

“I ordered what you said. A vanilla latte.” He, too, looked at the mug as if it’d hold the answers for why the world wouldn’t stay still, the patrons and tables blurring around her.

Then he gasped. “Cheryl and I switched to almond milk, so I told them to go ahead and make both of them with it.”

Violet clawed at her throat, desperate to relieve the itchiness. “I’m allergic to almonds.”

She plopped in the chair, unzipped her purse, and riffled through the contents. It’d been ages since she’d had an attack, but somewhere in this mess…

Vaguely she heard the ruckus around her intensifying, the volume and amount of people escalating. She couldn’t focus on that, though.

There it is.

It took two tries to remove the cap. Violet gripped the EpiPen tightly, jammed the needle into her thigh, and depressed the syringe.

Her heart was either not beating or beating too fast—her brain wasn’t functioning well enough to discern which one.

With the medicine delivered, she stared at the syringe in her leg, waiting for the relief.

Is that a siren?

Why would there be a siren? I must be losing it.

“Over here,” Dad yelled, and wow, a ton of people had gathered around her. How embarrassing.

The crowd parted, and a tall, dark, and handsome gentleman appeared.

Hallucination or reality?

“Couldn’t wait till Saturday to see me, huh?” Ford asked as he squatted in front of her. Dad was rattling off information about her allergy and the latte with almond milk. Words like “help” and “hurry” were in the mix as well.

Violet’s hand drifted up, oddly detached from her body, and she pressed it to the side of Ford’s face. Whiskers tickled her palm, and that—combined with the cocky statement—left her sure the man in front of her was 100 percent real.

“I’m fine,” she quickly said, another wave of embarrassment crashing over her.

Ford gave a pointed look at her leg.

“That’s nothing.”

A huffed laugh escaped as he gently removed the syringe.

“See? I’m fine because of that.” Violet studied Ford as he removed the stethoscope from his neck. Sonnets could be written about his corded arms. There’d unquestionably be a line in there about how his scruff highlighted his lips and that slight upward tick in the right corner.

And the shades of green in his irises—a picture of the Ireland countryside could hardly contain the variety.

Violet scrunched up her forehead. “You never said you were a paramedic.”

“How’s your breathing?” Ford asked. “Are you getting enough air?”

“Obviously, or I wouldn’t have been able to ask you about being a paramedic.”

“Technically it was more of a statement.” After situating the stethoscope in his ears, he placed the circular end on her chest. “Most firefighters have paramedic training. It’s also a necessity when it comes to the search and rescue job.”

“I seriously can’t keep up with all your jobs, dude.”

“Normally I don’t have to do so many of them so close together. But you, Miss Overachiever, are keeping me busy.” His gaze latched onto hers, steady and fierce, and her heart was definitely beating too fast now. “Ready for another shot?”

He withdrew a tiny vial from his bag and filled a syringe. “This is diphenhydramine hydrochloride—Benadryl. I’m going to get this into your veins, and then we’ll take you to the hospital.”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

Ford hiked up her sleeve, pinched the skin on her shoulder, and jabbed in the needle.

With one eye squeezed closed, Violet focused on his dark head of hair instead of the prick of pain. “For reals. Between the EpiPen and the Benadryl, I’m good to go.”

She began to stand, horrified at the idea of Ford driving a screeching ambulance down the streets, announcing to everyone that her own father didn’t have a clue about her allergies—or her.

Not that the siren would say that, but Dad had alluded that secrets were unheard of in this town, so it was essentially the same thing.

“You’re seeing a doctor,” Ford said, pushing on her shoulders until her bum hit the chair.

“I’m not. I don’t need one.” She spread her arms. “I’m totally fine.”

“Oh, really? And have you been trained as a medical professional?”

“I’ve had an allergy attack before that required the EpiPen, which practically makes me a prof—”

“If you’ve had medical training, raise your hand.” His green eyes challenged her, and she set her jaw, her arm remaining at her side.

Ford did a double take at the grizzled dude a table over with his arm up.

“Taxidermy doesn’t count, Bob.”

“I took anatomy.”

“When one of those animals you’ve stuffed comes back to life, we’ll talk. Until then, it’s my show.” Ford grabbed her hand and braced his other palm at her elbow. “Nice and easy.”

“I’m neither of those things,” Violet muttered as she let him tow her to her feet. She didn’t even object to the arm he secured around her waist. But she was going to have to get out of this doctor thing somehow.

“Do you want me to ride in the ambulance with you?” Dad asked. The genuine concern in his voice and on his face was the only reason she bit back her Won’t Cheryl find out? response.

“There’s no call for an ambulance, so no.” Arguing with two frustrating males sat low on her things-I’d-like-to-do list, so she figured she’d let Ford escort her outside and then plead her case.

The fresh air made it easier to breathe, and sucking in a lungful cleared her head. She turned to Ford, the guy who was supposedly “bad stock.” She couldn’t care less about that.

The player thing, on the other hand?

A pinch worrisome, considering she was beginning to like the guy more than she should.

Right now, though, she simply needed to get him on her side.

“So, kinda embarrassing to admit, but my medical insurance lapsed, so I can’t afford the ER or even a doctor visit. Going broke won’t help my health. Especially when I’m fine.” She batted her eyes and added a hair flip for good measure. “Can’t you just check me out?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve been checking you out since the moment you got into town.”

The blush couldn’t be helped. Wiggle room, on the other hand, could be exploited, so she ran a fingertip down his arm. “What’s it going to take to keep this between you and me?”

Ford loudly exhaled, that crinkle in his forehead showing up as the wheels in his brain turned.

“Another puppy-training session,” he finally said. Then he tapped her on the nose. “That way I can watch you closely. Both so you don’t cheat and give Trouble undeserved snacks—the rascal still hasn’t made it to the pad—and so I can keep an eye on your allergy symptoms and make sure you’re as fine as you claim.”

“Oh, I am, Ford McGuire.” She flashed him a flirty smile. “And you have yourself a deal.”

“Oh, and one more condition: you have to bring your camera.”