to look at the smiling young faces. He fingered the paper frame that had yellowed over time, cartoon gravestones and grim reapers with scythes, a keepsake from a French Quarter ghost tour.
Unable to stop himself, he glanced at the back of the photo at the inscription.
Always, Nic.
At the time, he’d meant it.
Now, he had to force himself to flip the photo over, to look at the image, to shock himself with the knowledge that always hadn’t lasted a month after this photo had been taken.
And there they were. He and Megan sitting together on the curb, so close they might have been fused at the hips, his arm around her shoulders, her hand resting casually on his thigh. Their heads were pressed close. Their expressions revealing no clue of what would be in store for them. They were immortalized in a way that couldn’t have been any more permanent than the young girl in front of him.
Nic was suddenly aware of her gaze, tense, expectant. She was waiting for something.
His reaction?
He didn’t have one. Megan had disappeared shortly after this tour, though she hadn’t intended to leave for her pricey private university until August. Nic had refused to believe she would walk away from him without a word, but Megan had never contacted him again. Not even to explain why she’d left so suddenly.
Nic’s shock must have been all over him because suddenly the girl—Violet—laughed and said, “I know. Crazy, isn’t it? I just found out myself.”
Her laughter finally penetrated his shock. Megan’s laugh. He hadn’t even known he remembered.
It took every ounce of his not-inconsiderable willpower to keep a poker face as he lifted his gaze to face this beautiful young girl with unusual blue eyes.
One glimpse of the uncertainty she was trying so hard to hide, and he knew his reaction mattered. He could see it all over her. He could feel it in the tight knot in his gut.
Somewhere in the back of his brain, the gears started grinding, and the only thing Nic knew for sure right now was that he couldn’t give over control of this situation.
It didn’t matter that a levee had collapsed and the past flooded in. It didn’t matter that his head was buzzing and long-ago memories and resentments were colliding inside. Not when Violet—his daughter—stared at him expectantly.
So Nic forced a smile. Then he said the only thing he could think to say, “Crazy works for me.”
Her expression melted, all the expectation evaporating into relief. He could see amusement, too, uncertain amusement, true, but it was still there.
A place to start.
CHAPTER FOUR
“WE’RE BEGINNING OUR descent,” the captain announced.
Thank God! Of all the flights Megan had taken over the years, forgettable and memorable, smooth and turbulent, these flights would hold the distinction of being the worst ever.
Nearly seventeen hours in the air, out of contact with Violet, angsting about everything from her daughter’s physical and emotional well-being to what the future might hold for their family. Nearly seventeen hours of imagining scenarios of what the meeting between Violet and Nic had been like and stressing about the potential long-term consequences. Nearly seventeen hours of revisiting every decision she’d ever made regarding Violet and analyzing why she’d made it.
And gearing up to face this mess she’d made.
Once in the States, she’d sent Violet a text message:
Boarding in Atlanta. You have three choices. Pick up your phone. Text me your address. Or be at that gate when I arrive. I expect to see or hear from you. I trust you’ll make a good decision. Love you very much. Relieved you’re okay.
An understatement to say the least, but now the ball was in her daughter’s court.
Would she be at the airport? Or would Megan have to track her down? No, Violet may be fiercely independent, which was a trait she’d had since she’d been old enough to form the words, “I do it.” She may have gone berserk on this quest to find her father, but she was still an intelligent, good kid.
No, Megan wouldn’t have to chase her.
But when Megan emerged from the gate with her carry-on over a shoulder, she didn’t find Violet, but him.
She could have spotted him in the middle of the Rex Parade crowd on Fat Tuesday. He stood taller than most of the people, his light hair cropped close. The chiseled features were the same, yet different. Weathered by life. Damage had been done to the once-straight nose. A fight, most likely, as there was a small but deep scar she didn’t remember marring his eyebrow.
She recognized the boy she’d been wildly in love with so many years ago.
Nic.
A man now. A stranger.
The uniform he wore only added to the impression. All sparkly brass and knife-creased edges.
Her daughter wasn’t anywhere in sight, and her absence combined with Nic’s presence rattled Megan. She didn’t even realize she’d stopped until someone bumped into her.
“Excuse me.” A man brushed past so fast all she saw was the back of him as she steadied her bag, which was suddenly swinging her off balance.
She hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing, either, until she tried to respond. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out because Nic had spotted her. His gaze swept over her in an assessing glance, taking in everything at once.
But giving nothing in return. Nothing to make her brace herself. Nothing to reassure her. Nothing but grim recognition on that still devastatingly handsome face.
Sucking in a deep breath, Megan propelled herself into motion. The burden of this meeting was all on her shoulders, and she wouldn’t shirk it. Holding his gaze, she strode toward him, determined to deal with this mess head-on. She would not make a difficult situation any more difficult.
If that was even possible.
“Nic, I am so sorry.” The words gushed out. “I don’t even know what to say. Is she okay? She said she was, but—”
“Seems to be.” He inclined his head curtly.
Megan tore her gaze from his, glanced around, suddenly needing to look anywhere but at him. “She didn’t come with you?”
“She’s with my mother. Thought it would be best if we talked alone first.”
That made sense. A very good idea, in fact. She was glad someone was thinking, because despite her best intentions, she was overwhelmed: by the stranger he’d become, by the realization that fifteen years away from this man didn’t make one bit of difference because they were still connected through their daughter.
“Do you have a suitcase?” he asked in that stranger’s voice.
“I do.” Spinning
