faced some unusual situations in her life.
But nothing gave her the heavyhearted feeling that a meeting with Kari did.
Tate pushed her fist into her sternum and gripped the handle of the door to the diner. It was a wintry Wednesday afternoon in early January, and she’d touched down at JFK just after six that morning. After already having spent the morning with the executive producers of the travel channel she worked for, discussing her options for hosting a new travel series, she was mentally and physically exhausted. She simply didn’t have the energy to deal with her older-in-years-but-still-a-child cousin.
Adopted sister. Whatever the hell Kari was.
Not for the first, or hundredth time, Tate wished that she and Kari were closer, that they were each other’s best friends, but, despite she and Kari sharing the same house since she was eight, they’d never really clicked.
That old familiar wave of resentment twisted Tate’s stomach into knots. She looked down the snow-dusted road and thought about walking away. She was tempted; her life was so much easier without Kari in it. She shook her head. She wasn’t tough enough to ignore Kari’s request to meet, and, while she knew she was risking being disappointed for the umpteenth time, a part of her still hoped that they could establish an emotional connection, be a family. Resigned, she pulled open the door to the diner and stepped into its warmth. She shrugged out of her coat, pulled the floppy burgundy felt hat from her head and looked around the diner for Kari. Because their mothers were identical twins, they looked more alike than most sisters did. They shared the same wavy light brown/dark blond hair and long, lean build, but the last time Tate had seen Kari, she’d dyed her hair platinum and was the proud owner of a new, bigger pair of boobs she’d conned someone—probably a boyfriend—into paying for. They also had the same generous mouths and high cheekbones, but Kari had the twins’ bright blue eyes while Tate inherited her grandfather’s cognac-colored eyes and straight nose.
Not seeing Kari, she caught the attention of a waitress rushing past. “Sorry, excuse me? I’m looking for someone who looks a lot like me. Her text said she was here, waiting for me, but I don’t see her.”
The waitress nodded. “Yeah, she’s sitting at that empty booth. I think she went to the bathroom. Take a seat, she shouldn’t be long.”
Tate thanked her and walked toward the empty booth, her attention caught by a beautiful biracial baby fast asleep in a stroller parked between the booth and the table next to her, where a couple sat. The baby, Tate decided, had hit the genetic jackpot by inheriting the best of her stunning African American dad’s and Nordic mom’s genes.
Sitting down, she nodded at the offer of coffee. Hell, yes, she wanted coffee. She wanted to wrap her freezing hands around a warm mug and gaze out the window, happy to be out of the bitter wind and snow-tinged rain. It had been years since she’d been in the city in the middle of winter, and she’d forgotten how miserable it could get.
Next to her, chairs scraped, and Tate turned to watch as the gorgeous man and his blonde partner stood up, gathering their coats and shopping bags. From their intimate smiles and heated looks, Tate realized that they shared a deep connection. Electricity buzzed between them, and she wrinkled her nose as jealously pricked her soul.
She’d never had a man look at her like she was the reason the earth spun on its axis, the pull of the moon on the tides, the strength of the sun.
You’ve got to be in the game to play it, Harper, Tate quickly reminded herself. But you chose independence, freedom and to live on your isolated island. The consequence of that choice was emotional safety.
And, sadly, the sex life of a nun.
But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t admire a masculine butt in well-fitting jeans. Because he had an A-grade ass, it took Tate a while to realize that they were leaving. Her eyes dropped to the baby still asleep in the stroller, and she shot to her feet. “Hey, wait!”
The couple turned around and they both raised their eyebrows.
Tate gestured to the stroller. “Your baby. You’re leaving without her.”
They responded with frowns and matching is-she-crazy expressions. “That’s not our baby. The lady who was sitting there came in with that baby,” Sexy Guy told her.
Wait! What?
Tate caught the eye of the waitress as ice flooded her veins. “Who came in with this baby?”
Tate was subjected to another she’s-a-nut look. “The woman you asked about, the one who looks like you, she came in with this cutie.”
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Tate fought for air and managed to compose herself long enough to ask the waitress if she’d, please, check the bathroom to see whether Kari was in a stall. Tate’s eyes bounced between the sleeping baby and the small hallway leading to the restrooms, and when the waitress reappeared, biting her lip and shaking her head, Tate started to tremble.
Déjà vu, she thought. She knew, without a fraction of doubt, that Kari had slipped out the door when her back was turned. God, Kari, don’t... Please don’t abandon another of your children. Breeze back through that door, toss me a weak explanation, and we’ll pretend this never happened. Just don’t walk away; please don’t confirm my worst beliefs about you.
Tate turned around to look at the door to the diner and waited for it to open, waited for the world to stop tilting. When a minute passed and then two, she sighed and turned around again. Feeling moisture on her cheeks, she wiped away her tears and blinked furiously. She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t fall apart. Taking a deep, calming breath, Tate sent another anxious look to the door, hoping for a miracle.
After ten minutes passed with zero miracles occurring, her shock receded, and air rushed into her lungs, clearing the fog from her brain. Think, dammit. Think. Legally, this child was her niece, and she was responsible for her. As much as she wished she could run away, her mother had already bolted from the diner, and leaving her alone wasn’t an option.
Kari was in the wind... So, what now? Looking down, she saw a diaper bag in the storage area under the stroller, and Tate pulled the heavy sack onto her lap. Resting her arms on the diaper bag, and trying to keep the panic at bay, Tate stared down at the sleeping child.
Angelic, she thought wistfully, because that was the only word that made sense. Her skin was the color of lightly burnt sugar, wispy espresso curls covered her head and her rounded cheeks were pure perfection. The little girl had the wide Harper mouth and pointed chin.
Tate unzipped the diaper bag and peered inside. Seeing a brown envelope flat against the side, Tate pulled it out, her heart hammering. She opened it with shaking fingers, yanked out the papers and slowly flipped through them. There wasn’t much besides inoculation certificates and medical cards and a birth certificate stating that the baby was Ellie Harper, the mother, Kari Harper, and father unknown.
God, Kari. How could you not know who the father was? Or did she know and just decided not to inform the state? The last piece of paper was a letter scrawled in Kari’s handwriting.
Tate,
I know what you are thinking and I don’t blame you. This looks bad; it is bad. I need you to take Ellie. Something has come up and I can’t keep her. You’ll figure out what to do with her.
If you’re freaking out—and you probably are—call Linc Ballantyne, your nephew’s dad. His number is below. Ellie is Shaw’s half sister
