“I have to get back to work,” she said.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he needed some time to let this sink in, to think it through before he said anything else, because he suspected that right now he might say something he would ultimately regret.
“Call me when you decide what you want to do.”
What the hell was there to decide? “I want to meet my daughter.”
“Well, call me when you’ve calmed down, and we’ll discuss it.”
He gritted his teeth; he was goddamn calm.
“My number is on the back of the photo,” she said and slid out from the booth. He sat back and watched her walk away, hat clutched in her hand. As she reached the door, Rory entered. He held the door for her and spoke softly. She snapped something back. Logan couldn’t hear what she said, but whatever it was made his father raise his eyebrows.
Finally, the door closed behind her.
Logan sat back in his seat, his mind whirling. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d imagined the encounter. Picking up the photo, he studied it some more. No, she was definitely real.
He glanced up to see Rory standing beside the booth.
“What did you say to her?” Logan said.
“I asked her what the fuck she was doing here.”
Logan shook his head. “And she said?”
“She said ‘go to hell.’” He grinned. “You know I might quite like her…if she weren’t a cop. So what put her in such a pissy mood? And what was she doing here?”
Logan handed him the photograph. “It seems I have a daughter.”
Rory studied the picture for a few seconds and whistled. “Holy shit.” He shook his head. “You and the police sergeant?”
“Well, she wasn’t a police sergeant back then.” No, she’d been an eighteen-year-old girl. Could he really blame her for the choices she’d made? Hell, yeah, when those choices included cutting him out of his daughter’s life. He could sort of understand why she had done it, but he wasn’t ready to let go of his anger just yet.
He’d make a bloody good father. Wouldn’t he? Truth was, he had no clue. He’d never even thought about a family. Never wanted one woman enough to settle down. He’d always presumed he would never marry. After all, he was hardly surrounded by role models.
But he’d grown up to the age of ten—the same age his daughter was now—barely knowing his father. Though he’d been aware of Rory’s existence, his mother had made sure that they didn’t spend time together. She’d even told him that Rory didn’t want him, had never wanted him, which might well have been true at the time. All the same, Rory had made the most of a bad situation, and when Logan had finally gone to live with him, he’d never doubted that his father wanted him around.
What did his daughter think? That somewhere she had a father who didn’t give a shit, who’d never wanted her. He’d make sure she knew different. He might make a crappy father, but his daughter would know it was Logan who was lacking. Never her.
“I need a drink.” He stood up and crossed to the bar, pulled a bottle of single malt scotch and a couple of glasses from the shelf below, and carried them back to the booth. His father had taken a seat and was still studying the photo as Logan slid in opposite and poured them both a drink.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt she’s a McCabe,” Rory said.
“No. She looks like Tamara.”
“She looks like you.”
They sipped their drinks in silence for a minute. Logan emptied his glass then refilled both. He looked at Rory and something occurred to him. “You realize this makes you a grandfather.”
Rory choked on his drink. “Bugger.”
“Yeah.”
“So what happens next?”
“I meet her.” A cold, hard lump settled in his stomach. What if she took one look at him and ran for cover?
“Is her mother okay with that?”
“I presume so. Apparently she wants to meet me. That’s the only reason Abby told me. Otherwise I would never have known.”
“Is that all she wanted? Not money?”
“How the hell should I know? We haven’t exactly gotten around to discussing details yet.” His dad was a cynical bastard. Anyway, he supposed he should pay something toward her maintenance. How had Abby coped alone all these years? Had her family helped? He knew absolutely nothing about her, though she’d obviously managed to carve out a career for herself, which couldn’t have been easy.
Shit, the mother of his daughter was a police woman. No wonder she was wary of letting him into their lives. He picked up the photo again and studied it. There was nothing of Abby; she was all McCabe. Had that pissed her off?
God, he had a daughter. It was beginning to sink in.
Would she like him? Or would she take one look at him and decide he should have stayed away. Maybe he should have a haircut or something. And he couldn’t believe he was thinking like that.
“Her name is Jennifer,” he said. “Jenny.”
“Nice name.”