Across the street, the dance studio door opened. A smiling woman in an oversize sweatshirt stepped out and propped the exit open with a block of wood. Two tiny girls in ballerina costumes skipped out holding water bottles, their chatter audible all the way where he stood. His gaze remained glued to the open doorway, waiting, the breath frozen in his lungs.
There. A redhead he knew to be three, almost four years old walked out, much slower than the other girls. She looked serious. Too serious. Her head was bent over a cloth doll, her mouth moving as if speaking to the inanimate object. What was she saying? As if he’d asked the question out loud, as if she were close enough to hear it, her chin lifted up and she looked directly at him.
His daughter was looking right at him.
Time started to crawl. The newspaper in his hands started to feel like a prop, which meant he was dropping character. Bored. You don’t see her. She’s just an extra in your movie.
The prompts didn’t work this time. His palms were sweating so profusely, the newspaper turned insubstantial in his hands. Quickly, he dropped to one knee on the sidewalk and shoved the newspaper into his leather satchel. He needed to sling the bag over his shoulder and disappear into the train station, but he couldn’t force his legs to move, knowing she was so close after all this time.
One more look. Just one more.
But when he looked up, she was gone.
Austin nodded jerkily. For the best. It was for the best. Ignoring the looks from passersby, this time centered on his off behavior more than the blasted eagle on his pocket, he shoved his headphones into his ears, turned up Zeppelin to full volume and ran in the opposite direction of where he’d seen her.
Old habits died hard.
Acknowledgments
To my husband, Patrick, for being the best kind of badass man. The kind who isn’t cowed by the idea of his wife being the breadwinner, while he does the bulk of raising a child. Our daughter will be twice the woman for having spent so much quality time with her father, because that, Mackenzie, is how a real, secure man behaves. Thank you, Patrick, for being an amazing man, father, and husband.
To my daughter, Mackenzie. I never would have started writing again if you hadn’t shown up. You made me want to be the kind of mother you could be proud of. Thank you.
To my editor Heather Howland, for believing in this series and my characters. For believing in me. And paying such close attention to detail. Not to mention, designing some seriously amazing covers for Crossing the Line. Thank you.
To Liz Pelletier, for believing in the series enough to give me my very first book on bookstore shelves. What a surreal experience. Thank you so much.
To Katie Clapsadl, Meredith Johnson, and Jessica Turner for doing such a great job on the publicity side of things. I’m so appreciative. Thank you.
To Bailey’s Babes—we’ve come a long way! Thank you for sharing every day with me, and for being excited about my books. There are not enough words to thank you ladies.
To the bloggers/reviewers who continually read my books and recommend them to their followers, much of my success is owed to you. Thank you.