Sammie stood just outside the door, her purse, Clare's backpack, and the tote bag filled with leftovers in one hand. Her other hand was wrapped around Clare's, trying to hold her still. Her daughter kept squirming, clinging to her leg then moving to her side so she could peek up at the man who answered the door. He was tall, broad, with a military haircut and a gruesome scar that sliced across the lower half of his face. Sammie forced herself not to stare, forced herself not to turn and run.

"I'm sorry. I was looking for Jon Reigler." Had she said that already? She thought maybe she had because the man smiled down at her and stepped back. The smile transformed his face, but Sammie wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. And she certainly wasn't about to step inside, even if he was inviting her in.

The man's brows shot up in something that might have been amusement. Or maybe it was just a silent acknowledgment of her stares, like he knew she was unable to stop being so rude.

She forced her gaze from his face and glanced down at Clare, expecting to see her daughter trying to hide from the strange man and the gruesome scars covering his face. But Clare wasn't trying to hide, and she didn't look scared at all. She looked fascinated. Curious, even, with her head tilted to the side as she studied him.

"You've come to the right place. He's in the kitchen." The man looked over his shoulder and raised his voice. "Hey, Reigler. Your wife and daughter are here."

The words shocked Sammie. How did he know who she was? Heat rushed to her face and she shook her head. "I'm not his wife—"

"Ex-wife then. For now." The man smiled again then dropped to one knee, wiggling his large fingers at Clare in a silly wave that looked totally at odds with the man himself. "And aren't you completely adorable? You don't look a thing like your dad. That's probably a good thing. I'm Mac. What's your name?"

Sammie tugged on Clare's hand, ready to pull her down the hallway and out the door. But her daughter stepped out from behind her legs and offered the man a wide smile.

"I Clare."

"'I am Clare.'" Sammie automatically corrected her then winced. What was she doing? She shouldn't be standing here, correcting her daughter's grammar. She should be running out to the car, fleeing to safety. She had called Jon's sister, asking for his address even though she hadn't seen or talked to Crissy in over a year. Had the woman sent Sammie to the wrong place on purpose? Was this supposed to be some kind of joke?

No, it couldn't be, not when the man kneeling in front of Clare seemed to know who they were.

"Nice to meet you, Clare." The man glanced up at Sammie, the smile on his face growing a little wider, as if trying to reassure her. Clare stepped forward and patted the man's mouth with one tiny hand.

"Boo-boo."

"Clare!" Sammie reached for her, ready to apologize, but the man simply laughed.

"Yes, it certainly is."

"Christ, Mac. Let them in before you give the kid nightmares."

The voice startled Sammie and she looked around, surprised to see a second man approaching the door. He was a few inches shorter, not quite as large as the first man, with a warm smile that should have put her at ease.

It didn't.

"I'm Daryl. And you must be Sammie. We've heard a lot about you."

"I—" Sammie closed her mouth and tried to swallow back the apprehension threatening to overwhelm her. This had been a bad idea, such a bad idea. "I'm sorry. I didn't think—we should probably—"

"Come in and make yourself comfortable. Here, let me take that." Daryl took the large tote bag from her hand, somehow easing her into the small apartment at the same time. The door closed behind her and she jumped, her hand automatically reaching for Clare's as she tugged her daughter behind her.

"Jon's in the kitchen. Probably hyperventilating or something. I'll take this into him." Daryl unzipped the tote and looked inside. "Or maybe I'll just eat it myself. Smells wonderful."

"I really should go—"

"Nonsense. Jon should be out in a minute. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable." Daryl offered her what she supposed was meant to be a reassuring smile then disappeared down a short hallway. She didn't move, not even when the other man—Mac—stepped around her and took a seat on the leather sofa a few feet away.

"I read that article about you last week. I don't know much about hockey but I was impressed. Sounds like a lot of hard work."

"Oh. Um, thank you." Oh God, what was she doing, thanking this complete stranger? She needed to scoop Clare up and make a mad dash for the door.

A dull thud echoed from what she assumed was the kitchen, followed by a low rush of words she couldn't make out. Her gaze darted down the hall then snapped back to the man lounging on the sofa. He grinned, acting like he hadn't heard the noise at all.

"The article said you were a teacher, too. Kindergarten, right?"

"Yes."

Another thud echoed from the kitchen, a little louder this time. There were more words, still low and rushed, but she thought she could make out something that sounded suspiciously like the f-bomb, followed by the words head and ass.

She bent down and lifted Clare into her arms then slowly backed toward the door. "This is a bad time. We'll just leave—"

"Daryl's just having a little chit-chat with Jon. I'm sure he'll be out in a minute. Are you sure you don't want to have a seat? Get comfortable while you wait?"

Sammie shook her head and backed up another step, ready to bolt. Daryl stepped out of the kitchen, a smile on his face and what looked like a red mark on his jaw. He nodded at Sammie then looked over at Mac.

"We're leaving."

"And miss this? Are you crazy?"

"Now, MacGregor. That's an order."

Mac rolled his eyes but stood and headed toward the door. He stopped in front of Clare and lifted his hand, holding it palm-out toward her daughter. Clare didn't hesitate at all, just leaned forward and slapped the other man's hand in an enthusiastic high-five.

"See you around, Munchkin. Don't give your dad too much grief."

"Mac. Now." Daryl pulled two coats from the rack near the door and tossed one at Mac. He shrugged into his own then nodded toward Sammie. "Ma'am, nice meeting you. Jon will be out in a few minutes. He's, uh, he's cleaning something up."

And then they were both gone, leaving Sammie standing there in the middle of the room, holding Clare in her arms as she wondered what was going on. How long did she stay like that? Seconds? Minutes? Long enough that her arm started to ache from Clare's weight. Long enough that Clare started getting restless and pushed against her, trying to get down.

She rubbed a hand over her daughter's back, trying to settle her down. "No, Boo. Not yet."

There was still no sign of Jon, nothing more than an occasional sound or two coming from the kitchen, sounds she couldn't decipher.

Sammie looked around, her eyes barely registering the neat yet spartan layout of the apartment as she wondered what she should do. Leave? Go look for Jon?

Leave. Yes, she should leave. But she couldn't quite make her feet work, not when those sounds coming from the kitchen filled her with—

With what? Apprehension? Fear?

No, neither of those. Maybe she was being foolish, maybe the smartest thing she could do was turn and run, but there was something about those sounds—

She lowered Clare to her feet then bent down in front of her and pushed the backpack into her daughter's hands. "You stay here, Boo. Okay? Mommy needs to check on something."

"'Kay." Clare nodded, already busying herself with opening the backpack and digging through it. Sammie pressed a kiss to the top of her head then stood, each step hesitant as she moved down the hall toward the kitchen.

Then froze when she reached the doorway.

Jon was leaning against the counter, his back to her. The knuckles of both hands were stark white as he gripped the countertop. His head was lowered, his broad shoulders hunched and stiff. His entire body was rigid, as if he had been turned to stone.

No, that wasn't right. His shoulders moved as she watched, heaved up and down as he sucked in deep, ragged breaths. Sammie's heart slammed into her chest and her stomach clenched. She took a step toward him, stopped. Another step then stopped again.

"Jon?"

"Yeah." His voice was hoarse, the word barely more than a croak. His shoulders moved again, his hands tightening even more around the edge of the countertop. "Just, uh. Just give me a minute."

"Jon, is everything—" She closed her mouth before she could finish the sentence. She had been ready to ask him if everything was okay, and how stupid was that when it was so obvious that it wasn't?

She hesitated, almost turned and walked out of the kitchen. But there was something about the way he was standing, something about the way he gripped the countertop, like a drowning man desperately clinging to a piece of burning wreckage, that stopped her. She closed the distance between them, reached out and placed her hand on his forearm.

It was like touching a statue. His skin was cold to the touch, the muscles pulled tight, tense, hard as a rock. He shuddered at her touch, slowly turned his head and looked down at her.

Sammie's hand tightened on his arm as the breath left her in a rush. His eyes were unnaturally bright, catching the reflection of the overhead light. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw and his sculpted mouth was pulled tight, the flesh of his lips so pale, they were almost white. And the look on his face, in his eyes as they searched hers—she had never seen such a look of desperation, of pain and agony. The emotions rolling off his tense body slammed into her, and she had to blink back her own tears as something inside her cracked.

She hadn't stopped to think what seeing Clare might do to him. She hadn't stopped to think at all, afraid she'd lose her nerve and turn back around. But Jon hadn't seen his daughter in almost three years. She couldn't imagine what he must be feeling.

She didn't have to imagine, not when she could see it—feel it—so clearly, like a knife slicing through her heart.

She watched as his strong throat worked, as he forced hoarse words from his pale, trembling lips.

"Sammie, I don't think I can do this."

She tightened her hand on his arm and reached out with her other one, gently rubbing circles against his back—much like she did when trying to soothe Clare. But Jon's back was broader, harder, the muscles bunching under her touch. The heat of his skin beneath the thin t-shirt scorched her palm.

"Yes. You can." She leaned closer, her lips trembling as she offered him a small smile. "You're not a monster, Jon."

Something flashed in his eyes. Surprise? Hope? Disbelief? Sammie couldn't tell, thought maybe it was a combination of all three. She opened her mouth, ready to offer him more reassurances, when Clare came running into the kitchen, a book held in one hand and her favorite stuffed bear in the other.

The same bear Jon had given her right after she was born, when it was almost as big as she had been.

She heard Jon's swift intake of breath, felt his body stiffen even more as he turned around and stared down at his daughter. Then he made a noise, an odd kind of strangling sound, and slid to the floor.

Sammie gasped and dropped to her knees, wondering if Jon had fainted. No, of course he hadn't. He shook his head, offered her a faint wave of one hand, and pulled in a deep breath.

"I'm fine."

He didn't sound fine, but Sammie didn't bother telling him that. She settled on the floor next to him, crossed her legs at the ankle, then tapped a hand against her thigh.

"Come here, Boo. I want you to meet someone."

Clare didn't hesitate, just took a running leap and jumped into her lap. Sammie bit back a groan, heard something that might have been choked laughter coming from Jon. She settled Clare on her lap then reached up to unzip her coat. "She's heavier than she looks. I think I have more bruises on my legs from her than I do from hockey."

Jon just sat there, his gaze focused on his daughter as Sammie tugged Clare's arms from the coat sleeves. She had to juggle first the bear then the book to do it, because Clare didn't want to let go of either. She kept up a running commentary, mindless words about things Clare liked to do, wondering if Jon was even listening.

Yes, he was. He heard every single word, seemed to be committing them to memory as he watched his daughter. Sammie folded the coat and placed it on the floor next to her, then wrapped one arm around Clare and ruffled her hair with the other.

"Clare, this is—" Sammie stopped, her throat closing up as she struggled with the next words. How should she introduce Jon? She couldn't tell Clare he was her father, not yet. Or could she? No, not yet. She didn't want to confuse her, didn't want to complicate things. But she hadn't thought things through, hadn't even considered what to tell Clare.

Jon must have sensed her hesitation because he leaned forward and gave Clare a small smile. "Jon. I'm Jon."

Clare repeated his name then giggled. But instead of snuggling up to Sammie like she'd been expecting, Clare climbed off her lap and straight into Jon's, clutching the bear to her chest as she held the book out to him, almost knocking him in the chin with it.

The smile disappeared from Jon's rugged face, replaced with a look of panic and fear. Sammie placed a hand on his arm, gave it a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay, Jon. She won't break."

"But I—" His mouth snapped shut and his throat worked as he swallowed. The panic and uncertainty slowly left his eyes as Clare curled up in his lap, her back against his chest. She looked at him over her shoulder, her brown eyes so trusting, then held the book up to him.

"Read me story. Now."

A startled laugh fell from Jon's mouth. He looked over at Sammie, one brow raised in surprise. "She's a bossy one, huh?"

"Not bossy. Determined."

"Yeah, okay." He settled back against the cabinets and reached for the book, flipping through the colorful pages before turning back to the first one. He paused, his gaze steady on hers, filled with unspoken questions.

Dread filled Sammie and she quickly moved away from Jon, surprised to realize that her leg had been pressed against his. She shook her head. "This isn't about us, Jon. That hasn't changed. And it won't. But that doesn't mean you can't be in Clare's life."

He didn't say anything for the longest time, just sat there, watching her, his dark gaze entirely too focused and penetrating. She could see the unspoken words, could hear them in her head as he watched her.

Not yet.

She shook her head again, ready to tell him that this changed nothing, when Clare turned around and placed one hand against her father's cheek, turning his head so he was looking at the book.

"Read me story. Now."

Sammie's stomach clenched when she heard the tone of her daughter's voice. What had Jon said? That Clare was bossy?

And she had assured him she wasn't bossy, just determined.

It was only now that she realized where Clare had inherited that trait—

From her father.