Page 248 of Unexpected Heroine

“It never stops being enough.”

Her expression pinches. “What are you talking about?”

“Love. It never stops being enough. Not one like ours.”

The adorable vertical lines between her brows slowly fade as she realizes what I’m talking about—the text she sent me a few nights ago. The one that prevented me from killing Skidmark because I’ll never stop striving to be a man worthy of her love.

At what point does love stop being enough?

Gently, her eyes close, her wet lashes batting. With another pulse of my hand, she releases it, letting it fall to my side.

I stand there silently, watching her leave. Madeline takes her under her arm, the one not in a sling, and they drift down the hall.

I’m left alone, physically. However, a feeling I’ve never trusted stays with me.

Hope.

Chapter 46

The football bat

TOMER

My brief moment of euphoric hope is quickly shattered by a familiar, deep voice. An extremely pissed off one, rightfully so.

“My office. Now.”

He doesn’t wait for me. Bristling past, he knows I’ll comply.

Tail between my legs and head hanging low, I follow, ready to take my medicine. After entering, I close his door behind me and suck in a sharp breath.

The couch along the wall draws my attention because of the pillow and blanket rumpled on one end where Madeline was sleeping not long ago. She must have heard the commotion down the hall and left in a hurry to see my freak show.

Big Al doesn’t speak for a while, but I hear him breathing. More accurately, he huffs like a dragon. Again, rightfully so.

Standing close to the window, he keeps his back to me. One arm rests against the window frame. Hostility circles above him the way a storm cloud moves in over the Gulf before a torrential downpour.

Without speaking, I fold my hands behind my back and stand with my legs straight and shoulder width apart. On autopilot, I cast my eyes straight ahead and wait motionless.

“Is she okay?” Despite the stiffness in his body, his tone carries hints of kindness.

True to his character, his first words are out of concern.

“She will be. She’s strong.”

With a touch more irritation in his voice, he adds, “I meant with the getting sick.”

“Oh. I think so. Madeline’s with her in the restroom, getting her all cleaned up.”

Warmly at the mention of her, he mutters, “Of course she is.”

Silence stretches again, and tension presses me down with the weight of lead shoulder pads. Or is that remorse?

This time when he speaks, his voice is braided with steely calm and restrained anger. “How long?”

“More specific,” I respond, not wanting to misinterpret him again.

“How long have you known she’s my daughter? Assuming she is.”

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