Page 45 of Just Trouble

10

LUKE

Here’s one thing I’ve learned in my time so far on this spinning rock: you have to protect whatever is important to you and your survival. You can’t count on anyone else to do it. You need to look out for threats to its continuation, even at risk to yourself. And if it’s important to you that a person be in the world, you need to protect that person from harm.

I fell down on that once and I’m not going to do it again.

So, even though it’s getting dark in Empire and Daph isn’t back from Toronto, even though the uncertainty of whether she succeeded in persuading Meredith MacRae to take the deal may just eat me alive, I’m not going to text or phone her.

Chances are good that the one person in the universe who doesn’t text and drive is Daph, but I’m not going to take any chances. I don’t need it to be my fault that her car ends up wrapped around the underside of a tractor trailer.

I need her in the world. It’s a purely selfish perspective when I think of it like that, but I’m still working on a broader view. She’s my ally and the key to making this whole scheme work.

More than that, beyond the Empire-rehabilitation plan, I need her.

She might end up being my muse, my friend or my lover. She might be my salvation. I want the chance to find out, and I’ll do whatever has to be done to make it so.

So, I sit on her porch and wait, like a dog faithfully awaiting its owner. (Or its dinner.) Once I’ve thought of the comparison, I can’t shake it, even though it’s not the most flattering perspective of yours truly.

What do I want from Daph? Easy. Pretty much everything.

What am I prepared to give up for the privilege?

I can’t see that it’s costing me very much, at least not yet. I’m surrendering secrets, which isn’t that easy for me, but she hasn’t demanded my soul or every cent I possess, my last breath or even my pride.

It would be very easy to fall head-over-heels with Daph.

It would probably be smart for me. Would it be smart for her?

I’m pondering this when a familiar silhouette comes into view, strolling up Forest Road. I’m surprised to see her dad walking home from the office, but then I remember that Daph took his car. His footsteps turn up her drive and if he’s surprised to find me on the porch, he hides it well.

He puts his briefcase down on the top step and stands there, looking at me.

I give him a jaunty fingertip wave and he nods acknowledgement.

He’s choosing his words and I let him take his time. I’m not going anywhere soon and I’ve known since this morning that he has something to say to me.

“I suppose it’s old-fashioned to ask after your intentions,” he says finally.

“Maybe, but the impulse is a fair one.”

He nods just a little, staring across the lawn. His posture is relaxed, his manner indifferent, but I’m not fooled. If I’mprotective of his daughter, Richard Bradshaw is a thousand times more so. I have to wonder if he ever had a little heart-to-heart with Jerk Justin.

“And so?” he invites.

“You know my plan for the diner.”

“I’m talking about my daughter and I think you know it.” Mr. Bradshaw waits but I don’t leap in. I can appreciate that he wants to know, but I’m not ready to tell. Whatever is between me and Daph feels fragile and private. I don’t think she’d be happy with me talking to her dad about it either.

“Perhaps your plans aren’t my business,” he offers, clearly checking the temperature.

“I seldom make plans anymore.”

This amuses him. “So, when you steer your ship out of the harbor…”

“I put up the sails and let the wind take us where we need to be.” I deliberately speak in the plural and the slight narrowing of his eyes proves that he didn’t miss it.

“There are those who would suggest that you should have grown out of such impulses.”

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