Page 165 of Fighting Mr. Knight

“Dad,” Bonnie croaks, on the verge of tears. “I’ve missed you. Can I have a hug?”

He rummages for bloody biscuits and for a second I think the fucker is going to ignore her.

I’m about to say something when he stops and turns, staring at the floor.

Her soft hand tightens in mine then she releases me and tentatively moves towards her dad.

Don’t break her heart, you shit,I warn him with my eyes.

Perhaps he’s not the soulless sap I thought, because tears brim his eyes when he gives his daughter a quick, awkward hug.

My heart constricts.

I’ll do anything for her. Including forgive this man. Forgive a man who’s too proud to say sorry. That, and let him off with half a million pounds. And buy back his house.

This man is my father’s killer and my lover’s father. It sounds like a sick poem.

Okay, so he didn’t twist the knife directly . . . but he let my father die.

I can be the bigger man.

“Frank, I’d like to put the past behind us.”

For the first time, he meets my gaze head-on, suspicion evident in his eyes. “There’s a court case coming up. If coming here is your way of intimidating me, son, well I—”

“It’s not,” I cut in firmly. “Eventually I’ll ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage and I’ll need your blessing.”

Bonnie splutters beside me. “W-What?”

I shrug and give her a wink. “I’m a traditional guy.”

“Oh my God, Jack.” She laughs nervously.

I squeeze her hand. We can talk about our future later.

I haven’t told Bonnie yet about buying her father’s house. She’s still continually apologising, and I don’t want her to feel as if she owes me. And I especially don’t want her to feel like I’m buying her love. I’ll wait until the dust settles.

“So, Frank, how about that tea?”

He nods and turns his back to open the cupboard.

But not before I see something flash between father and daughter.

Hope.

One day later

Bonnie

Although I’ve done everything right, I feel sick with nerves.

I lubed my nipples (and Jack’s too). I’m stuffed with protein.AndI’ve found the perfect ass to pound the pavement behind.

The London Marathon starts off conveniently close to Jack’s house in Greenwich. Thousands of us shuffle from leg to leg, waiting for our signal.

What an atmosphere.

The owner of the perfect ass turns to wink at me.

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