Free Winter's End by Ruth Logan Herne Page A

been replaced by a simple turtleneck in loden green. The soft country shade did wonderful things to his eyes. Why did that seem unfair? “Me, too.”
    The night had disaster written all over it. Kayla jerked one shoulder. “I can come another time.”
    She turned. A firm hand caught her shoulder. Marc steppedin front of her, his hands reaching for the baby. “We’ve eaten together before. No one suffered irreparable harm if I remember correctly.”
    “Still.” She met his gaze. “You deserve a quiet evening with your friends. I’m sure Craig and Sarah had no idea that…” Her voice trailed off.
    “That I give you a hard time because I want the best possible care for my father?”
    Something inside Kayla snapped. “That you give me a hard time because you have a truckload of misplaced anger and should spend the better part of a week, no, make that a month,” she expounded, “with a punching bag, sorting things out.”
    She clapped a quick hand of regret over her mouth. Well, that little tirade should do wonders to clear the air. Nice going, Doherty.
    He stared, long and hard. She squared her shoulders and stared right back until a muscle in his cheek jumped. A sheen of hard-won respect softened his expression. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw and nodded. “Probably wouldn’t hurt.”
    “Shall I call the gym, set up a time?”
    His Derek Jeter eyes darkened with amusement. The difference was she liked Derek Jeter, the always-a-class-act shortstop for the New York Yankees.
    “No, thanks. I’ve actually got one in the barn. High school leftover.”
    Marc shifted the baby. In turn, McKenna patted his cheek with chubby hands. He smiled at the little girl, then dropped his gaze to Kayla. “So. What do you think of Division One hockey? St. Lawrence?”
    “I think the coach should duct tape Norwen’s mouth.”
    She surprised him. His eyes narrowed. He switched McKenna to his left arm and walked into the great room. “Because?”
    “The kid’s trouble,” Kayla defended her position. “He shoots off his mouth and brings the team down. I’d cool his heels on the bench until he develops a better public attitude. Or bump him.”
    “Coach says he’s had a tough life,” Marc offered. He sank tothe floor and grabbed a waddling plastic toy puppy for McKenna. Grinning, he watched as the baby toddled after the toy, her arms outstretched.
    “That’s no excuse for being a jerk.”
    He sent her a cool look. “You figure he should suck it up, turn the other cheek?”
    “Yup.”
    “Simplistic.”
    She refused to look annoyed. That would give him too much power. “Straightforward.”
    “Perhaps.” He turned his attention back to the baby. “Or patronizing.”
    Kayla sucked a breath. Her heart signaled an upsurge of adrenalin. Marc didn’t seem to notice.
    “Not everyone gets handed a gilded life and a happy childhood,” he advised, his tone nonchalant. He gave her Ann Taylor ballet-neck rose silk sweater a sharp look. “Or designer labels.”
    Kayla bit her tongue. Let him think what he would. He had no clue how she’d worked to be where she was today. The foster homes where she never quite belonged. Hustling tables in a sports bar through college, cranking the books until she fell asleep on top of them in a bug-infested basement apartment requiring bars on the windows.
    Nope, he had no idea and she had no intention of setting him straight. Marc didn’t have to know that working girls could afford Ann Taylor if they waited for half-price online sales. If she could pull off the look of being normal, more power to her. That he thought her uncaring dented her spirit, but nothing that couldn’t be filled with…something. Something that wasn’t Marc DeHollander and his casually cold demeanor.
    “Marc, you’re here.” Sarah Macklin hurried down the stairs and gave Marc a welcoming hug. “How are you? How’s your dad? It’s been way too long,” she scolded, smiling. She looped her arm through his.