“That was my father,” she whispered, emotion roiling up her throat, making her want to gag.
“Your father?” He brushed her hair back, wiped her tears with the pad of his thumb. “I thought you hadn’t seen your father since you were little.”
“I haven’t. Not until today. It was him, Jack. The way he said my name. He called me Jamie Lynn, and I just knew.” Then suddenly, embarrassingly, she was sobbing, her shoulders shaking, her voice shattering. “He left again…he just left.”
Jack gathered her in his arms. Her face pressed into the crisp white shirt, her eye on his tie, her fingers gripping his suit jacket. Steady hands smoothed over her back as he made little sounds of comfort. Pressed kisses to her forehead, the top of her hair.
“I’m so sorry, baby. Maybe he didn’t want to upset you. But he obviously stepped forward to protect you when we were arguing. I don’t know why he left, but maybe there’s more going on than you know about. He obviously didn’t know you knew.”
Jamie was grateful he didn’t try to tell her she was cracked. That it couldn’t possibly be her father, or that she wouldn’t know him after twenty years. And she thought he was right, that maybe it was time to call her mother. It seemed odd that her father knew who she was, was standing right outside her building.
Pulling slightly out of his embrace, suddenly realizing that it felt really damn good to be against his chest, Jamie sniffled and tried to stem her tears. “I need to go call my mom. Did you see how he was dressed, Jack? He looks…poor.” She’d certainly seen the signs of poverty often enough to recognize it. “Maybe not destitute, but lean. Down on his luck. What if he’s homeless?”
Jack led her over to the picnic table. He sat on the bench and pulled her onto his lap, and she didn’t even try to resist. She was always the one who comforted, who cosseted, who cared. It was nice to have someone to lean on just once, for a quick minute.
“We can find him, Jamie, if that’s what you want. It shouldn’t be that hard, even if he’s living in a shelter. The question more is, do you want to see him again?”
Perched on Jack’s thigh, she went to wipe her tears off with her finger, but he shoved his tie in front of her.
“Use this.” He dabbed at her with it.
“To dry my eyes?” She gave a startled laugh and tried to pull back. “That’s probably like a hundred-dollar tie.”
“You already ruined my three-hundred-dollar shoes by spilling Coke on them, and a hundred-dollar T-shirt with spaghetti sauce. What’s a measly eighty-dollar tie?” And with a great deal of tenderness, he used the tip of the tie to wipe her cheeks.
She felt the corner of her mouth turn up. “Is that all your shoes are worth? I would have thought they were more.”
“Sale at Steve Madden.”
A giggle bubbled up. “You know, what you paid for those clothes could probably buy a goat for a family in Africa, providing them with milk and dairy products for years.”
His mouth twitched. “Thanks, Sally Struthers. But instead of a goat, what I paid for these clothes provided wages for cattle ranchers, truck drivers, multiple garment workers, button and zipper manufacturers, and retail salesclerks. Not to mention my dry cleaner. I’m driving the US economy, babe. And looking good doing it.”
Jamie laughed, part amusement, part relief that he was here with her, distracting her, steadying her. “An alternate perspective I hadn’t considered.”
Jack was quiet for a minute, his hand stroking her back, wondering if he should just keep his mouth shut and enjoy the moment before she regained her sense and told him to fuck off. But he had seen the hurt, the torment on her face, and it had torn at his own heart. When she had turned, tears streaming down her face, he would have done anything to take that pain away.
Including blow his chances with her. So he ventured, “Maybe your father has a different viewpoint.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe he’s afraid you’ll reject him.” Like Jack himself was.
“Maybe.”
She wasn’t rejecting him yet. She was snuggled cozily into his chest, and his thoughts were shifting into dark, dangerous areas. Ones that involved this same position but without clothes. Of course, he was intelligent enough to know the odds of her appreciating his carnal thoughts right at that moment were about ten thousand to one, so he clamped down on his lust, his desire, his love.
And truthfully, he was enjoying cuddling her, comforting her in a way that wasn’t sexual but tender.
A random thought popped into his head. He gripped her more firmly, straightening up. “You know what? I know where I saw him now,” he said, positive he was right. “It was on the subway the day we met. When you got on and stumbled, you almost collided with a guy wearing grungy clothes, lots of tattoos, older than you, but not old, old. And I stepped in between so you wouldn’t touch him. So you would touch me.”
“What?” She jerked back from him. Stared up at him in amazement.
“Yeah, so maybe he’s been following you or something.” Not that Jack liked the sound of that, father or not. That was a little weird. Of course, he had no freaking room to talk.
“That doesn’t make sense…” Her words trailed off as she looked out across the street.
She wound his tie around her finger, pulling tighter with each turn, until he felt discomfort at the back of his neck.
“It may not make sense, but you don’t need to choke me,” he said lightly.
Absently, she refocused her gaze on him and unfurled her finger. “Sorry.”
Her lips were cherry red from sitting out in the afternoon sun, her cheeks a pale, sharp contrast to her freckles and dewy hairline. Her skirt spread over his legs in a colorful maze of purple and olive green, and her flowing white shirt hid all her curves.
If she didn’t forgive him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to accept that.
But she stared up at him, breath short and raw, eyes wide and awed, nail flicking across the button on his shirt. “Jack, do you believe in destiny?”
He opened his mouth, not sure what the answer was going to be. He had always been a by-the-numbers kind of guy, a make-your-own-destiny purveyor. But could he accept that it was fate that forced him to take a look at Jamie? Absolutely. Could he believe that destiny had pulled him off of Wall Street? Maybe.
But before he could answer, she continued.
“My friend, Beckwith, he tells fortunes. Months ago, he told me I was going to meet a man during an accident with food. On something moving. That this man would make me happy.”