by Jane Porter
The heat in his eyes sent a delicious shiver racing down her spine. She inhaled sharply, telling herself to be careful. He was too attractive. She didn’t want to be stupid and risk her job. “I love where I work,” she said softly. “I love what I do.”
“You’re good at what you do.”
“I would never make the mistake of confusing the professional relationship with the personal. They are, and must be, two separate things. Always.”
“Yes.” He touched her glass to hers. “Always.” He drank. “You’re right. This is good beer.”
“They make a very good lager here, too.”
His eyes gleamed at her. “You know the difference between ale and lager?”
“I do. It’s the type of yeast. Ales are a top-fermenting yeast with mid-range temperatures. Lagers are a bottom-fermenting yeast that requires cooler temperatures.”
“Impressive.”
“I know. I’m pretty good.”
He leaned over then and kissed her.
The kiss was hot, sweet, soul-searing. It made her ache and she kissed him back, wanting more, wanting him.
When the kiss finally ended, Cormac lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “You’re not pretty good. You’re very, very good.”
She’d blushed and laughed and fell for him, and for the next year she was his and only his. They spent all their free time together and just when she thought he might propose, he instead abruptly ended it.
It broke her heart.
But they’d agreed in the beginning to keep work and personal separate so she continued at Sheenan Media even after their relationship ended.
She’d shown up for board meetings with her head high, never letting him, or anyone else know, how much he’d hurt her, because that wasn’t her style. She was tough. Strong. And a seasoned professional.
Let her personal life interfere with her professional?
Never.
At least, she’d never let a man like Cormac Sheenan derail her career.
*
Cormac had watched Whitney race out of her office, jamming her arms into her coat sleeves, trying to hide the sheen of tears in her eyes.
But he’d seen the tears, and it made his gut tighten. Whitney was not given to tears and emotion. At least, not around him.
But admittedly, the meeting with her had not gone well. In fact, he couldn’t have imagined it going any worse.
He paced her office, restless, and frustrated. He’d tried to be cordial. Positive. Supportive. He’d tried to let her know how valuable she was to him, and the team, but she’d been icy cold, her jaw set, her expression flinty.
It’d been this way ever since she took him to court to attempt to force him to share custody of Daisy. Now there was just this endless animosity, and he didn’t know how to deal with her. Maybe he shouldn’t deal with her anymore. Maybe he should just let her go.
But she was smart, and talented, and honest, and a big part of Sheenan Media’s success. He knew it. She knew it. But that didn’t make their relationship any easier, not after they’d been through so much.
Incredible to think that today was the first time he and Whitney had been in the same room, alone, since December 22nd, the day the judge decided in Cormac’s favor.
There was no question that Whitney would have been a good mother, but the judge had to go on facts, not feelings, and Daryl and April had clearly expressed in their will that they wanted Cormac to become Daisy’s legal guardian, should anything happen to them, and God help them all, something did happen to them.
Cormac stood at the window with the view of downtown and the majestic Rockies in the background.
The bold, dramatic peaks reminded him of his childhood home in Paradise Valley. Returning to Montana would be a good thing. He’d feel better once Daisy was there. He’d breathe easier once his family was close by. He needed to know that there were others who loved her, and people who would be able to take care of her should an emergency come up. Yes, he had nannies in San Clemente, and they were excellent caregivers, but he wanted more for Daisy than professional babysitters.
He was definitely conflicted about marriage—his parents had not been happy together—but family was still important, and he was realizing that Daisy needed family. She needed cousins to play with, and Sunday dinners, and holiday traditions she could count on.
She wouldn’t get that living in California, and he could see now that raising Daisy in Southern California had been a mistake.
But then, he hadn’t planned on being a single parent. What did he know about being a parent? He’d never even dated women with children. So he’d made mistakes but he was trying to be a better dad, and he was more determined now than ever to do the right thing for her.
He also found himself wishing Whitney hadn’t pushed so hard for custody. It would have been better if they could have worked something out, outside of court, but she wanted formal recognition, she wanted to have legal rights, and that’s where everything went upside down. He tried to warn her that taking him to court would just backfire, but she hadn’t listened, certain he was her adversary.
Turning from the window, he exited Whitney’s office, and headed to Jeff’s office where they talked for an hour, discussing the best way to transition everyone from Denver to Marietta.
The new office building in downtown Marietta was actually an old brick building on Main Street. Three stories tall and an entire block long, the Crookshank Building had been built in 1899, Marietta’s original Mercantile and then a car dealership in the twenties before the Great Depression. It had been countless things since…a women’s department store, the Crawford County Department of Education, and more.
It had been vacant for the past two years, except when used seasonally for a Halloween superstore.
He’d bought it for cash, and the previous owners had agreed to let him start remodeling while the title and deeds were being transferred. He expected to have the building in his name by the end of the week and then the real construction could begin, with the goal that the top floor be ready for Sheenan Media personnel by December one, with the rest of his company employees moving in the first week of January.
Meeting over, Cormac headed for the elevators. It was a quick ride down, the doors opening to reveal the tower’s gleaming marble and glass lobby flooded with Denver’s startling bright light.
As he exited the elevators, he spotted Whitney stepping into the lobby through the tall lobby glass doors. She had to pass him to reach the elevators and so he waited, watching her walk towards him. If he were a kinder man he’d let her escape without having to face him. Apparently he wasn’t kind at all, because he waited for her instead, wanting to speak to her one more time before he left.
Despite her earlier distress, she was calm now, and she walked towards him, chin high, expression fearless.
If it weren’t for the two spots of color burning high in her cheekbones, making her warm brown eyes unnaturally bright, he could almost believe she didn’t know he was there. But the pink blush was a giveaway.
She touched the elevator up button and stared at the bronze doors, shoulders straight, back stiff. He could see her face in the reflection and her expression was just as stern, lips firm, jaw set.
It was obvious she was upset. He could feel her tension, and indecision. There were things she wanted to say to him, words she fought to hold back.
He should just let her go. There was no need to speak to each other, and yet the air felt charged, vibrating with unspoken things that needed to be said. And not just by her, but by him, too.
He’d wronged her all those years ago. The abrupt breakup. His silence and distance after the accident in Las Vegas. And then the abysmal mess he’d made of the custody arrangements for Daisy.
He could have handled that so much better.
He should have.
And maybe he would have if he hadn’t been so stunned by Daryl’s and April’s death. Or maybe he wouldn’t have handled it better be
cause he wasn’t one to show emotion, or be sensitive in the face of adversity.
So say something, he told himself now, say something that would help her. Say something that would allow her to move forward with less anger and pain.
But before he could speak, she glanced back at him, her troubled gaze meeting his and holding.
Her hand went out to keep the open elevator doors from closing.
“What is it?” he demanded roughly. “Just say what it is you want to say.”
Her gaze met his then swung away. “How is Daisy? Is she okay?”
Cormac heard the yearning in her voice and his chest tightened. “She’s good,” he said huskily. “She turned four in September.”
“Yes, I know. I sent her a gift. Maybe it never arrived. It was a fairy costume. Periwinkle—”
“Daisy loved it.” Had he not sent any kind of thank you or acknowledgment to Whitney for the gift? He felt like a cad. “It was her Halloween costume this year,” he added, without mentioning that the costume had been damaged in the craziness of the lockdown at school.
Whitney’s fingers tightened on the doors and yet her expression softened. “Really?”
He nodded.
She smiled, and it was a real smile, unlike the frozen smiles of earlier. “I’m glad,” she said softly, before stepping into the elevator and letting the doors close behind her.
Chapter Four
‡
“Daddy.” A small hand reached up to pat Cormac’s chin. “Dad.”
He looked up from the open spreadsheet and turned his jaw into Daisy’s warm soft palm. “Yes, baby girl?” he answered, still distracted by the numbers he’d been studying.
“Dad,” she repeated firmly, forcing him to pay attention.
He looked down into her wide blue eyes. She’d been curled up on his lap watching TV while he read through a report, but she was determined to have his full attention now. “Yes, Daisy?”
“Where’s Momma?” Her dark brows pulled into a flat line, and her eyes, fringed by the longest, thickest lashes, narrowed in concentration. She’d been precocious at two, and was absolutely fierce at four.
He also adored her beyond words and couldn’t help the ache he felt every time she asked about her parents.
“Your mom’s in heaven,” he said. “She’s an angel now, watching over you. And your dad’s there, too. But they love you, and they will always love you—”
“No,” she interrupted impatiently. “The other one. My god-momma. The one who sent me the Periwinkle costume for my birthday.”
Oh.
Whitney.
He felt a different pang now. One tinged with guilt.
“Daisy’s god-momma,” she emphasized.
He smiled crookedly, pushing back a lock of silky dark brown hair from her face. It was strange how this little person could make him feel so much. He’d been accused of being cold and detached by his girlfriends at various points in the relationship. You’re selfish, Cormac. You’re the Ice Man, cold and heartless. But Daisy brought out the protector in him. Daisy made him care.
“Daisy’s god-momma,” he repeated, still enchanted by the way she’d speak of herself in the third person. She did it less and less now, but as a toddler it was her favorite way to communicate. Daisy wants this. Daisy needs that.
Daisy needs…
His smile slipped, aware that Daisy needed so much in her life…so much more than just him. The incident at her school had proven that.
She didn’t need a mother and a father rolled up in an independent bachelor. She needed a mother and a father. Two parents. She needed sisters and brothers. Cousins. Family.
“God-momma Whitney,” Daisy added, clasping his chin firmly to keep his attention.
“You remember her name.”
“Yes.” Daisy’s frown deepened. “Have I met her?”
“Many times when you were a baby and still living in Denver. Whitney and your mommy were best friends.”
“Where is Denver?”
“It’s in a state called Colorado. You have to fly to get there.”
“Is that why she doesn’t come see me? It’s too long a flight?”
His chest, already tight, squeezed into a hard knot. His conscience warred with him. “Would you want to see her?”
The little girl hesitated. “Does she like me?”
Again his conscience smote him. “Yes.” His voice dropped, roughening. “Whitney loves you.”
“Then why won’t she see me?”
He didn’t know how to explain to a four-year-old the complicated situation. He didn’t know how to unravel the messy tangled threads that tied him to Whitney. That tied them to Daisy. But then, he didn’t even know how to explain to himself how something that had once been so good, became so bad. “We just live really far apart. But maybe once we’re in Montana…maybe we can try to get you two together then.”
“Is Montana where Mack and Molly live?”
“Yes. And it’s where we’re going to be living in just a couple weeks.” He kissed the top of her head. “You know your mom was from Montana. I think she’d love it that you’re going to be raised there, too.”
“And Momma Whitney?”
“I think she’d like it, too.”
*
Cormac couldn’t sleep that night. His bed was large, the mattress new and ridiculously comfortable, his sheets and duvet equally luxurious and soft. His bedroom windows were open, welcoming the fresh sea air, carried in from the breeze off the Pacific Ocean. And yet he was restless. His mind wouldn’t shut off.
Frustrated, he yanked his pillow out from beneath his head and smashed it into a different shape. It was past midnight and he craved sleep—craved escape—but his thoughts raced, his conscience working away at him. Guilt. Sorrow. Regret.
Daisy was asking for Whitney again. She clearly missed Whitney, or at the very least, wondered about her.
It wasn’t the first time Daisy had asked about Whitney. Whitney came up every three or four months, usually whenever Whitney sent a gift or if Daisy played with the toy sent by Whitney.
Now he found himself wondering if Whitney was supposed to be in her life.
Not true.
He did know.
Whitney had been a huge part of Daisy’s life before April and Daryl died. She should have remained a huge part of her life even with them gone. But the logistics had been hellacious. Whitney there in Denver. He here in California. And the grief over the accident, as well as the constant guilt…
He’d escaped the accident. Whitney hadn’t. She’d still been in the limo when it was struck by the truck. In hindsight it was a blessing she’d been thrown from the limo, because it’s what allowed her to survive. Daryl and April had been trapped in the limo in the fire.
Cormac stretched his forearm over his face, shielding his eyes.
Remembering the accident still made him sick. Whenever he remembered Las Vegas he wanted to throw up.
And now he had Daisy, and even though he loved her, and even though he tried to be everything for her, he wasn’t enough. He’d never be enough.
He was hard. Ruthless. Selfish.
He hadn’t always been this way, though. His mother used to say that of all her boys, he was the sweetest. Cormac was her sugar and cinnamon spice. He’d blocked out a lot of memories of his childhood but he remembered loving to cuddle with her when he was small. He could still see himself nestled on her lap as she rocked him in the chair she kept in her sewing room.
He’d loved his mother so much that it had made his older brothers tease him. If they found him on Mom’s lap, they’d pull him off her lap and throw him down, wrestling him into submission. His brothers were rough. His dad was rough. He’d been born into a rugged ranching family in Paradise Valley, and as one of the younger brothers in a family of five boys, Cormac didn’t remember a time where he didn’t have to fight, or compete.
He was maybe six or seven when it finally dawned on him that if he didn’t want
to keep getting beat up, he needed to toughen up. He needed to stop going to Mom, and he needed to stop hiding with his books. He had to become strong like his brothers. So Cormac Monroe Sheenan decided he’d learn to fight, and he’d earn their respect.
It’d taken a long time—years—but by using his brain and his muscle he learned to hold his own. He discovered that his strength was strategy. Strategy allowed him to outwit the older brothers now and then, but that was enough. It gave him confidence. It also taught him that setting goals and working towards those goals—even if others mocked his goals—would pay off.
Over the years he carved out an identity for himself, an identity apart from the family name. In high school, people would say he was different from his brothers. Teachers said the same thing, too.
It didn’t hurt that he was the only fair Sheenan in the bunch. In fact, he was the first blonde Sheenan in four generations. As a kid, he’d hated being a towhead. His older brothers used to tell him he was the mailman’s kid, or that traveling preacher’s that Mom used to go listen to every summer when he came to town for his big revivals, but he never took the ribbing seriously. How could he? He looked exactly like his brothers—the same chiseled jaw, the same high cheekbones, the same big frame—except for the blonde hair.
It was somewhere in his early teens that he learned girls liked his blonde hair, and how it got extra gold highlights in summer. The girls were forever running their fingers through it, combing it back from his face as one leaned in for a kiss, or idly tugging on strands while deep in conversation.
And so he’d let them talk, and kiss, and it had all worked out. Up until they got serious. Eventually they all wanted to get serious. He didn’t.
There was no way in Hell he was going to settle down…marry a girl…have kids.
No way in Hell he’d get trapped, the way his mom and dad were trapped. The fighting. The tension. The sadness.
His mom had had her sadness.
His dad had had his anger.
Cormac’s most vivid memory of his father was his dad staring out the window towards the land, and the river that divided the Carrigan property from the Sheenan ranch. No love lost there, between the two families.
