Midnight Sommelier - Anne Malcom Page 0,27

type of man, there would be shades of gray, black, sparse applications of home décor that wasn’t motorcycle parts sitting on newspaper on the coffee table. Maybe some weapons littered around the house. A cage in the basement filled with all those who had wronged him.

Okay, that last one was straight up crazy but I’d spent a long time thinking about it—way too long—so I’d made myself insane.

Maybe that’s what he’d have if he was a bachelor, but then again, if he were a bachelor, I doubted he’d have this two-story McMansion.

No, I figured he’d be more of a cabin in the woods type of guy. Or maybe a small dorm room in a biker clubhouse like I’d seen on Sons of Anarchy.

With, stylish, tasteful Luna in the mix I figured it might be that with a splash of teenage girl.

But no.

The rugs that covered the hardwood floors were Persian vintage in colors that complemented the space. And what a space. I would go so far as to call it bohemian glam. Large framed prints were scattered from the foyer to the kitchen. Striking, original, and beautiful. There were fucking vases of flowers. Scented candles. A long white slipcover sofa in the open-plan living room. Patterned armchairs that went with the rug. Expensive throws.

“Surprised?” Luna asked, her smile weak.

I focused on her. “Your dad doesn’t mind this?”

She laughed, again weak and slightly forced, but there was a light in her eyes I was happy to see. “Mind? He helped pick out half of this.”

My eyes widened just as a dark figure rounded the corner. A large, dark figure who sent my stomach hurtling into the polished wood floor.

“That’s the thing about my daughter. She lies,” he said, eyes casual, teasing almost. Well, right until his gaze zeroed in on his daughter.

Parents have a sense, a knowing, something instinctual within us that tells us something’s not right with our kids. Now, most of the time, it’s the mothers that get it the strongest, biology and all that. We are more in tune with our kids, we grew them inside our bodies for fuck’s sake. And most mothers were the ones to get up in the middle of the night, feed them from breasts, hold them. Sure, there were some good men who did more than their share but they were not common.

But it seemed that in the absence of Luna’s mother, Zeke had taken on that instinct. Maybe he’d always had it.

Whatever it was, he saw the night’s events in his daughter’s eyes. He moved his hands to Luna’s cheeks, eyes running over her body, looking for injuries. It was a practiced move, I noted. A shadow of something lingered in his eyes.

Maybe that same shadow I saw in Luna’s eyes now and again, hinting at something dark that had brought them here.

“Sweetheart,” Zeke murmured. “What happened?” His voice was soft. Gentle. I didn’t think the man in front of me was capable of such a tone, but here it was.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Luna said, her voice strong. Even. I was proud of her. I also hated that she had the ability to control herself like that. It took practice.

“Whoever hurt you, I’m going to—”

“Dad, I just need to go to bed, okay?” she whispered. “I’m really tired.” She glanced at me, a pleading look in her eyes.

“I’ll fill you in,” I said to Zeke.

Luna sagged in relief and looked to her father. “I’m fine, I promise.”

He narrowed his eyes. “No woman’s fine when she says she’s fine.”

I had to smile at that, especially since Luna smirked with nothing forced about it.

“Well, I will be fine,” she said, stepping onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Then she walked over and did the same to me. “Thank you,” she whispered in my ear.

I reached to squeeze her hand. “Anytime, girlfriend.”

She smiled at us both, something about that smile far too knowing. “Dad, maybe you should offer Bridget some of that Ridge Monte Bello you got in. It’s not something you should drink alone and it works well as a thank-you.”

She winked at me before turning toward the stairs.

“She’s okay,” I said, watching her ascend. Once she disappeared around the corner, I turned my gaze. Zeke was still watching the empty space where his daughter had left. He was haunted. Hurting. He adored his daughter, and he was torturing himself with her pain.

That’s what a huge chunk of parenthood was after all—guilt. Guilt about everything you’ve done wrong, things you hadn’t done at