He rolled his eyes, but obligingly propped the screen back open, just in time for them to hear Amelia’s response.
“It’s hot in the car. And besides, it doesn’t sound like it’s gettingsorted.” Amelia air-quoted the word. “All this red tape is so annoying.”
“I’ll say.” Linc scowled. “And for the record, you shouldn’t be rude to your elders like that.”
“Ha.” The teen singsonged at Ms. Bridges. “He just called you old.”
Ms. Bridges closed her eyes. Zoey was pretty sure if she’d been wearing red slippers, she’d have heel-clicked herself somewhere far away. “Mr. Fontenot, as I’ve been trying to explain to you, we have a situation on our hands.”
“It’s me.” Amelia clambered onto the porch, a challenging gleam in her eyes that did nothing to conceal the dark smudges underneath. She looked…tired. Like an adult and a child, all at once. “I’m the situation.”
“Who are you?” Linc frowned.
Zoey’s gaze darted between Amelia and Linc, at their matching glares. Dark hair and eyes…no. Impossible. Linc wasn’t—he’d never…
Amelia lifted her chin. “I’m your daughter.”
six
Linc had had people make up all kinds of crazy reasons to come to his porch before—usually with an end game of selling him a vacuum cleaner or a set of professional-grade knives.
Claiming DNA was a new one.
“Nice try.” He glared, crossed his arms over his chest at this unlikely duo. “I don’t have any kids.”
“And yet here I am.” The girl—what was her name, Amelia?—matched his stance. She looked like she was past the sticky-hand stage, but the kid still needed some manners. Her mom, or whoever this Ms. Bridges was on the porch, had clearly dropped the ball.
“Here you are…and off you go. We were in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind.”Heminded—a lot. He tugged at Zoey’s elbow, wanting her to step inside so he could shut the door, but her face had washed pale. She stared at Amelia like she was from an Edgar Allan Poe poem instead of a sassy kid in need of some discipline.
Linc’s hand slowly slipped off Zoey’s arm, and his heart thudded as he studied her gaping mouth.Aye. She wasn’t falling for this, was she?
His chest tightened. “Look, lady, you’ve either got me confused with someone else, or you’re mistaken that I’m rich. Either way, this scam ends here.” He started to shut the door. Zoey would just have to move on her own.
“Mr. Fontenot.” Ms. Bridges stepped forward, lowering her voice. “Are you familiar with a Kirsten West?”
He caught the door before it slammed. Opened it again as the world dipped. The porch tilted. Now his mouth was the one hanging open. “How did you…”
In his peripheral vision, Zoey looked up at him, but he couldn’t look at her. Could only look at Amelia…at her dark eyes and dark hair. No. How old was she? He was bad with kids. Really bad with ages. She looked, what? Eleven? That wouldn’t be right.
He pressed his lips together, mind racing. Images of one fateful night, roughly fourteen years ago, flashed. He and Kirsten on a Valentine’s date. Medium rare steak. Fake IDs, red wine. The fight, like always.
That particular makeup, which was definitelynotlike always.
He fought the urge to count on his fingers to be sure. “When is your birthday?”
“November. Why, you gonna get me a cake?” Amelia rolled her eyes.
He shoved his fingers into his hair. “The year, kid. The year.”
Ms. Bridges opened her file. “2012.”
Amelia was thirteen.
His ears roared. His vision blurred. He must have gasped, because Zoey’s hand was on his arm, cool and steadying. Grounding him, keeping the sky in its rightful place. This wasn’t possible.
And yet the impossible was glaring at him in low-rise jeans.
“Why don’t you both come in?” Zoey’s smile was bright, her grip firm on his bicep. “We have freshly baked cookies.”
