Chapter One
“Daddy, I’m pregnant.”
Owen Kincaid felt the three words more than he heard them. The immediate and heavy truth that this could—would—change everything. His daughter Becca gave him a beseeching look from across the living room. He knew in the back of his mind that he was supposed to say something supportive, something understanding. Hell, he understood all right.
He’d been there, done that, got the too-young parent t-shirt himself, hadn’t he?
Eighteen years ago, in fact.
The roar in his ears made it hard to think. He couldn’t figure out how to respond in any way that wasn’t scary—or scared, if Owen was being honest. He’d been sprawled out on the couch, waking up after a midday nap before an evening shift tonight, when Becca came home ten minutes earlier. His cue to make some food and be a good dad. She’d disappeared into her room, then reappeared, finding him in the kitchen. “Can we talk?” she’d asked, her voice tight.
Then she’d turned on her heel, making him follow her into the living room of his small, three-bedroom bungalow. He’d been prepared for a confession about her car. A fender bender. Or ready to go to battle if she’d been let go from her job at the golf course, where she worked part time on the banquet staff. He could have commiserated if something had happened at school.
But this?
She was pregnant?
God. Fucking. Damn. She was eighteen years old. A baby herself.Hisbaby.
She stood up from her seat across from him—carefully, warily—and moved closer. His fist clenched hard at his thigh, and she covered his white knuckles with her own fingers. She was shaking.
No.
“Dad, it’s going to be okay.”
That was his line. That’s what he was supposed to say. But he couldn’t, so he opened his arms instead, and she fell against him.
He’d known she was growing up. He couldn’t keep her a kid forever. He thought he had done his best, but he’d failed. “Are you okay?” He finally said, his voice full of gravel and regret and undisguised anger, too. There was no hiding that, so he didn’t try.
And she picked up on it, too, because she didn’t answer his question.
“Don’t be mad,” she whispered.
“Not at you, baby.” He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, inhaling roughly before rubbing her back. “Did you…do you know…Does the fa—” Nope. That was a word that wasn’t crawling out of his throat right now. Father. Some little punk-ass kid knocked up his daughter.
Youwerethat punk-ass kid nineteen years ago.
But history wasn’t supposed to repeat itself like this. He’d done his best,theyhad done their best, to give Becca everything despite how young they were when she arrived. Her mother may not have been his soul mate, but they were decent co-parents. They’d just celebrated Becca’s birthday four months ago.
Him, his ex-wife, her husband, and Becca’s shithead on-again, off-again junior hockey player boyfriend who dumped her a week later.
And the anger roared back to life. “Becca, tell me it wasn’t Hayden.”
“Daddy, don’t be mad at us.”
Us. There would be no us with Hayden. The kid had his eyes firmly locked on the NHL, and nothing—no one—would get in his way. Not a girlfriend. He’d made that clear to Becca every time they broke up. So there was no chance he’d prioritize a child. Owen could kill him. With his bare hands, and he’d enjoy every second of the murder.
“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “I’m not mad.”
“You are.” She’d always been able to see right through him like that.
He shuddered and kissed the top of her head. “I was thinking you’d banged up the car, that’s all.”
“No.” Another small sound.
He forced himself through a calming breath. “Well, that’s good. Have you told your mom yet?”
“She’s not home. I stopped there first on my way back from the store.”
