But it’s when I look at his mouth that I see the part of me that I inherited from him. I got my mom’s eyes, but my mouth is all his.
“We’re not open for business.”
His accent is sharper than Declan’s, but I can understand why my mom fell for him. He’s good-looking in a young Sean Connery way. His eyes settle on the straps of my bag over my shoulder.
“If you’re looking for work, I can’t help you.”
O-kay. He doesn’t like timewasters, I get it. So, I’ll make this quick, get it over and done with, and be on my way.
“Are you Michael Morran?” I match my tone to his not liking the way it sounds.
“Who wants to know?” The guy has serious trust issues.
I didn’t come to Ireland to bond with my biological father. He has never been a part of my life, and he doesn’t get to waltz in now and make up for lost time. But now that I’ve met him—I’m sure that he is the Michael Morran that I’ve been looking for—I want him to know about me. I want him to know what he walked away from, what he might’ve had if only he’d chosen differently all those years ago.
So, I look him in the eye and say, “I do. My name is Amelia York. My mom is Julia York; you met her in New York twenty-seven years ago.”
I watch him process the information, counting the years, his eyes searching my face for recognition. Then, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I smile. His lips twitch: he sees the resemblance too.
“I’m sorry to have taken up your time. I have a plane to catch.”
I hoist my bag higher onto my shoulder and reach the doorway before he says, “Wait. What time is your flight?”
I turn around slowly. “Not until later.”
He nods once. “Come through. I’ll get you coffee.”
Michael Morran leads the way through to the staff room and gestures for me to sit at a basic square table while he fills two cups with coffee from the machine on the counter.
He sits across the table from me and leans back in his seat, his gaze intense. “How is your mom?”
So, he does remember her.
“She isn’t here if that’s what you’re asking.”
His lips twitch again, but still no smile. He must not give them out freely. “Why are you here, Amelia York?”
No point pussyfooting around. I’ll be leaving the country in a few hours. “I came to find my roots.” And found a husband instead.
He sips his coffee, stalling. “I meant why are you here in my warehouse?”
“Same answer. I came to find my roots.”
Only this guy clearly doesn’t want to get involved.
I slide my coffee away from me and stand up. “Look, it’s been a tough couple of months, and I’ve got a long journey ahead of me. I don’t want anything from you. Truly. I simply wanted to explore my heritage, so now that I’ve found it, you’ll never hear from me again.”
I could add that it was nice meeting him; it would be the polite thing to say. But it doesn’t really apply to this meeting.
He locks eyes with me, and I feel the dull pang of losing Declan all over again. This man’s eyes are cold, where Declan’s are warm, or at least they were before he learned my secret. Michael Morran wears a wedding ring, but I can’t imagine him bringing his wife breakfast in bed, or rubbing her back when she feels queasy, or proposing to her with an engagement ring and her very own horse.
Finally, he says, “You want to talk about it, the tough couple of months?”
I shake my head. Look away. “I’d rather not.”
“Why didn’t you come and find me sooner?”
