“You sounded different with her,” I said.
His hand stilled on the steering wheel. "She's my daughter."
"That wasn't an accusation."
"No." He turned his head, his profile sharp against the faint light from the suite. "But it was an observation."
"Yes."
The quiet stretched. An owl called somewhere in the trees—a low, repetitive note that echoed across the clearing.
"High school’s been rough," he said finally. "New school. New people. Her mother’s boyfriend moved in last month." He released the steering wheel and leaned back in his seat. "She doesn’t say much about it. Just calls more. Asks questions she already knows the answers to."
"She wants to hear your voice."
He looked out through the windshield. "She asked me where her old softball glove was."
"Did she need it?"
"No." His jaw shifted. "She quit two years ago."
The quiet settled hard between us.
"I still knew where it was."
"You don't have to make that sound smaller for me," I said.
He looked at me then, long enough that my fingers tightened around the door handle.
"I know."
Neither of us moved. The jeep ticked softly around us, cooling in the dark. Above the deck, one lamp burned inside my suite, turning the canvas warm against the black ridge.
Seven hours until pickup.
I stepped onto the deck first. He waited at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting on the rail, giving me room to decide whether he followed. Then I turned back, and whatever question remained between us answered itself.
The suite was dark except for the single lamp I'd left on by the bed. Nick followed me inside and stopped at the edge of the open panel, his shoulders cutting into the lamplight while his attention moved over the ridge. I poured two glasses of whiskey from the decanter on the sideboard.
I handed him one. Our fingers brushed. Neither of us pulled away.
"Seven hours," I said.
"I know."
"And then what?"
He didn't answer immediately. He drank, set the glass down, and turned to face me. The lamp threw shadows across his face, sharpening the angles, deepening the lines around his eyes.
"I don't know," he said. "I've been asking myself that question all day."
"Any conclusions?"
"None that help." I looked away before he could read the one that did.
I set my glass beside his. The space between us had collapsed to inches, close enough to feel the heat radiating through his shirt, close enough to notice the dark scrape of stubble along his jaw.
"I'm not good at this," I said. "I run a company built on forecasts and measurable outcomes. This—" I gestured between us. "—doesn't fit any model I know how to build."
