Page 47 of Bulletproof

Scott was clearly her brother, the snarly thing sitting with her.

“Nobody can help me, and Mommy’s late.”

I nodded, sitting down beside the table. “Well, I can definitely make hats, but I can make frogs, too, and swans,” I said, drawing out the last word. “You wanna see?”

She was maybe five, and so because of that, she was beside me so fast that you would have thought I was covered in frosting or something. Ten minutes later, the boy was on the floor with his sister, Becca, and me, both of them in newspaper hats.

“Can you make airplanes or what?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, equaling his snarky tone. “Better than anything you can make.”

“I doubt it.”

“Wanna bet?” I sassed him back.

“I’ll bet you a million dollars.”

I arched an eyebrow at him, and miracle of miracles, he smiled. Same chestnut curls as his sister, but his eyes were hazel, not green. They were both beautiful, and even though the little boy was trying not to like me, he was having a hard time. When I made the airplane sail from one end of the room to the other, he was impressed.

“Holy cow.” His eyes were wide. “That was awesome.”

“See,” I said, eating an Oreo, “told you.”

“I’m Scott,” he said with a smile, edging closer to me. “And that’s my sister, Becca.”

I had collected that information previously, but it was nice that he was actually telling me. It was progress. “I’m Jory.”

“Jory’s a cool name.” He nodded his approval. “It’s a cowboy name.”

“Thanks.” I smiled back.

Becca was in my lap, so she tilted her head back and kissed my chin. Me and women, no matter the age, it was a given. She got more comfortable, nestling against me as Scott called out for me to look at him as he sailed the airplane toward the sliding glass doors. When I looked up, I became aware of the man towering over me.

“Dad, look at this!”

He was staring at the little girl in my lap, and as hard as he tried to tear his eyes from her, he could not.

“Dad!”

Finally, he wrenched his gaze away and watched the airplane float across the room on an unseen breeze for seconds before his gaze was once again on his girl.

“Hi, Dad.” She smiled up at him, her fingers once again, for the hundredth time in the last hour, on my face.

He swallowed hard, his breath catching. “Hi, baby.”

Instead of going to her father, she leaned tighter against me, and I felt her fingers fiddling with the collar of my sweater before she turned in my lap to face me.

“Jory.”

I grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

Her fingers were now messing with the collar of the dress shirt I had on under the sweater. “I’m hungry.”

I turned to look back up at her father. “She’s hungry.”

He nodded fast and knelt down beside me, his hand on my shoulder as he looked into my eyes. “I’m David. David Fisher. Who are you?”

“Jory Harcourt. I came with Hayes.”