All-American Father

Bailey had seen the first break from the sidelines. He’d thrown the winning touchdown pass at Western’s 1995 state championship game, and the opposing defensive end had taken exception.

Just looking at him brought the past flooding back.

“Derrick Cavenaugh.”

It took a few seconds to realize she’d said his name out loud. Several seconds more to register that he hadn’t recognized her in return.

And why on earth should he?

Western High’s “Most Likely to Succeed” blinked down at her, a washed-up valedictorian, without a flicker of recognition for the woman who’d worshiped him from afar, when she hadn’t been much older than his daughter.

CHAPTER TWO

SHRUGGING OFF the admiring glances of women was nothing new. Derrick was a large man who, whether he wanted to or not, enjoyed the even larger public persona that came with having been a pro football prospect. Even after his NFL dreams tanked, compliments of a near-crippling back injury, the Mighty DC still got noticed.

While married to Amanda, random female attention never tempted him to do more than look back. Since she left him for his ex-best friend, Rodney Canton, life had been too raw for Derrick to give a damn.

Until roughly sixty seconds ago.

The pixie-like woman sitting behind the shabby desk had devoured him with her eyes before he’d made it through the door. When she’d whispered his name in that husky voice, every muscle below his waist had clenched with the instinct to get closer. Soft, curly chestnut hair held back with a rubber band, a heart-shaped face completely devoid of makeup, she’d looked both familiar and different at the same time.

Though different from what was anyone’s guess, since as far as he knew, they’d never met.

He’d bet his Reynolds-Allied bonus she wouldn’t make five-two stick in heels, and his tastes usually veered toward leggy blondes with mischief in their eyes. The woman now looking everywhere but at him had the air of someone too harried to give mischief a second glance.

So why did he have the urge to get her on her feet to see if the waist half-hidden behind the desk was really as tiny as he imagined it would be?

“Dad!” His mortified preteen glanced between him and the stranger he’d been gaping at.

Sinking into the agony of watching his oldest daughter spiral into a dark place he couldn’t protect her from, Derrick gave his fear and anger free rein.

“Get your butt in the car.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s no chance of talking the shop owner out of pressing charges, but the cop said you’re sprung until you go before the judge. Do yourself a favor and work up the necessary enthusiasm to say you’re sorry on the way out the door.”

Before a year ago, he’d never said anything harsher than boo to his children. They’d been daddy’s girls from birth. So eager to please, just like Amanda. He’d eaten up every smile and I love you, Daddy, not for a second realizing how elusive that kind of adoration could be—in both daughters and wives.

“I already said I’m sorry,” Leslie mumbled. “Two hours ago, when that cop called you.”

Her scowl trembled, then she tightened that traitorous lower lip that turned Derrick’s heart to mush every time she fought not to cry. Staring down at the stiletto boots she’d shown up in a week ago, with no explanation of where they’d come from, she slinked out of the office like a shadow of the good kid he knew still lurked inside.

“She’s crying out for attention.”

Derrick whirled on the woman who’d finally risen to her feet.

“Excuse me?”

Judgment and disapproval had replaced her blatant admiration. She tucked the hem of her T-shirt into well-worn jeans no woman should look that spectacular in. Then she and the waist that was even tinier than he’d envisioned stepped around the desk.

“The longer you took to get here, the more belligerent your daughter became.”

“Traffic over the bridge was a bitch, not that it’s any of your business.”

Bailey, or so her name badge read, twirled a tendril of hair between nervous fingers. She started to speak, stopped, then shrugged as if to say, what the hell.

“Your daughter’s getting in over her head.” She met his gaze dead-on, which took guts considering he was ready to explode and his expression no doubt showed it. “Stealing is bad enough, but—”

“I’m a lawyer. I don’t need a convenience store clerk to tell me that shoplifting is a serious offense. I just got an earful from the cop outside.”

“Did he bother to mention what your daughter took?” Her eyes narrowed.

“No. Stealing is stealing.”

“Not if you’re a twelve-year-old girl.” She reached for a purse and a familiar-shaped box. “You don’t remember me, Derrick, but you seemed like a pretty good guy in high school. When you find the time in your busy schedule, you or your wife might want to have a talk with Leslie about birth control.”

He stared at the twelve-pack of condoms. His mouth opened to fire a dozen questions at the departing Bailey, but he couldn’t find the words.

His baby girl was apparently flirting with the idea of being sexually active, and the sassy clerk at the Stop Right, the crotchety owner and even Detective Oaks had known before Derrick had.

“I KNOW I’M LATE,” Bailey blurted as she hustled into Margo’s Bistro.

Giving up on heading home to shower and change, she’d raced away from the Stop Right—and Derrick Cavenaugh’s domestic problems—and headed straight for the bistro.

“It’s slow for a Thursday night.” Margo Evans motioned toward the group of women she’d been sitting with at a corner table. “A few friends popped in. Nothing Robert and I couldn’t handle.”

Margo and her husband’s bistro had become the latest trendy meeting spot for the residents and business people who milled around San Francisco’s South of Market Area. A month or so back, Bailey and Margo had bumped into each other, literally, while Bailey bussed tables and circulated trays at a wedding the other woman attended.

Margo had needed weekday help in the evenings, which was perfect for Bailey. Her hands were full at her family’s bed-and-breakfast all morning. Every day. And the bistro’s pay beat the minimum wage Drayton grudgingly doled out.

“Get back to your friends.” Bailey slipped behind the counter. “I’ll see what Robert needs.”

Pushing through the double doors to the kitchen, she clocked in and grabbed her apron. Bailey had been embroidered in sunny yellow on the apron’s apple-green fabric. As if she belonged there, when Margo’s was just one more part-time job in the endless string she’d had since high school.

Dead-end jobs were necessary. They kept the bills paid. They weren’t anything close to the exciting life she’d dreamed of, but that was fine. So was arriving at her second part-time gig of the day, rumpled and twelve hours past shower-fresh. Whatever she had to do, however she looked doing it, Bailey didn’t mind, as long as she kept her grandmother’s business afloat.

“You want to take these out while I get the ladies their drinks?” Robert handed over a plate filled with specialty muffins and scones that were typically sold out after the breakfast rush. For Margo and her friends, he’d broken into tomorrow morning’s stash.

Bailey smiled and nodded, heading into the other room with the platter. Robert co-owned the bistro with Margo, and he had some big-time job in finance or banking. But nights and weekends, when he wasn’t hanging out with Margo’s kids, he was in the bistro lending a hand wherever she needed him. They were one part newlyweds, married just since August, and one part old married couple. The kind of couple that finished each others’ sentences and slipped into both romantic and silly moments as if they’d never known any different.

Their happiness would be enchanting to watch if their ready-made family didn’t reek of the kind of too-good-to-be-true situation that Bailey typically avoided.

“Here you go.” She set pastries in front of her boss and the other two women at the table.

“I tell you, he’s not going to come,” said the brightly dressed woman beside Margo who looked vaguely familiar.

“He’s in over his head.” Margo’s other friend managed to look both tough and gentle as she contributed to the evening’s gossip.

Margo chuckled. “That’s usually when most people think they have it all figured out.”

“Can I get you anything else?” Bailey asked, maintaining the illusion of privacy while she stood close enough to take their next order. She was there, but she was invisible.