The Good Father

Ella’s first reaction, after she’d picked her jaw up off the floor, was to call him back and tell him to go to hell.

She might have, if not for two things. First, Brett was emulating his mother. Which meant he was emotionally vulnerable. He wasn’t immune to her.

And second, she needed him.

Far more than he had the ability to hurt her.

Still sitting in the running car, she did a quick internet search for the restaurant. Typed in the address to her GPS.

Ten minutes. That was the drive time between where she was and where he’d be waiting for her.

At his table.

Holding court.

Unless she got there first. And asked the hostess to bring him to her table. Car in gear, Ella pulled out, driving just past the speed limit. Not fast enough to get a ticket. Just as fast as she could safely get to where she was going.

Would have been nice if she’d had a chance to change out of her puppy dog–plastered beige scrubs and into a pair of tight jeans and an equally tight black sweater. He’d always liked her in black. And tight would show him she hadn’t gained a pound since their college days when he’d hardly been able to keep his hands off her.

A toss of her hair and bit of fresh makeup wouldn’t be remiss, either. But none of that was going to happen.

His Highness had given her no time to prepare.

And that was just as well. There was no need to impress him with her womanly wiles. The woman lurking inside Ella was off-limits to him.

* * *

“WHAT DO YOU mean she’s already here?” Brett was not in a good mood when he walked into the beachfront Italian eatery before the dinner rush that Friday afternoon. He hadn’t even had time to stop home and drop off his bags, wanting to just get this last meeting done with and then go home, take a swim in his heated pool and crash on his couch with a beer and some mindless television.

“She arrived ten minutes ago, Mr. Ackerman. She said she’d rather be seated than wait...”

Cheryl—he knew because he read her name tag—was a familiar face at Donovan’s. And he was a nice guy. So he smiled, said something inane like “good” and indicated that she could lead the way.

The place was moderately busy, but empty enough that he could have chosen a table where he could have his back to the wall, able to see the entire room when his lovely ex-wife sashayed into the room, and steel himself against the effect her sexiness always had on him.

He’d had a solid plan.

And she had a table with a view. Along a wall of windows in the cliff-top eatery that looked over the ocean. If there was a bottle of wine sitting at the table, he was leaving.

“Over this way...” Cheryl rounded a large table, heading across the room. He didn’t need her guidance. He’d noticed the back of Ella’s head the second he’d entered the room. The way she held herself, back straight, that unruly dark hair up in a ponytail...

As if she was still a damned college student, not a charge nurse who should have short hair that was easy to care for and stayed out of the way.

A guy couldn’t get lost in short hair...

“I’ll take it from here,” he said when they were still a good six feet away. He was about to see Ella again.

And was suddenly struck with the knowledge that he couldn’t have witnesses. He almost turned to leave.

Would have if he knew how in the hell to turn his back on unpleasantness. But he didn’t. No, Brett was the type who saw a divorce attorney before the separation.

“Ella.” Taking a perverse pleasure as she jumped when he came up beside her table, Brett pulled out a chair.

A glass of water sat in front of her.

Not wine.

Good.

“Have you ordered?” he asked.

God, she looked good. Great. Better than ever. How long had it been since he’d seen her? A year? Two?

Four years, three months, one week and two days. Give or take a week, his mind, its usual relentless self, reminded him. He hadn’t kept count. Not even he was that anal. No, he’d lain in bed the other night—wide awake when he’d needed to be well rested for his meeting the following morning—and completely relived that last time. She’d been clearing her things out of the home they’d bought in Santa Barbara after he’d sold the dot-com.

He’d lain in bed and counted how long ago that had been.

And marveled at how far he’d come since then...

“You look good, Brett.” Her smile, oh, God, that smile. He had no idea if she’d ever answered his question about ordering.

And a waitress was approaching.

“We’ll have a bottle of wine,” he blurted. Just a small bottle. He named the one. It went well with...

What the hell. He liked it. And knew she did, too.

“I don’t...” Ella was shaking her head.

He pretended not to see. “And bring us the bread-and-cheese plate,” he continued, naming a popular Donovan’s appetizer.

Bread, wine...and time. Just enough to deal with this situation. And not a second more.

“Would you like two glasses with that?” the waitress, someone he didn’t recognize, asked.

“Yes.”

Ella didn’t argue. Brett relaxed just a tad.

And the woman left.

* * *

CHLOE WASN’T EXPECTING her anytime soon. Ella had called her sister-in-law before leaving the hospital to let her know she was working late and had no idea when she’d be home. Chloe had said she’d fix Cody fish sticks for dinner. She’d taken him to the complex park that afternoon. Had met another mother there with her toddler. A little girl.

She’d sounded more relaxed than Ella had heard her since she’d brought Chloe to Santa Raquel to stay with her.

“I didn’t need any wine,” she said now. But she lied. She did need it. If she was going to get through this meeting without throwing herself at her ex-husband’s chest and begging him to hold her.