The Good Daughter (31 page)

“She sounds nice.”

“You’d like her.”

“Do you see her often?”

“I have dinner with her every week.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“We’re pretty close. After my dad died, it was just the two of us and I like to keep an eye on her. And now that her parents are gone, I’m all she has. Poor
madre
.”

Kit heard the mocking note in his voice and she studied him more closely, trying to see past the shadowed jaw and the black spiky inch of a tattoo creeping above the neck of his shirt. She’d seen another intricate tattoo on his arm the night they met at Durty Nelly’s. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“A lot.”

“When did you get your first?”

“High school.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen. Seventeen, maybe.”

“Does your mother like them?”

He cocked a brow. “No.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Do you?”

Kit flushed uncomfortably, surprised at how easily he turned the tables on her. “I…uh…no. I guess, I don’t really know people who have them.”

“Your dad doesn’t have any?”

“No. He’s old-school. Irish. Athletic. Clean-cut.”

“And you want to marry a guy like Dad, right?

“He is a good dad,” she said mildly, “but not looking to get married.”

“You’re that age.”

“
Past
that age.” She made a face, remembering her conversation with her mother earlier in the week. “Now I’m focusing on other things.” She shot him a swift glance to see how he’d react. “Like motherhood.”

“Pregnant?”

Kit laughed out loud. “
No
. I’m looking into adopting.”

“Good for you.”

“You mean it?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I think you’d be a great mom. You’re smart, successful, terrific with kids. Why shouldn’t you adopt?”

Her shoulders twisted. “You’re the first to think so. No one else has been enthused about the idea. They think I need to be married before I become a mother.”

“Why?”

“Because being a single mother isn’t easy, and I’m from a traditional Catholic family, and apparently I’m so very traditional myself—” Kit broke off, frowned, picked at the crust on her sandwich. “But I’m actually not.”

“No?”

He was smiling at her, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, his expression amused, and she felt that funny little ache in her heart again. “I mean, I can’t be, not if I…like you.”

His long black eyelashes suddenly lifted and he looked deep into her eyes. “Did you just say what I thought you said?”

She swallowed hard, nodded, nibbling on her bottom lip.

“About time,” he said, lips curving. “Took you long enough.”

Jude didn’t know what it was about this redheaded, blue-eyed English teacher but she really did something to him, and when she looked straight into his eyes, all he could think about was kissing her.

He’d been wanting to kiss her for a long time now.

“Am I a fool for liking you?” she whispered, her gaze falling to her plate, on which she was tearing the crust to bits.

God, he wanted to touch her and he stared at her mouth, fascinated, as she chewed on that lip. “Depends on your definition of
foolish
.”

“You never do answer a question directly,” she said.

“Never did like being questioned. Prefer to ask the questions.”

“That’s right. You have a problem with authority.”

His mouth curved. “Am I supposed to think of you as an authority figure?”

“I
am
a teacher.”

He laughed softly, more entertained than he’d been in a long time. “I don’t find you very authoritative, Miss Brennan. In fact…” He paused, allowing the tension to build and intrigued by the way she responded to it…eyes dilating, lips parting, color heightening. Shit, she was beautiful. “If anyone was to do some teaching here, I think it’d be me, teaching you.”

He heard her inhale quickly, sharply, and that soft gasp made him hard, made him hurt. He wanted to touch her. He also knew that if he reached for her, kissed her, she’d let him. She wanted him. Wanted him the same way he wanted her.

But it would be just sex. And that’s all it’d ever be. She’d never have more, not with him. Jude didn’t do relationships. Wasn’t a boyfriend, would never be a husband. Not again. Not after Amy.

And that’s when he understood the attraction.

Kit reminded him of Amy.

Jude felt sucker punched, and he pushed away from the counter, wanting his coat, wanting to go. “It’s almost four,” he said gruffly, glancing up at the kitchen clock.

Kit was immediately on her feet, contrite, scooping up dishes, stacking plates. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

He rocked back on his heels, muscles knotting. Why hadn’t he
seen it before? Understood the attraction? Was it because Amy was a brunette, with dark straight hair, and Kit was this glorious redhead?

But now that he saw the similarity, he didn’t know what to do, where to look. Kit had Amy’s warmth, and Amy’s heart-shaped face, generous mouth, bright, smiling eyes. Irish eyes. Of course. Amy Keegan. Kit Brennan. Irish, Irish, Irish to the core.

God.

He ran a hand over his jaw, stunned. His gut was twisting. His temper rising. He needed to go. Now. “I’ll see myself out,” he said shortly.

Kit threw him a bewildered glance, wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “I have to lock up. I’ll walk you out.”

They didn’t speak as they headed to the front door.

Jude picked up his coat from the hall table. His helmet was already waiting for him outside on the bike. He prayed Kit wasn’t going to say anything to make him feel worse. He honestly couldn’t feel worse. He was already reeling.

“Thank you again,” Kit said quietly, opening the door. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

“You’re a smart girl. You would have figured it out.”

His tone was brusque and she quickly looked away, but not before he saw the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. Goddammit.

He did not want to hurt her. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. Kit was everything good and sweet, but also vulnerable, achingly vulnerable, and he wanted to protect her. Which meant protecting her from him.

“Call your mother’s doctor early,” he said gruffly, trying to fill the painful silence. “He said he could send someone to start the IV. Make sure he does it.”

“I will.”

There was a wobble in her voice and he ground his teeth together. She didn’t know it, but he was doing her a favor by leaving
now. He swung the door open, tried not to look at her, not wanting to see what he knew she was feeling. “Go to bed.”

“I will.”

She’d whispered the words but it was enough.

Unable to stop himself, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, to cover that soft, lush mouth of hers with his. She tasted like sweet coffee and tears, and her lips were cool, but her mouth was warm, and kissing her, holding her, felt absolutely right in a world that was mostly wrong.

Jude was not a romantic. Or soft. Or tender. Couldn’t be, not with what he did, and how he did it. But she felt like his. Perfect and familiar.

He deepened the kiss, bringing her closer, a hand in the small of her back to hold her hips firmly to his, and the blood heated in his veins, hot.

If he were someone else, with a different career, and a different past, he would keep her forever. Love her forever.

But he wasn’t someone else, and didn’t have the luxury of hoping, imagining.

He lifted his head, gazed down into her bright, bemused eyes, stroked her flushed cheek, then let her go. “No tears, Kit Kat.”

He walked out into the night to where his bike waited on the street.

She followed him out. He wished she hadn’t. He sucked at good-byes.

Jude swung a leg over his bike, sat down on the seat. She took a step closer, her fist pressed to her chest. She wanted to say something. He could see her trying to find the words, but he didn’t want to hear them, didn’t want to know what she wanted, needed, was feeling.

It was pointless. What could he give her? Nothing.

He’d vowed to be different from his father, vowed to be a better
man, and then what did he do to Amy? The very same fucking thing his father did to his mother.

Jude jammed his helmet onto his head, impatiently snapped the strap under his chin.

“If your mom ever needs something, call me,” he said, zipping his leather coat closed. It was a cool night. The fog had moved in. It’d be a cold ride home.

She nodded, blinking. Thank God her eyes were now dry.

Unable to help himself, he stretched out his arm, brushed his knuckles across her cheek, and then over her mouth. Once, and again. “Take care, angel.” And then he started the bike, the engine roared to life, and he was gone, tearing down the street, racing the devil who owned his heart, and all his memories of Amy.

I
n the house, Kit locked the front door and turned out the lights, fighting the urge to cry. There was no reason to cry, she told herself, no reason to cry at all. He was awful and terrible, a lowlife nobody who lived in a decrepit little house and wore far too much leather—

And she liked him. More than she’d liked anyone in years.

If not ever.

Upstairs, she checked on her mom, found her sleeping soundly, and leaned over her, kissed her cheek, smoothed her hair, kissed her again. “Love you, Mama,” she whispered. Before going to her room, stripping off her clothes, and climbing into bed, she pulled a pillow over her face and gave in to tears, knowing that Jude had no intention of seeing her again.

P
olly arrived Friday afternoon a few minutes before six. “Sorry I’m late,” she said when Kit opened the front door. She was clutching a shallow cardboard box with two foil-covered pie tins. “I had a late start and the quiche took longer to cook than I thought. But they’re still warm, fresh from the oven. One with veggies and one ham and cheese. I wasn’t sure which one your mom would find more appealing.”

Kit was so happy to see her and hugged her despite the box between them. “So glad you’re here!”

Polly shot her a swift glance. “Is everything okay? Your mom—”

“Fine. Mom’s fine. She’s looking forward to seeing you.” Kit struggled to smile as she took the box from Polly, feeling stupid for almost bursting into tears. She couldn’t cry over Jude. He didn’t fit into her life, and he certainly wasn’t the kind of man she’d ever been looking for. “The quiche smells delicious. Can’t believe you made them.”

“I’m good with piecrust,” Polly said, following Kit into the
kitchen. “And I did a little research and in my reading discovered that your mom might enjoy quiche. It has all the things doctors and dieticians recommend for her right now, like eggs and cheese, so hopefully this will taste good, and be easy for her to swallow.”

With the quiches safely stowed on the counter, Kit gave Polly another fierce hug. “Thank you. Thank you for caring and coming and making something special for Mom to eat. I’m so grateful. I really am.”

Polly pulled back to look Kit in the face. “You okay?”

Kit struggled to smile and, when she couldn’t, shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“It’s been a long week, hasn’t it?” Polly said.

Kit nodded. “Yeah.”

“I bet you’ll be glad when your dad’s home.”

“Yes, and no. I miss my house and my routine, but it was good for me to be here. Important for me to be with Mom, see this—” Her voice broke and she turned away, paced across the kitchen to straighten the dishtowel hanging on the oven door before wiping her eyes dry. “Shall we go say hi to her? See if she’s hungry?”

They ate with Mom in her bedroom, and then as Polly chatted with Mom, Kit took the dinner trays downstairs to the kitchen, washed up the dishes, and put the leftovers of the quiches in the refrigerator. The kitchen tonight reminded her of making grilled cheese sandwiches for Jude and she didn’t like that. She didn’t want to think about him.

When Kit returned to her mother’s room, Polly held a finger to her lips. “She fell asleep a few minutes ago,” Polly whispered. “I think I wore her out.”

Kit picked up the TV remote and muted the sound, adjusted the covers over her mother’s legs, then gestured for Polly to follow her. They headed down to the family room, where Kit curled up in her father’s La-Z-Boy and Polly sprawled on the couch and
talked. Polly had started dating someone new a couple of weeks ago and told Kit she thought it could turn serious. “I really like him,” she said. “It just feels right.”

Kit curled her legs under her. “What does that mean when you say it just feels right?”

“Just feels good being with him. Feels good doing nothing with him. I’m comfortable with him…myself with him.”

“That’s good,” Kit said. “That’s what you want.”

“Yep.”

“So how’s Fiona? Are she and Chase doing okay?”

“They seem pretty great. Happier than they have been in months.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Their little date night back in January seems to have worked some magic.”

“Their little date night
definitely
worked some magic.” Polly paused, lifting her eyebrows. “And apparently Chase is over the moon.”

It took a second for Kit to register the significance before sitting up. “She isn’t!”

“She is.” Polly’s lips curved. “Six weeks. And sicker than a dog. No one else knows, though. Fiona’s going to wait to tell Sister until she starts to show.”

“So baby is due next fall…is she planning on taking maternity leave, or…?”

“I don’t think she’s going to return. Chase makes a ton of money, and since Fiona wants to be home with the baby, Chase is fully on board.”

“Good for them.” And yet Kit suddenly found herself thinking of Tommy and Cass, who just couldn’t have a baby, no matter how hard they tried. “How are Chase’s kids reacting?”

“Like little shits, of course.” Polly grinned evilly. “But this time Chase isn’t tolerating it. Seems he’s finally woken up to the fact that he’s being way too permissive and he’s ruining the kids,
turning them into monsters. He’s told them that if they can’t respect Fiona, then they’re not welcome at his home.”