Jake
“My father.”
Emma looked from the photograph to me. “Jake…”
I barely heard her.
My father stood outside an expensive restaurant shaking Derek Blackwell’s hand like they were old friends.
Same gray hair. Same broad shoulders. Same expression I’d spent half my life trying not to inherit.
Thomas Steele.
The man who taught me how to ride, throw a punch, and rebuild an engine.
And eventually, how easily a man could destroy his own family.
“When was this taken?” I asked.
Marisol checked the information attached to the image. “Six weeks ago.”
Before Emma stumbled into my life.
Before Derek knew my name.
But not before Emma ran.
“Where?”
“Denver.”
Emma touched my arm. “That doesn’t mean your father knew anything about me.”
“My father doesn’t shake hands with men for fun.”
“N
