But now there was something else. A knot tightening in his gut that he had found the baby's father. That kid was the father. He knew it. Not because the teen's mother had said it—because the kid hadn’t. Sometimes silence screamed the loudest.
Paul stood quickly, the chair legs scraping against the linoleum. He snatched up his coat and keys and moved through the front doors of Social Services without a word to anyone.
The cold slapped him in the face the moment he stepped outside. It was crisp and biting, the kind that stung your nostrils and left snowflakes melting in your lashes. His boots crunched across the salted sidewalk as he scanned the lot.
There they were. The boy and his mother were at her car—arguing now, hands flying, voices too low to carry but sharp enough in tone to cut through the air. Paul slowed his steps, staying just far enough away not to be seen.
The kid turned, shoulders stiff with frustration. He stalked down the sidewalk, head down, fists jammed into his hoodie pockets. The mother climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled away in a huff.
Paul hesitated only a second, then headed after the boy. The kid walked fast. Not like he knew he was being followed. More like he was trying to avoid his mother in the car. He took paths that wound into a park and then emerged onto a side street.
Paul warred between keeping his distance and approaching the kid. He saw his chance when they rounded a corner where the street dipped into the cozy little café strip downtown. Snow-dusted sidewalks, glowing streetlamps, and storefront lights flickered with warmth behind foggy glass. Paul was almost in reaching distance of the kid.
And that’s when he saw her.
She was seated at a bistro table just inside Brew & Biscuit. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Her hair was down around her shoulders in soft, wind-kissed waves. She was smiling. Not her courtroom smile. A real one. Soft. Maybe a little shy.
Across from her sat a man. He was tall. Clean-cut. Button-down shirt under a pea coat. The kind of guy who probably knew the best wine pairings for pasta and whose mother still mailed him socks at Christmas.
Paul stopped walking. The boy kept going, disappearing around another corner. Paul didn’t follow.
He couldn’t. His feet were frozen. But not from the cold.
Birdy was leaning forward now, listening, laughing at something the guy said. Her eyes were bright. Her posture relaxed.
She looked… happy.
His fingers flexed at his sides. The ten digits felt useless without something to hold on to. Without something to do.
Was this why she hadn’t answered his email?
Was she moving on?
Had she already moved on?
He hadn’t been prepared for this.
He hadn’t realized, not until right now, just how much he wanted her to look at him like that—with happiness in her eyes.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Birdy's cheeks hurt from holding on to the fake smile. She was miserable, and it had only been fifteen minutes. She shifted in the small wrought-iron chair, pressing her palms into the soft wool of her coat where it pooled in her lap. She took another sip of her lavender latte, hoping the warm, floral taste would soothe her nerves.
It didn’t.
Across from her, David—no, Daniel—was recounting his latest business deal. Or maybe it was his real estate portfolio. Something with numbers and very little heart.
“You went to Yale, huh?” he said, pausing to adjust his sleeve like he wanted her to notice his watch. “That’s impressive. Surprised you ended up back here. Seems like a woman like you would have gone big city, big firm.”
Birdy gave a tight smile. “I did. Then I realized I wanted to help people. Not just shuffle money between the already rich.”
He blinked, then gave a little laugh, like she’d told a joke he didn’t quite get. “Right. That whole ‘purpose-driven’ thing. Still, must be tough, running a practice on your own.”
“Actually, I have three paralegals and a waitlist for another hire later this year.”
He blinked again. There it was—that flicker. The moment when her accomplishments stopped being admirable and started being threatening. She’d seen it a hundred times.
“You must really love being the boss,” he said with a tight smile.
