Cherokee Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather

edge in his voice softened, but his stance remained defensive. “Was Reed okay about you bringing Justin to me? About me pretending to be his father?”

      “Yes. He thinks you’ll make a good dad. That you’ll treat Justin right.” But Reed also thought that Michael loved her, that he’d loved her for years. Of course she doubted that Michael would believe that Reed had interceded for him, giving their relationship his blessing. “He doesn’t hate you the way you hate him.”

      “Yes, he does. He’s just telling you what you want to hear. He’s always done that.”

      Telling her what she wanted to hear—like Michael loving her. “He’s my brother. It’s his job to protect me.”

      “The way he protected you from getting caught up in the mob?”

      Weary, Heather closed her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Reed.” To think about him running for the rest of his life, mourning his wife and son.

      When she opened her eyes, Michael was staring, watching her eyelids flutter. Self-conscious, she took a deep breath. He used to watch her sleep, and then wake her with a stirring kiss.

      “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a rough time.”

      “Yes.” And losing him was making everything that much harder.

      He reached out as if to smooth a strand of her hair away from her face, but drew back and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I should get to bed.”

      She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Me, too.”

      A few seconds later, their gazes locked, making the moment even more awkward.

      She broke eye contact first, blowing out the candle, sending the flame dancing before it disappeared.

      Then she and Michael separated, and like the wounded ex-lovers they’d become, they drifted into different bedrooms.

      And closed their doors without making a sound.