No Knight Needed (24 page)

Griffin swore under his breath and clasped his hands on top of his head, trying to think, trying frantically to strategize, to make the right move. Go after Brooke, or let her go? “I don’t know.”

“You both need time to process,” Clare said. “You don’t want to say things you’ll regret, and you don’t want to force her to do the same. Go play ball. Show her that you’re the kind of guy who spends the evening at a family picnic instead of work. She needs to see that, Griffin. She really does.”

He closed his eyes. He could feel the truth of Clare’s words, penetrating his need to rip the place apart to find his daughter. “She can’t change her name without my permission, can she?” He opened his eyes and looked at Clare, the attorney. “Can she?”

“No, Griffin, she can’t,” Clare said. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to work this out. She can’t disown you or change her name.”

“She’s still my daughter?” His voice cracked, but he couldn’t help it. “You’re sure?”

Clare smiled. “She’s still your daughter.”

“Griff!” Jackson jogged up. “Come on, man. Talk to Clare later. We’ve got a game!”

“Go play softball.” Clare stood on her tiptoes and lightly pressed her lips to his, telling him that she accepted him exactly as he was, that he wasn’t some awful bastard. “She needs to see that.”

“Yeah, okay.” He took a breath, trying to calm his mind. “If you see her, don’t let her leave. I want to talk to her after the game.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Come on!”

Reluctantly, he let Jackson coerce him back to the field. But he never stopped scanning the crowd for his daughter. Was Clare right? Was she still there? He had to know.

He was already on the mound, softball in hand, preparing for the first pitch, when he finally found Brooke.

She was sitting on a red and black plaid blanket, holding a small baby in her arms. She was bent over the child, her face soft and happy as she spoke to it. Hillary was leaning over Brooke’s shoulder, and she was also smiling at the baby.

His ex-wife was wearing a fleece, jeans and a pony tail, and she had a tender expression on her face. That was the woman who’d redefined cold as a household condition? The woman who’d hated him for his work schedule, but spent more money on designer clothing than he’d spent on the mortgage? He’d never seen that tender look on her face. Not ever. Not even when Brooke had been born. Who was she? Why had Burwell brought that out in her when he hadn’t?

And Brooke... Griffin couldn’t help but smile at the way she was wiggling the baby’s nose. Brooke would be a good big sister. She really would.

On Brooke’s other side was Burwell, holding another baby in his mutton arms. The behemoth had a pink burp cloth over his shoulder and was administering a bottle like he knew how to use it. Was that what it took to be a man? A husband? A father? Griffin had never held a bottle in his life or changed a diaper, and it had never even occurred to him to do it.

The five of them were huddled together, oblivious to the outside world, surrounded by baby blankets, rattles, and a picnic dinner.

Griffin felt his world sinking as he stared at the scene.

Who the hell was he kidding?

If that was what Brooke wanted, he couldn’t compete with that.

“Griff.” Jackson jogged over from second base. “Hey, man. What’s going on?”

Griffin couldn’t stop staring at the scene, and Jackson followed his gaze. “That’s my daughter and my ex-wife.” The words felt thick. Ex-daughter? Is that what he should say? Mother of hell.

Jackson whistled softly. “Son of a bitch. That sucks.”

Griffin almost grinned at the intensity in Jackson’s words. The man got it. “Well said.”

Jackson clapped his hand on his shoulder. “There’s only one thing to do, my man.”

“What’s that?” Go over and beat the hell out of Burwell?

Jackson held up the softball, then slammed it into Griffin’s glove. “Kick the shit out of their softball team, of course.”

Griffin laughed, some of the tension easing from his chest. “You think that’ll work?”

“Crushing your opponent’s hopes and dreams? Yep. It’s the only way to go.” Jackson slammed his hand down on Griffin’s shoulder. “You good?”

Griffin gripped the stitching of the ball. “Yeah, I’m good.”

And as Jackson returned to the base paths, Griffin turned his back on the perfect family and eyed the player at bat. But he couldn’t pitch. He couldn’t throw the ball. He couldn’t think of anything but the family sitting in left field.

So, he turned and looked back at the one table he’d been drawn to all night. He had to see Clare. He had to connect with her. He had to feel her.

And there she was, with her cute pony tail, her display of amazing cupcakes and the smile she reserved just for him. And unlike his daughter or his ex-wife, Clare’s attention was focused fully on him.

He jerked his chin at the Burwell clan, and he saw her gaze swivel toward them, taking in the situation. Jackson was yelling at him to pitch, the other guys were giving him grief, but he waited, unable to summon any action until he heard from Clare.

Clare knew how to be a mom. Clare knew how to love her daughter. Clare’s daughter loved her. If Clare wanted him to pitch, then he would. He trusted her to know what was right.

Clare put her hand over her heart and nodded at him.
Play ball, Griffin,
she was saying.
Play ball for your daughter.

So he did.

For Clare.

For his daughter.

For the Pirates of Birch Crossing.

* * *

Griffin lost.

The game.

The chance to talk to his daughter.

The night.

Brooke and the Burwells had left during the ninth inning while Griffin was on the mound. He hadn’t been able to go after them, his focus had snapped, and he’d relinquished the game-winning run while his daughter drove off in an extended cab pickup.

And now it was well after midnight as Griffin pulled his truck into the driveway of Clare’s house and leaned back against the seat. Beers with the guys hadn’t helped his mood, and now he was back at the rambling farm house he was calling home.

The house was dark. Clare and Katie were in bed.

What was he doing playing around in Maine? Maybe Brooke was right. Maybe he should go back to Boston. But the thought tanked his mood even further.

Forget it. He wasn’t going back. Not without his daughter.

He needed to focus. He needed to get his work going. He needed to get his trump card into alignment, and he needed it fast. Brooke had been wearing those fashion jeans. She was into them. He needed that company for his daughter. So he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his partner.

Phillip answered on the first ring, always available no matter what time of day, just like Griffin. “Good news on Brooke?” he asked.

“No.” Griffin got out of the truck and headed up the stairs. “What’s the status on In Your Face? Did you get answers to my queries yet?”

“Still working on it, but I’m hearing rumors that I’m trying to track down.”

“What rumors?” Griffin pulled open the screen door and walked inside. The house was quiet and still, just like his condo, and just like his house had been when he’d been married. Hillary and Brooke had always been asleep by the time he got home. Not that he’d expected Clare to wait up for him, but after today, yeah, well, he’d thought maybe Clare would be different.

But her door was firmly shut, and the light under her door was off. He was living the same life, just in different surroundings.

“They told me that they’ve got other interest,” Phillip said, “and that they expect an offer in the next twenty-four hours.”

Griffin poked his head in the kitchen. Empty. Dark. No desserts on the counters. “Do they have a legit offer or are they just trying to drive up the price?”

“I’ll know by morning. I have some leads on it. But if they do get that offer, it changes the playing field.”

When Phillip told him the price, Griffin slammed the door of the kitchen shut in frustration as he headed back to the hall. “They’re not worth that.” Not yet. They’d be worth ten times that amount after Griffin and Phillip took them and ran the business for five years. But today? No.

“To us, yeah, but to others they might be.”

“Well, maybe the others see something we don’t.” He had to buy that company. He had to find justification to pay that price. It was a teen jean company, and he had to get it for Brooke. “I’ll go through the files again—”

“No chance,” Phillip interrupted. “We’re not going to offer at that price.”

“We’re not letting this company get away—”

“At that price, we sure are. There are a thousand businesses around,” Phillip said. “There’s that one for high tech kitty litter. Do you know how many tons of litter are sold each year?”

“Kitty litter? We’re not buying kitty litter. I want In Your Face.” Would Brooke come back to him for kitty litter? No chance. In Your Face was the only one that would suffice. “We sold Free Love to position ourselves to move on this deal. In Your Face is our focus. We’re going to make it happen.”

“If the price goes up, you’re on your own,” Phillip said. “I’m not biting.”

Griffin knew that it would take a hefty investment from both of them to buy it. He couldn’t swing it himself. No matter how heavily he leveraged himself. “Then preempt with an offer tonight. Lowball with a twelve hour cutoff.”

“We don’t have the paperwork in order. Are you losing your mind up there in the woods? You actually want us to fork over a few hundred million without ironclad paperwork?”

“Shit.” Maybe he really was losing perspective. Griffin flexed his hand as he walked down the hall toward his room. Phillip was more aggressive than he was, and it was Griffin who usually had to pull him back. If Phillip was saying no, then it was a no. “See what you can do to make it happen.”

“I’m on it. I’ll call tomorrow. Get some sleep. You sound strung out. Later.”

Griffin hung up the phone as he walked into his room. He slammed his fist into his hand as he walked to the window and hauled it open, letting the night breeze blow as he braced himself on the window frame.

He needed this company for Brooke.

In Your Face was cutting edge in the teen market, especially with girls. In five years, every female from ages twelve to forty would know the name and own the label, and anyone associated with it would be on the front lines of the fashion industry. He’d had visions of Brooke getting involved with the business. Meeting with the celebrity endorsers. Working with designers. Injecting her own vision into the company that she would help build. If she came to work with him, and got to help direct the creative side of the company, then she’d be with him, and they’d share his work together.

Together, they would create the Friesé family legacy.

That was how he was going to compete with Family Burwell. It was all he had to offer her, but the way it was looking, it might not happen. He gripped the window sill and stared out at the dark night. What in hell’s name was he going to do now?

Maybe designer jeans could compete with baby sisters and an ever-present dad, but without them? He had nothing.

He looked over at his desk, at his computer that had always been his weapon of power. It had no edge tonight. Nothing in there could change the fact that his daughter was slipping through his fingers—

There was a cupcake next to his computer.

Griffin smiled ruefully. Because a cupcake would solve his problems. Clare was naive if she thought that would make a difference. What did she know? She was a —

A mom.

Of a teenage girl who adored her.

Clare knew what it took to win over a daughter. She’d shown that tonight already at the game.
Clare was his ace.
Not In Your Face. Clare.

He pivoted on his heel and strode across the room, but just as he grabbed the doorknob, he remembered what time it was. After midnight. She’d already put the kibosh on the night by going to bed, closing her door and turning out the lights, a clear message that she wanted her space.

He should respect it. Morning was soon enough for answers.

He stood there for exactly three seconds. Screw it. Morning was too far away.

He was going to invade her bedroom and wake her up.

Clare heard Griffin’s door open.

She heard the thud of his boots on the hardwood floor as he walked down the hall.

Toward the bathroom?

He’d already walked past her door when he’d gotten home, shattering the hopes that had arisen when she’d heard his car door slam.

If he walked by again without stopping, it was for the best. For the best. For the best.

Then his footsteps stopped outside her door.

Her heart began to race, and she pulled the covers up to her chin. Why had she worn her lace camisole to bed tonight? It was far too suggestive! He would think she was some slut who would—

The knob turned and Clare jerked upright in the bed, clutching the quilt to her chest. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t—

The door opened, and Griffin’s large frame filled her doorway. The hall light was off, and the moon’s rays didn’t reach that far, so all she could see was his dark outline, a shadowed man hovering at her threshold. Nervous anticipation raced through her, and her heart hammered in her chest.

Would he kiss her right away? Would it be a silent seduction? Or would he ask if he could come in? Would he make love to her with her clothes on or off? Would he stay in her bed and hold her afterwards? Would she even know what to do? Was she supposed to touch him? Was—

“I need to talk to you about my daughter.” His voice was heavy, serious and utterly devoid of any romantic intentions whatsoever. “I need your advice about her.”

“Your daughter?” Clare let her breath out with a whoosh, stunned disappointment racing through her. “You’re here for parenting advice?” She felt no relief at having been spared, just raw, aching dismay. Which was silly. She should be grateful that she no longer had the chance to make a choice she would regret. But she wasn’t. Not at all.