The train screeched into the station and Mary slid her hand out from John’s. He shoved his hands into his pockets as they filed off, side by side.

“Look, Mary, are you sure you want to do this? Brunch with my father? It’s pretty much guaranteed to be a weird time.”

She nodded resolutely as they came aboveground. “I’m starving,” she insisted with a smile.

John took a deep breath and led her into the restaurant.

JOHN APPARENTLY SPOTTED his father in the far corner almost immediately, and Mary expected John to lead the way through the restaurant. Instead, he pointed the direction and walked slightly behind her, one hand at the small of her back. It surprised Mary that he did this. He’d never struck her as a small-of-your-back guy before.

Then again, a month ago, she wouldn’t have thought he was a sleep-on-the-neighbor’s-couch kind of guy either, yet he’d gladly given up his space to make her comfortable. Which, she supposed, was exactly what he was doing right now as well. He was guiding her through the restaurant as a gesture of kindness, solidarity, maybe even protection? John might not be the most tactful guy in the history of the world, but Mary had never been more certain that he deeply cared about her well-being.

John Whitford Sr. rose up from his seat, tucking his phone into his pocket when they approached. His newscaster smile, which Mary was familiar with from all the campaign posters, was firmly in place. Not a millimeter changed in his expression, yet Mary was certain that she was seeing surprise on his face. His eyes darted from Mary to John, to John’s hand at her back, to the bag on her hip. And then those eyes went back to Mary and just stayed there for a long second.

“Well, hello,” he said, stepping around the table and holding out a hand. Mary was insanely relieved when all he did was shake it; she’d been dreading a back-of-the-hand kiss. “This is a surprise.”

“This is Mary Trace. Mary, this is my father.”

“Please, call me Jack,” he said smoothly, adjusting his blue suit coat before he sat back down at the table.

“Nickname?” she asked, setting her bag down and sitting at the four-top.

“Only to those who know me best.” Jack winked.

Mary smiled a little woodenly. He was just so smarmy. Nothing like John in the least.

She looked up at John and saw he was still standing, staring down at the table in consternation. “There isn’t a third place setting. I’ll get the server.”

And leave her there with Jack? Without thinking, Mary reached up and tugged at John’s hand, her fingers automatically finding the warm part of his palm. “The server will be back in a moment,” she reassured him.