Gabe downed the rest of his drink and felt a surge of power, of confidence. It wasn’t the superfoods coursing through his system; it was the knowledge that he was doing the right thing. It had been a mistake to let Natalie distract him from his pivotal role in his child’s life. His own parents had been exhausted and distracted, working themselves into early graves. Gabe had survived their neglect, even thrived because of it. But Violet was different. She was sensitive and emotional. She needed her father’s attention, his affection, and his guidance. He was here now, present and engaged. Placing the glass in the sink, he grabbed his car keys and headed to the garage.

Daddy was back. And soon, the little girl he’d adored would be back, too.

36

The Invitation

Nat sipped a glass of vodka and Coke as she stared at the pretty face filling her computer screen. Violet Turnmill. It had been four days since their introduction at the Met. Nat had spent most of those four days sifting through the younger girl’s photos on social media. They’d followed each other on Snapchat and Instagram shortly after their coffee date, had friended each other on Facebook, too. Gabe wasn’t on any of these juvenile platforms, wouldn’t know that his ex-lover and his daughter had struck up a friendship. Possibly even more than a friendship.

Nat had not set out to flirt with Violet, but she couldn’t ignore the way the younger girl had looked at her, couldn’t deny their chemistry. She knew that Violet was pansexual (as stated in her social media profiles), and she’d seen her kiss the fair-haired girl. Nat was straight, had never even experimented with a female. But there was something about Violet . . . familiar yet strange. Exotic. Fascinating. Nat took a sip of vodka and looked at a photo of Violet lying by a stunning pool with a menagerie of her unconventional friends. The girl was gorgeous in her bikini, her natural beauty undiminished, even magnified by her unassuming aspect. Nat felt a confounding mixture of attraction, jealousy, and loathing. She drank more vodka.

Their coffee date in The Met’s café had been illuminating. Painfully, horribly illuminating. Nat had been nervous, almost trembling from the proximity to Gabe Turnmill’s only child. He would kill her if he knew she had approached his daughter, but Nat didn’t care. She had to get to know Violet, had to make that connection. Somehow, despite her inner turmoil, Nat had affected an outward appearance of calm.

“Did you grow up in New York?” Nat had casually asked, when they were seated, sipping cappuccinos.

“Mostly. My parents bought a weekend house in Sagaponack when I was little. Eventually, my mom and I moved out there full-time.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It’s a beautiful house. But the Hamptons are boring.” She brought her coffee cup to her lips. “Rich. White. Traditional. Where did you grow up?”

“Small town in the Pacific Northwest.”

“I thought you said your dad lived in Vegas?”