Take me somewhere private. Lauren Whitmore grabbed Daniel's arm the second she got in that truck. Not gently, not politely. Her fingers locked around his wrist like a woman who had run out of options. And he was the last door still open.
Her dress was still perfect. Her hair was still perfect, but her eyes were something else entirely. Raw, cornered. The eyes of a woman who had just been sold at a dinner table and smiled through the whole thing. Daniel felt her grip.
Felt the weight of those four words sitting on his chest like a loaded gun. He worked for her father. He could lose everything and he drove anyway. Daniel Brooks did not drink. He'd made that decision 7 years ago, standing in a hospital waiting room at 2:00 a.m.
With a 4-year-old girl asleep. Leap across his lap. Her small fingers curled around the strap of his work bag. His ex-wife Melissa was in surgery after a car accident. She'd caused blood alcohol.14.
And the nurse had looked at Daniel with that particular kind of pity that only gets directed at men left behind with children. He'd driven home that night in absolute silence, stopped at the gas station, stood in front of the refrigerator case for a full 3 minutes staring at a six-pack of cold beer. Then he drove home without it. He hadn't touched a drop since. Not because he was judging anyone.
Not because he thought he was better than the men who needed something to take the edge off. He just didn't want his daughter to ever look at him the way he'd looked at Melissa that night, like he'd chosen something else over her. So, when his phone rang on a Friday night and the number showed up as Richard Whitmore, his employer, his boss's boss's boss, Daniel was stone sober, stone clear-headed, and standing in his kitchen watching his 9-year-old daughter, Amara, do her math homework at the kitchen table. He almost didn't answer. It was 7:45.
Amara had a spelling test Monday. The dishes weren't done. And Richard Whitmore calling a fleet supervisor on a Friday night was the kind of thing that meant overtime without overtime pay and a polite smile you had to wear until you got back to your car. He answered anyway, "Daniel. " Richard's voice was smooth, the way men with money tend to get smooth, not sharp, not aggressive, just polished in a way that communicated very clearly that he expected to be listened to. I need a favor.
Yes, sir. Lauren is at the Meridian event downtown, the H Heartley Group fundraiser. My driver is dealing with a family situation. I'm not going to get into it, but she needs a ride home. I need someone I trust behind the wheel.
Daniel looked at Amara. She was chewing on her pencil eraser, frowning at a word problem. I've got my daughter with me tonight, Mr. Whitmore. It's just the two of us.
I understand that. My housekeeper can watch her at the estate while you make the pickup. Lauren needs to be home by 9:00. I'd send someone from security, but she doesn't like strangers. There were three ways Daniel could have answered that.
He could have said no. That was the smart one. He could have said, "Let me see if I can find someone," which was the polite way of saying no. He said, "I can be there in 20 minutes. " Amara looked up when he came to the table. We got to go somewhere, baby.