“Daddy’s here!” Riley yelled and shoved past a boy holding curly fries.
I moved before I thought. I always do when she runs toward someone with that grin.
Deacon stood under the white awning, suit jacket unbuttoned, phone in his hand, a publicist tucked at his elbow. He looked like a man who made things happen and then walked away from them.
“Riley,” he said to our daughter without bending. “Hey.”
She launched herself at him and wrapped both arms around his waist.
“Riley.” My voice went thin. “Don’t—”
He glanced up at me, slow and deliberate. “Isn’t she your daughter?”
A woman behind us laughed and then stopped when she realized it was true.
“She is,” I said. “She needs you for five minutes. It’s her birthday.”
“Five minutes?” Deacon’s publicist stepped closer. “Mr. Burton has a meeting—”
“I don’t care about your meetings,” I snapped before I planned the words. I saw his face tighten. That was one good thing: I still knew how to make him show his teeth. “This is a four-year-old. This is not a call sheet.”
Deacon’s lips flattened. “I’m busy.”
Riley froze and pressed her face into his jacket like she could disappear there.
“Busy?” The publicist laughed the laugh that says your time is bought. “Deacon, the studio—”
I pushed past them. “Riley, come here.”
Riley’s fingers dug into his shirt. She wouldn’t move.
“You’re shaming me in front
