The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

“W-what?”

“Rachel, I’m sorry.” He says words I never thought would ever come from his mouth. “I have been pushing you to do the things that I want for you, but I’ve lost sight of what you want. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” A sheen of emotion envelops his normally matte brown eyes. “I hope you can forgive me.”

“Y-you mean that?” I ask, and my breath hitches in my throat, every fiber of tension I’ve ever held in my being snapping in an instant.

“Yes,” he answers. He stands up from his big chair, and then hesitantly, he walks around his desk until he’s standing in front of me. The urge to look at my shoes is so fucking strong it might as well be the Hulk, but I fight it. I might not get the chance to see this version of my father ever again, and I need to soak it all in.

“I love you, Rachel. I’m proud of you. And I’ll always be here for you. I hope you’ll find it within yourself to forgive your old man for being…what does Lydia say…an asshat?”

A quiet laugh jumps from my throat, and then I wrap my arms around my father’s waist and hug him for the first time in what feels like decades. “I forgive you, Dad. I can be a real asshat too.”

He embraces me tightly, a chuckle rumbling in his chest, like only a father who loves his daughter would, and I savor the smell of his familiar aftershave that reminds me of my childhood.

When our hug ends, he smiles down at me, his eyes only soft and pure. “You know, I’ve always been in awe of how strong you are. Your mother was proud of that, too.” I smile a real smile, and he smooths a hand over my hair. “It just took me a little longer to understand than it did for her.”

I swallow hard. “What’s going to happen with Ty and me?” It’s a hard question to ask, but one that isn’t doing any good in the dark. I have to know where to go from here. What the next move is and how to make things right.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I say, taking a deep breath and pulling away enough to shift to a spot behind the back of one of his chairs. “Did you fire him? Am I getting kicked out of the program?”

He shakes his head, a genuinely caring smile curving out the corners of his normally serious lips. “No. I don’t think that’d be a very good start to this new dimension of our relationship, do you?”

“New dimension?”

He shrugs. “You’re in love with each other, are you not?”

I open my mouth and gulp like a fish before finally admitting it on a nod. Yes, I am one hundred percent, unequivocally in love with Ty Winslow.

“I don’t want the possibility of having fired my future son-in-law on my conscience.”

Future son-in-law? Ho-ly shit. My breath catches in my lungs.

“Plus, I don’t think anything I could have done to him would have mattered since he told me to shove it.” My eyes widen as he continues. “Actually, I’m pretty sure his exact words were, I’m in love with your daughter, sir. And that means I only care what she thinks.”

“He said that?”

My dad nods, considering me for a moment. “I know you probably don’t want my opinion, but in this case, I feel I need to give it,” he adds and reaches out to pat my shoulder. “Yesterday, what I saw was a man who stood before me with only one intention—to stand up for and support the woman he loves.”

I shut my eyes, and tears start to sting my nose.

Through all the panty games and push and pull and teasing and taunting and jokes, I never saw it coming. I fell in love with the ultimate player—and he fell in love with me.

“Dad, I have to go,” is all I have the power to say.

“I was wondering when you were going to get out of here,” he muses and pats my shoulder again before walking back to his desk chair. “Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you too,” I say, and I spin on my heel to run out of his office and down to the opposite end of the hall. But when I reach the office that reads Professor Ty Winslow on the side, the door is shut and the lights are off.

Shit.

I scramble to get my phone out of my purse, but right before I hit the call button below his name, I stop myself.

No, not like this, Rachel. He deserves more than a hurried phone call and empty apologies.

A memory strikes me—one I was absolutely certain at the time would never equate to anything. But when it does, I can’t help but smile at the familial foresight. Damn, those Winslow siblings are good.