Then the heavy oak door swung open again, and the draft swept in, colder this time.
Damon stepped into the dining room, his coat draped over his arm, his movements slow and deliberate. He stopped for a second to adjust his collar, looking around the room with a calm, easy expression that made my stomach turn.
He walked toward our table with a light step, his eyes skipping over me to smile at our children.
“Sorry I am late, kids,” Damon said, sliding into the empty chair at the head of the table.
He laid his coat over the back of the chair and smoothed his tie down.
“It took much longer to park the car than I expected,” Damon said, his voice bright and entirely natural.
Jake did not smile back, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched his father settle in.
“There were spots out front, Dad,” Jake said.
