To my shock, I realize I’m crying. I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks, and suddenly they are coming faster and stronger. God, it’s been an emotional day.

“Run inside, Khloe. Wait for me. I’ll be there soon,” I hear my dad say, a note of concern woven into his British accent.

Khloe gives me a hard stare with her wide blue eyes that so resembles Mom’s, then scampers away without argument. I brush at the tears. That’s one thing I’ll give my dad. He knows how to command without effort.

He swings his legs off the chaise and sits facing me. “Why are you crying, Kaley? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Pop. I’ve just got a lot going on. It’s a bit overwhelming.”

“Work or relationship?”

God, I don’t want to have a relationship discussion with my dad. Not with Alan Manzone: rock icon, billionaire, and reformed man-whore. He plundered my mom’s heart for three decades like a pirate raiding Caribbean treasure. I can’t talk to him about this. Not even if he is my father. Crap, why isn’t Mom here?

“It’s not worth talking about,” I say, unwilling to meet his stare.

“Then why are you crying?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

He moves from his chaise to mine. “I’m stepping into that one. You sound like your mother and I’m not buying it. Tell me what’s wrong. We’ll think it through together.”

For some reason, instead of answering, I turn into my father’s chest, burying my face against him. His arms hold me in a protective cocoon, and it feels so good to be held by my father. The tears come even stronger.

“Shush, Kaley. Whatever it is, it will be OK.”

He starts to rock me gently. We sit like this quietly in the silence of the yard. The rocking slows. The tears slow. I see the ocean beyond me and start to quiet inside. I look up at him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No, Pop. Sometimes a girl just needs to hug her father.”

He drops a kiss on my black curls. As he pulls back, a wisp of his long hair mingles with mine and clings, the color so exact I can’t really tell which hair is mine and which hair is his.

We are so alike. I look at our hands. Our nails are the exact same shape and shade. He is my father. I love him. The past is the past. Bobby is right. I need to forgive unconditionally and let it go for all our sakes.

I don’t understand why he wasn’t here for me in my childhood, but I do know that I love him and my father loves me.

I feel different as I drive back to Simi Valley. Something is more urgent and paradoxically more peaceful in me. I can’t put my finger on what I’m feeling or where I am emotionally.

I sat with my dad in the quiet for an hour. I let him hold me. We didn’t talk, but when I left I felt differently inside me.

I switch on my turn signal, exit the 101, and merge onto the surface street that will eventually fade from city blocks into rural ones and Bobby.

It’s nearly evening. I planned to be back earlier. First the stop at my dad’s, then the stop at the grocery store because Bobby is living like a bear with furniture in a cave.

There still hasn’t been a text from Bobby. I wonder what’s up with that. I hope he’s home when I get there. There is a lot I need to say to him today.

It’s in me, with sweet urgency, wanting to be given over to him. I want to tell him everything I feel. I want to tell him about my day, work, and the time with my father. I am burning to share every piece of me with Bobby.

He is the one person I know who will understand everything without my explaining a single thing.

I turn into his drive and park the truck. The chain is back up across the road. I can’t remember if I latched it back into place when I left this morning or if seeing it in place means that Bobby is back.

I quickly unlatch the barrier and hop back into the truck. I’m driving with greater speed and purpose to the house. I park in the driveway and my heart stills. Bobby is back, but why are the sheriffs here?

I quickly take in the details of him. He’s chatting with the sheriff while hovering over some kind of wounded dog.

The pieces fly together in my mind. He went on a rescue last night, probably to an illegal dog fight, but something must have gone wrong if the sheriffs are here. He looks tired and a touch angry, but he doesn’t look hurt.

“What happened?” I exclaim, stopping myself from flinging into his arms and holding him close to me.

He rises to his full height and in a half-second he is pressing me full length against him and surrounding me with his arms.

“Everything is fine. I’m OK,” he whispers into my hair, but I feel some kind of restless adrenaline move through his flesh.

“If nothing is wrong why are the sheriffs here?”

He eases back and fixes his green eyes on me. “Just getting my statement, Kaley.” He touches my cheek with a gentle fingertip. “We called the sheriffs before the rescue. They raided the dog fight. Sometimes these things are tricky in Chatsworth. Gangs and other organized crime often run the fight market.”

“Tricky? Or do you mean dangerous? What have you gotten yourself into, Bobby?”

He cradles my face with his hands, kisses me on the forehead, and then stares directly into my eyes. “It’s perfectly safe so long as law enforcement takes the lead. Nothing is going to happen to me. Not now. Not after I’ve finally gotten you back.”

Suddenly I’m crying. “It better not, Bobby!”

Laughing, he folds me against his chest again. “I’m going to have to toughen you up, Kaley. I wasn’t sure how much you knew about rescuing dogs from illegal fights. That’s why I didn’t tell you where I was going. There wasn’t enough time to explain everything and I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I worried anyway. You should have told me.”

He places a light kiss on my lips and eases back to smile at me. “I missed you last night.”

I rub my nose against his shirt, breathing in his scent. “I missed you this morning.”

“I missed you five minutes ago.”

“I miss you always.”

Dang, I’m crying all over again just because of this silly banter we started back when we were in high school. Crying because I love him, crying because it feels so good to be in his arms, and crying because I don’t know if I’ll ever be worthy of a guy as great as Bobby.

He dabs at my tears, gives me another kiss and then drapes an arm around my shoulder.

“Are we done here?” Bobby calls out.

A sheriff looks up from his notepad. “I just need your signature on your statement.”

The young officer walks over to us, tosses me a smile, and then hands Bobby a pen.

“If we need additional information we can handle that by phone. Someone in the district attorney’s office will be contacting you to testify.”

“I’ll be there,” Bobby assures him, handing back the pen.

We watch the officers pile into their cars and leave the driveway.

Bobby steps away from me and crouches down in front of the dog. “Just let me finish taking care of this poor girl and then we can go inside and talk.”

I move closer to him and watch as he checks her bandages. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing serious. Grazed by a bullet.”

“Bullet!”

Bobby looks up. “When the cops raided, the dog handlers started shooting the dogs. I guess they thought they were evidence.” He shakes his head and starts to examine a leg. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the world.”

My heart swells with pride and tears pool in my eyes. Most people aren’t as gentle, as good and kindhearted as Bobby. That’s what’s wrong with the world.

I stare down at the dog, smiling. “What will you do with her?”

“Keep her. Train her. Bring her into the pack inside the house with Tiki.”

“Another dog?”

“I have a soft spot in my heart for girls with troubled pasts.”

My cheeks warm and my smile grows larger. “Yep, that is why you pursued me in high school, isn’t it? The charm of the chip on my shoulder.”