He’d spent the past week with her, and her mannerisms and mood were very familiar to him now. He picked up on the small frown, the way she repeatedly swallowed. She was behind the thick, scarred wooden bar, a clipboard clutched tightly in her hand, taking some kind of inventory. Beside him, Dalton looked around in horrified disbelief. “My God. She can’t actually work here?” Pulling his gaze from Charlie, Harry said, “She does, and she manages quite credibly. I don’t think it’s been easy for her, but she’s the type of woman who once she sets her mind on something, it gets accomplished one way or another.” Harry knew there was a wealth of pride in his tone, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He was proud, and he wanted Dalton to be, too. The bar wasn’t yet open. Charlie had insisted they meet there, partly, Harry assumed, because she felt it gave her an advantage to be on her own territory and in familiar surroundings. She wouldn’t admit it, not even to herself, but she was very uncertain about meeting her father.
