Secret Agent Dad

But wishing wasn’t worth spit. Wishing couldn’t solve his problems. Only he could. And he intended to do just that— starting with Josie. Shoving away from the wall, he moved toward the door on legs not quite as steady as he’d like them to be. What he wouldn’t give to just sit down—preferably with a shot of good Irish whisky, he mused. And he would. Just as soon as he set a certain raven-haired woman straight about a major misconception on her part. All right. Maybe he had lost his memory, and he didn’t remember his name. But he was damn sure about one thing—he was not anyone’s daddy.

Daddy!

Just the idea made him shudder. Him? A father? No way! The very notion was absurd. Just the thought of being responsible for one baby, let alone two, sent fear crawling down his spine. Surely this was not the reaction of a man who had kids. Besides, loss of memory or not, what he knew about kids wouldn’t fill a nutshell. If he were a father—which he didn’t believe for a minute that he was—he sure as hell would have remembered the fact.

Wouldn’t he? A man just didn’t forget that sort of thing, he reasoned. Nope. He wasn’t any squalling, pint-size person’s daddy. To even think he was had been a mistake. And Miss Josie Walters with the angel eyes and sulky mouth had been the one to make it Intent on telling her just that, he started down the hall to find her.

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