Hugh (Single Dads of Gaynor Beach Book 4), page 1
HUGH
SINGLE DADS OF GAYNOR BEACH
GABBI GREY
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Next in the Gaynor Beach Series
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Copyright © 2022 by Gabbi Grey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
BLURB
HUGH
Having spent more than twenty years as an emergency medicine physician in war zones around the world, I barely have a home to speak of. A daughter I didn’t know about has died and left a child behind, so I must get to Gaynor Beach, California to claim my granddaughter. Her temporary guardian is the first man to spark my interest in a very long time, but it would be inappropriate for me to have a relationship with this much-younger man.
OSCAR
Gutted by my best friend’s death, I take solace in the daughter she left in my guardianship. I’ll protect this precious baby with all I have, and no one is going to take her away from me—least of all the man who turns up on our doorstep claiming to be her grandfather. Despite the resemblance, I plan to keep him at arm’s length. I’m going to show him how capable I am. But I might also lose my heart in the process.
This is an 85k word, hurt/comfort, interracial, age-gap, MM romance novel with a moderate amount of angst.
Charley D. for lending me your characters and the awesome beta read
Kaje H. for the accountability and your belief I could write this book
Leanne C. for being our fearless leader
and
The other Single Dads of Gaynor Beach authors
CHAPTER 1
HUGH
I was not a patient man. Working in emergency field hospitals didn’t lend itself to waiting. For twenty-some odd years, I dove in and did what needed to be done. I fixed what I could, consulted when I needed to, or helped the patient pass quietly if that was what the situation called for. In short—I acted.
Now, as I sat trapped on an airplane, I drummed my fingers. And I was uncomfortably cold. I’d hoofed it from the field hospital to the Jeep. The driver shuttled me to the train station, where I ran through to the platform to catch my train.
During an interminable twelve hours, I had nothing to do but sit in abject terror. Then a cab ride to the airport, where I sprinted yet again to catch that flight. The stop at the next airport didn’t afford me a moment to pick up a jacket or even a touristy sweatshirt.
Nope, I’d barely made this flight but, finally, success. I sat, crammed into coach, on an airliner flying halfway around the world.
I should’ve stopped for five minutes to gather more than just my laptop and fresh clothes. A jacket would’ve been nice. Except the weather was warm in the war-torn country where I was working, and it’d be warm in SoCal when I arrived. Just this bloody air-conditioned tin can hurtling through the air at ungodly speeds was cold.
Patience.
Stressing wasn’t going to get me there any faster. I yanked out my laptop, connected to the plane’s WiFi, and then searched my email. Initially I’d spotted the message when I took a break and was scrolling on my phone. Aside from work-related ones, I rarely got emails. The few close people in my life knew to text. I didn’t always have internet, but I almost always had cell service. Well, sometimes had cell service. When I’d been in some remote parts of Africa, I’d been completely cut off from the outside world.
Focus.
The officious email informed me that my daughter had died, and I was the only living relative of her child. Could I come quickly, as my granddaughter needed someone to care for her?
At first I thought it a hoax. I didn’t have a daughter, and I certainly didn’t have a granddaughter living in Gaynor Beach, California. I was alone in the world. My parents had passed several years ago, and I’d been an only child of two only children.
I’d reread the email as panic rose. Then I spotted the name that brought everything into sharp focus.
Annette Peterson.
My recollections of the woman were vague at best.
I’d been in my final year of residency while she’d been a newly minted neurosurgeon. The affair had been illicit, short, and very intense. She resigned to take a job back in the States, and I obtained my certification—then headed to Africa for my first overseas posting. Eventually I came back to Canada for additional schooling to obtain my specialization in emergency medicine, then I headed back overseas and had been doing rotations in every war-torn country I could find. I’d done a few stints in impoverished countries as well, where any physician would do.
“We’ll be landing shortly.”
The steward’s gentle voice pulled me back from the brink of another panic attack.
He nodded at my laptop.
I took a moment to memorize the social worker’s name, then I stowed the machine. I should’ve called. Before I leapt on a plane. During the interminable train ride would’ve been good. But, again, no cell service. Then possibly in the airport in Munich, but I’d had fifteen minutes to make the connection. I’d been the last person onto the plane. And perhaps during the flight over, but it’d been the middle of the night, and yes, the man probably left me his office line, but what if he didn’t and I woke him? No, better to wait.
Impatiently.
The plane landed smoothly.
As soon as the seat-belt sign was off, I leapt up, grabbed my rucksack, and was hotfooting it. Of course, several other people had the same idea, and I was near the back of the plane, so again I was forced to cool my heels.
I checked my watch. Seven-nineteen. In the morning. I’d set the time when we hit the Atlantic Ocean. I had no concept of what time of day it was in… No, wait. I did some calculations. Seven in the evening. Given I’d only gotten snatches of sleep in the past two days, it didn’t really matter anymore. I’d stay up until ten, maybe take some melatonin, and try to get a solid eight hours. I might not be young, but I traveled well.
As we shuffled toward the front of the plane, I did more calculations. Twenty minutes to get a cab, a fifty minute or so drive through rush-hour traffic to Gaynor Beach. No, better factor in an hour. So I’d arrive at the social worker’s office around eight thirty. God, I hoped he wasn’t a nine-to-fiver. I had zero patience and two fucks to give about disturbing him. No, I’d be on the phone as soon as I was out of the cab.
The taxi line wasn’t long, and soon I was in a cab and headed north on the 5.
I yanked out my phone and checked my email.
Nothing.
Annette Peterson. Her daughter’s name was Patricia Peterson. And Patricia’s daughter was named Marilee Peterson.
A daughter of a single mother who was the daughter of a single mother.
I had a daughter.
Had being the key point. She’d died five days ago, and I’d never known her. Hell, if she hadn’t left a child, all of this would be unknown to me. I’d have gone along with my life thinking my only legacy was the people I saved. The children I helped. All along, I had a child.
And now a grandchild.
“We’re here.”
The cab driver pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts. I tapped my credit card, mumbled some words of thanks, and stumbled out of the taxi. He gave a little wave as he headed off. Back to San Diego, I supposed.
I squinted at the building. Nice brick façade, plate-glass window, pretty gold script listing all the services available in this one place. Given the size of Gaynor Beach, with its twenty-two thousand residents, I wasn’t surprised everything was in one place. At least they had a social worker.
The small town in Northern Ontario where I grew up had about a thousand people on a good day. And most days weren’t good. The school-bus ride was more than an hour each way during most of my formative years, but that was all right. I planned my escape from the poverty.
Focused on earning good grades, I won a full scholarship to the University of Ottawa and a spot in the prestigious medical school at the University of Toronto. During my residency at St. Michael’s Hospital, I quickly realized I wanted to focus on emergency medicine.
But not in some fancy hospital with all the latest equipment.
I wanted to go where the need was greatest.
And I’d done just that.
“Can I help you?”
Shit.
“Uh, yeah, I’m looking for Anthony Rodrigues.”
“Well, you’ve found him.”
“Yeah, I’m Hugh Bracken.” I held out my hand. That was the polite thing to do, right?
He shook it with some strength. “Nice to meet you. Why don’t you come inside?” Without waiting for my response, he unlocked the door and moved swiftly to the alarm so he could disarm it.
I took my time. The good-looking man looked about thirty, with tanned skin, short jet-black hair, and deep-brown eyes. An inch or two taller than my own five-ten.
He beckoned me in and once I cleared the door, he locked it. “Our secretary doesn’t get here until nine. She’ll unlock it and let in the hordes.”
My eyebrow shot up.
A chuckle rumbled through his chest. “I’m kidding. We rarely have more than a few people pass through these doors on any given day. I split my time between here and the high school.” He unlocked another door and again beckoned me in.
I sat across from his desk in a metal chair that was more comfortable than it initially looked.
He dropped his messenger bag next to the desk, pulled out his laptop, and sat. “I’m glad you came so quickly.” He opened the laptop, hit a few keys, and then met my gaze.
“You made it sound like life or death.”
A chuckle. But forced. “Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. First, let me say I’m sorry that Patricia passed.”
“Me too.” I fingered a worn spot on my jeans. “How did you find me?”
He cocked his head. “You were listed on Patricia’s birth certificate. Didn’t take me long to track you down. The RCMP in Canada was most helpful.”
This guy had contacted the Royal Canadian Mounted Police? And they’d tracked me down? Surely an internet search might’ve obtained the same results. Except I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only Hugh Bracken in the world. On the other hand, I didn’t have a huge social media footprint. Yeah, okay, I’d be a challenge to track down. “You said I have a granddaughter?”
A soft smile. “Yes, Marilee. She’s ten months old. Healthy, despite everything.”
“You mean her mother’s death.”
He sat up a little straighter. “You didn’t know about Patricia?”
Know what? “Look, Mr. Rodrigues—”
“Please, call me Anthony.”
“Anthony.” I tested the word. Although I was about twenty years older than the guy, he carried all the power in this room. I believed in being respectful. Breathe. “Your email came as a shock because Annette never told me she was pregnant. Until two days ago, I was unaware I had a daughter, let alone a granddaughter. I know nothing about Patricia. Now, is Marilee being cared for?”
He picked up a pen, tapped it on the desk, then put it down again. “She’s in the custody of someone.”
“Okay, I’m not sure why you called me.”
His gaze met mine directly.
It looked like indecision warred with resolution. Was he about to do something unethical? Was I about to be part of something I might later regret? No, that wasn’t possible. I had a granddaughter. She needed me. Nothing else mattered.
“Patricia was an addict.”
I waited for him to say something that made sense. Annette’s daughter had been an addict? Not that all parents could control their children, of course, but my ex-lover hadn’t struck me as a woman who didn’t dominate everything and everyone around her. “How…?”
“Annette died when Patricia was eighteen. Ovarian cancer. She’d been ill for a long time. Patricia was having difficulties coping, and the school asked me to intervene.” He scratched his nose. “I tried to, but I was still new at the job. Maybe I should’ve tried harder. But Annette died, Patricia completed high school, and then she sort of dropped off the radar.” He took a deep breath. “Gaynor Beach is a small town, but it’s easy to get lost—if you want to. Best I can figure, Patricia lived off her mother’s life-insurance money. Set up as an annuity, so she wasn’t able to burn through it all at once.”
Noise sounded from beyond the closed door.
I glanced over.
“Just our receptionist.”
“Ah.” I still struggled to wrap my head around this. “So Patricia dropped off the radar screen…”
“Yes. Ten months ago, she turned up at the ER of Gaynor Beach General Hospital. In labor. The doctor successfully delivered the baby, but also noted the track marks on Patricia’s arm. She claimed she’d stopped using while pregnant, but Marilee’s drug test came back positive. Opioids. Needless to say, I was called.”
“Oh my God.” I knew what that meant. Babies born with drugs in their systems faced all kinds of challenges. Especially if Patricia…if my daughter…had been using during the pregnancy.
“Yes, well, we placed Marilee in foster care. A lovely family in Marina Park, and she thrived.”
Slowly the pieces were coming together.
“As you might imagine, Patricia was distraught at losing custody. She swore she’d clean herself up and get Marilee back.”
“And she did.”
He nodded. “She petitioned the court four months ago. She’d completed rehab and had six clean drug tests. The judge agreed, with the understanding I’d have free access to the home and the baby.”
“I take it things didn’t go well.”
“At first, they did. Then she had a friend move in.”
I didn’t miss the emphasis. “A boyfriend? The baby’s father?”
“Patricia maintained she didn’t know who the father was, and no one was listed on the birth certificate.”
At least Annette’d had the decency to put my name on Patricia’s. Would’ve been nice to know I had a daughter, but the time was long past for anger or regrets.
So you tell yourself.
“Okay, so this guy…?”
Anthony cleared his throat. “I didn’t approve. I was in the process of getting Patricia’s parental rights terminated when…” He squinted. “She overdosed.”
Pain ripped through me. Sure, he’d been leading up to this. But to hear it? In such stark terms? Words that could never be taken back. I shook my head. Not in denial so much as to clear it. “So you’ve taken Marilee back? Right? She’s back in foster care?”
The glint in his eyes had me sit up and take notice.
“Patricia went to a lawyer. She had this guy, Oscar, listed as Marilee’s guardian.”
“But you said he was a bad guy. Or that he wasn’t to be trusted.”
Another nod. “I did. But simply taking Marilee away isn’t so simple. I’m going to have to prove there’s neglect. Patricia was sober when she made her will. The lawyer was clear he didn’t see any impediments. Nothing that’d nullify Patricia’s wishes.”
“And yet you called me.”
“Yes.” He rolled his shoulders. “You can petition the court. You’re a blood relative, and courts almost always side with the blood kin. But time is of the essence. The longer your granddaughter is with that…that man…the harder it will be. Courts also believe in honoring the wishes of parents. If he keeps custody, it’ll be more challenging to sever the rights.”
“What do I do?” No way was I going to leave Marilee in the hands of someone not capable of caring for her. A ten-month-old needed someone who could see to her every need. I could do that.
What about your job?
Fuck it. I was on leave for a family emergency. If I broke my contract, there wasn’t much they could do. They’d find someone else. They had to. Because I was needed in Gaynor Beach.
“You’ll need to see a lawyer. Immediately. I can set you up this afternoon. And I want you to go over and introduce yourself. You showing up might be enough of an incentive for the young man to leave.”
“That simple?”
His expression darkened. “I doubt it, but we’ve got to try. We have to do whatever it takes.”
