Jonah McKee glared out the window of his den into the black night, his fingers curling into fists of frustration. Slowly he turned and his voice was much lower, but still harsh with steely determination. “You’re not to see her and that’s that. How many times do I have to tell you that Skye Donahue isn’t the woman for you?” Max wasn’t buying it. The old man’s theatrics were beginning to wear thin. “Why?” “What?” “I asked why,” Max repeated as calmly as he could, considering that he wanted to wring his father’s neck. It was all he could do to stay sprawled upon the tufted leather couch in the den, cradling a beer and watching Jonah’s jaw set into a hard line of resolve. “Why is she wrong for me?” “A million reasons!” Jonah barked. “One will do.” “First, she’s not the same social station as you are, boy.” “No one is,” Max replied, unable to hide the sarcasm in his tone. He sipped from the long-necked bottle and told himself to be patient.
