Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
I shrug. “I don’t know. Your idea of the stars aligning is a lot different than mine.” I can’t look at her. She’ll see right through my stupid schoolboy crush. So I think of Lola and the car I no longer drive or the date I will never ask Maren to go on with me. And with that sobering reminder, I lift my gaze from the floor to her one last time and offer a platonic, non-schoolboy-crush smile. “See ya around.”
Maren smiles until tiny crinkles form at the corners of her blue eyes. “Maybe.”
She’s flirting with me or busting my balls; either one is fine with me.
Chapter Two
“Where’s Tia and Lola?” I ask my father-in-law while unzipping my hoodie. It’s just past five thirty, and my kitchen smells like garlic. The Weber grill is pulled away from the edge of the deck, and I bet Amos’s famous dry-rubbed rib eyes are sizzling to perfection.
He retrieves a bottle of ranch dressing from the fridge. After Brynn died, I remodeled the four-bedroom ranch house. Lola wanted white cabinets and blue retro appliances, so I caved and gave my grieving daughter what she wanted: a beach-blue metal fridge with chrome trim and a pivoting handle. I struggled with retro “updates.” It seemed like an oxymoron.
However, Lola still gushes over the blue appliances and the two-person round chrome pedestal table with sparkly red vinyl chairs. So the decor has grown on me because her enthusiasm is contagious.
“Lola had to stay for detention,” Amos says. “But Tia didn’t find out until Lola failed to come outside after school. They should be home any minute.”
I check my phone for missed messages. Sure enough, there’s a call from the school that I didn’t see. “Why did Lola get detention?” I ask, but it’s not her first offense, so I have trouble mustering a shocked response.
“Dunno,” Amos mumbles. “Want to make a little wager before they get home?” He eyes me with a half grin as he drizzles the dressing over the bowls of mixed greens.
“Ten bucks. Someone said something about her bike, and she kicked them in the shin,” I say, because it’s a statistically good guess.
Amos runs a hand over his spiky gray hair before scratching his saggy turkey neck. “Twenty bucks, some little punk pulled her hair, and she throat punched them.”
“You think she’s graduated to the throat punch?” My eyes widen.
He carries two salad bowls to the dining room table, next to a Palladian window overlooking the backyard filled with trees and bird feeders. “Ozzy, she’s halfway through fourth grade. I can see her testing out some new tactics.”
We’re dancing around the truth because it’s less painful than the likely reality that someone said something about the scars on her face. By now, every kid in her school should be used to them, but kids can be relentless little assholes.
I follow Amos, carrying the other two bowls. “That girl has my temper. I should be the one in detention.”
Amos pulls four plates from the oak buffet. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve been a saint with that girl since Brynn died. Ground her, ignore her tantrum, and let her learn things the hard way. She’s coddled enough.”
I coddle her. He won’t directly point a finger at me, but it’s implied by his tone and reinforced when he doesn’t look at me.
Last year, after Thanksgiving, Amos and Tia sold their ranch in Yellowstone and moved to Missoula so I could go back to work. Since they’re giving up or postponing their planned retirement in Ocala, Florida, to help me raise Lola, I must accept a little scrutiny.
A jab here and there. They walk the line without making pointed comments about my dad because he’s a hard limit for me.
The back door creaks, followed by Lola’s dramatic huff. “We’re home. Don’t be mad. It wasn’t my fault.”
Amos and I force straight faces while we meet Tia and Lola in the kitchen.
Tia inspects me with squinted blue eyes, her dark-gray, chin-length hair matted from her bike helmet. She’s daring me to let Lola off easy. Tia helped brand and castrate cows until the day they sold the ranch. She has the energy of someone half her age and believes kids should be raised with a loving hand and stern voice. Brynn was the same way.
Lola’s always been a daddy’s girl, and watching her heal from the car accident and grieve the loss of her mother has only made me softer.
“I’m listening,” I say, taking Lola’s backpack before she fills a glass with water from the filter pitcher in the fridge.
Tia surgically washes her hands and dark, leathery forearms while eyeing my daughter. I don’t know if Lola feels an ounce of fear, but I still have a healthy respect for Tia’s challenging scowl. The first time I met her, she sized me up and told me I’d better plan on marrying her daughter if I was sticking my dick in her.