Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
You already did, Poppins. But I’ll die before letting you find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RIGGS
The Markham family lived in a three-bedroom semidetached house just off Tooting Broadway’s main street. It was a redbrick, old-looking thing that definitely didn’t scream privilege. There was a beat-up Saab 900 parked out front, and a laundry-line pole with an array of old undergarments greeted us.
Poppins blushed and ducked her head as we made our way down the pathway leading to her front door.
“Sorry about that. Mum loves skipping the dryer. Saves her loads of money.”
I shrugged it off. “Feasting my eyes on the Markham clan’s underwear is a hobby at this point.”
“The house is a bit old from the inside too . . .” She drifted off, munching on her lip. Her eyes looked faraway, and I bet she remembered being teased about her financial situation as a kid.
I clapped a hand over her shoulder, looking her straight in the eye. “I don’t fucking care. You’re valued by more than your net worth.”
She nudged my shoulder with a sniff before pushing the doorbell. Our arrival was a surprise to her parents. Hopefully not one that was going to give them a heart attack. I was considerably older and a fucking stranger for all intents and purposes, and I’d just showed up on their doorstep with their only daughter.
We waited outside, the sun rising sluggishly behind a field of red and gray chimneys.
“Are they going to think I’m an old creeper?” I grunted, just when the sound of feet padding over carpeted floor came from the other side of the door.
Duffy turned to look at me, surprised. “Why would they think that?”
“Because there’s over a ten-year gap between us,” I drawled. “Kieran knows we’re married.”
“He won’t breathe a word,” she assured me, moving her palm over my back in a soothing motion. “And they’re going to adore my new—”
The door swung open, and in front of us stood a man in his early sixties, wearing a wifebeater, fluffy slippers that clearly belonged to his wife, and old-school Adidas sweatpants. His sleepy expression vanished at the sight of Duffy, swapped with astonishment and delight.
“Daphne-doo!” he clucked, reaching for her and then tossing her in the air like she was a toddler. I watched with confusion as he put her back down and held her hand. She gave a princess spin, flinging her stained dress, as if verifying her own existence.
He gasped. “What are you . . . how did you . . .”
“Stop it, Tim, you’ll wake Mum up.” She giggled. Giggled. Who was this person?
He shook his head. “I’m just blown away. This is the best surprise.”
“We took an overnight flight from New York and thought to spend the weekend here,” Duffy explained, clutching him by the arms, sparkling with joy and warmth and love. “Is that all right?”
“All right?” he spluttered. “I’m the happiest man alive right now.”
No, that would be me, watching your stepdaughter happy.
Tim’s eyes darted to me. “And who is we?”
“Tim, meet Riggs. Riggs, this is Tim, my stepdad.”
I reached out to shake his hand. He took it, squeezing hard to assert some kind of authority.
Too late. Already sampled her from every possible angle. And some not-so-possible angles. She almost sprained her ankle once.
“And what is Riggs to you, darlin’?”
Good fucking question. I was all ears myself.
“A royal pain in the arse,” Duffy answered, avoiding a straight answer. I inwardly groaned. The jokes were getting old, and as she liked to point out every so often—so was fucking I. “He’s also my roommate.”
Roommate. That did not feel nice at all. I could tell you that much.
“Don’t you live in a one-bedroom?”
“Riggs is crashing on my couch until he finds a place.”
“Eh.” Tim gave me a long once-over. I could read his mind. Almost forty. Sleeps on someone’s sofa. What a winner. “And he decided to tag along? Sightsee, ay?”
The conversation was turning from painfully awkward to catastrophically bizarre.
“Actually, I just got two tickets to London, and since Duffy had a place to crash, we made it work,” I said, interfering.
Tim’s forehead creases smoothed, and he nodded.
“Makes sense. Well, don’t just stand there! Come on in.”
In, we came. The house wasn’t too shabby, but Duffy was right: it didn’t look like something you’d see on a Netflix reality show. Tim offered us a cuppa, and I prayed to shit it wasn’t some code to fondling my junk. In a matter of minutes, the entire house was on its feet. Mrs. Markham came rushing down the narrow stairway in a fleece robe, howling when she saw her daughter. They exploded into a hug, crying into each other’s hair, mumbling incoherently like war prisoners reunited. Next was Kieran, who trotted down in an adult Mike Wazowski onesie, holding a half-empty jar of peanut butter and a can of beer.