Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Dad?” I exclaim, voice tinged with surprise and embarrassment as no other than Big Steve himself stands in the doorway, legs spread, one hand clutching a small propane tank, the other grasping grocery bags, fronting like he’s the new sheriff in town.
My father’s eyes widen as he takes in the scene, darting from me, to Andy’s bare back, to me, to Andy’s bare back. My face.
Andy’s back.
His bushy brows bow in consternation. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes at his catching us fooling around: embarrassment? Or irritation. Or maybe he’s furious that his baby girl is getting it on?
One thing is for sure—my father’s shock does not send him fleeing from the scene. It does not cause him to give us privacy. What it does do is stun him into a rare silence, leaving him staring at us wide eyed, as if he weren’t expecting me to have company.
Least of all male company.
Guess it doesn’t help that the whole scene looks way more risqué from his vantage point than it actually is.
“Holy fuck,” Andy curses. “Please don’t tell me that when I turn around I’ll be looking at your dad.”
“Fine. I won’t tell you.”
“Harlow Margaret.” Dad uses that scolding tone he used when I was a kid, as if I were doing something wrong. In my own house. “What the hell is going on?!”
“First of all.” I begin pulling the hem of my sweatshirt all the way down. “This is my house. Did we not talk about knocking, like, a million times?”
“Is this the guy from New York?” He ignores my question and proceeds to point at Andy’s back, asking a question of his own.
Andy grins at me. “Aww, you told your dad about me?”
I roll my eyes and hiss, “You were with me when he called, remember? I didn’t have to tell him.”
Then.
Andy turns.
And . . .
It’s the weirdest thing, this play of emotions on my father’s face. They range from shocked to blank . . . to shocked again, all in the span of a heartbeat. Basically he looks like a guppy, gasping for air. Or like he’s seen a ghost? Really hard to put my finger on it, all I know is that he looks as if he were about to have an actual heart attack.
“I . . .” My father looks confused. “You’re Landon Burke.”
I shake my head, patting Andy on his bare chest. “No, Dad, this is Andy. Andy, this is my dad.”
My father just stares, still rooted to his spot by the door, framed by the doorway, Kevin sitting with a toy in his mouth at Dad’s feet.
“Dad. Say hi.” Good Lord, why is this so hard?
“No, Harlow, that is Landon fucking Burke.” My father blanches, head shaking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss, oh shit. Jesus.” He runs a hand through his receding hairline and shoves the black-rimmed glasses higher up onto his nose. “Jesus Christ. You’re . . . you. And you’re in my daughter’s kitchen.”
He bends at the waist, putting his hands on his knees, and takes large gulps of air.
“Dad, honestly.” Could this be any more embarrassing? I want the ground to swallow me whole—my dad is acting so bizarre. Now he’s gasping for air, being so dramatic I have no idea what to say. “Dad, this is Andy—”
“I know who he is,” he says, eyes wide as hell.
“Would you knock it off!” I practically shout, frustration mounting, coupled with the embarrassment of being caught making out like a teenager. “This is the guy from New York—Andy. How many times do I have to say it?”
“This is not the guy from New York!” Dad counters stubbornly, and it takes Andy putting a calming hand on my forearm to stop me from losing my shit completely. “This guy is from Seattle!”
“Harlow,” Andy says gently, squeezing my forearm. “It’s not necessary to shout at your dad. I can explain all this confusion if you give me a minute.”
I throw my hands in the air, frustrated beyond belief.
I give up!
“You are both being annoying and weird. Dad, this is the guy I was with in New York.” I say it one more time so it sinks in, but it still makes no sense how they know each other. Or maybe they don’t? Maybe my dad was here when Andy first arrived, and they met outside before he came in, and Andy never mentioned it?
No, that makes no sense either.
My brain goes in circles as I try to fit square pegs in round holes and put the pieces of a puzzle together with no instructions.
Dad removes his glasses and wipes the lenses on the leg of his jeans. “My eyes are playing tricks on me. It can’t be.”
Andy tilts his head. “Can’t I be?”
My father puts the glasses back on his nose. “No.”