Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
And then I look at my dad. “And you … find something better to do than play matchmaker. I’m. Not. Available.”
Without waiting for any of them to respond, I stomp back down the hallway and straight to my room, where I slam the door and then lean against it, trying like hell to ignore the fact that Shane is getting under my skin. I can’t stop thinking about him. And I’d be lying if I said that him concocting this plan with my dad and being willing to get a tattoo, just to spend time with me, isn’t clenching the hell out of my broken and battered heart and reminding me that it still works.
I spend the rest of the day in my station, working on client after client, and once my last one leaves, I clean up quickly so I can try to leave without facing my dad. I feel bad that I yelled at him earlier, but he shouldn’t have done what he did. And I’m not in the mood to discuss it.
But as I’m stepping out of my room, he steps out of his. Our eyes lock, and a small smile graces his features, and instead of being angry, tears fill my eyes.
“C’mere, Mini Q,” he says, using the nickname he dubbed me with when I was little because I reminded him so much of my mom—Quinn.
He opens his arms, and I fall into them, burying my head into his chest as I cry while he holds me close. He moves us into his station and sits us on his couch that he has positioned in the corner.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing my back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I just … fuck, I hate to see you like this.”
“I know,” I mutter through my cries. “It’s just so hard.” A choked sob pushes past the lump of emotion clogging my throat, and I cry harder. “I’m so sick of feeling like this, Dad. My heart hurts so much.”
I cry in my dad’s arms for several minutes, until the tears feel like they can’t fall anymore, and then we sit in silence for a little while after that.
No words need to be spoken. There’s nothing anyone can do or say that will bring my husband and baby back. Death is permanent, and the only thing I can do is try to move forward without them.
“I wanted to say yes,” I whisper.
“What?” He pulls back slightly to meet my eyes.
“When he asked me out, I … I wanted to say yes.”
But I couldn’t.
I felt too much guilt.
I was too terrified.
My dad nods in understanding, then pulls me back into his arms. “You’ll get there, Kins. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. Take it one day at a time.”
SIX
Shane
“What are you looking at?”
The sound of Taylor’s voice has me jumping in my seat. When I got home from the station this morning, she was still asleep.
“Nothing,” I murmur, closing my laptop.
“Don’t lie.” She laughs, lifting the screen back up so the Google page I was looking at is front and center.
“Are those”—she leans in closer—“tattoos?” She scrunches her nose up. “Dad, please tell me you aren’t looking at Google for tattoo ideas.”
I groan, remembering Kinsley’s words. “Don’t even think about getting it off Google or Pinterest.”
“How the hell else am I supposed to get inspiration?” I grumble, closing the laptop again and turning to face my daughter.
“Wait, you’re really considering getting a tattoo?” Her brows hit her forehead as she looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“So what if I am?” I shrug, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Aren’t you a little old to be rebelling?” Taylor smirks.
“It’s not rebellion when you’re of age.”
“Right … so what is it then? A midlife crisis?” She cackles, and I huff out an annoyed sigh.
“Just drop it,” I say. “You want to make breakfast or go out?”
Every Saturday or Sunday, depending on our schedules, Taylor and I spend some time together. It’s our thing. We’re both busy, especially her with her job and school and cheerleading and friends, so if our schedules align, we’ll have breakfast together and then take Becky for a walk while we catch up on what we did during the week. Thankfully, my daughter likes me and goes along with it.
“I’m not dropping it,” she says. “What’s going on, Dad? I’ve known you my entire life, and you’ve never even mentioned getting a tattoo before. If you want one, that’s cool, but searching for one online isn’t it.”
“That’s what she said,” I mutter.
“Who?” Taylor quirks a brow.
“The tattoo artist. She said she’d only ink something meaningful on me and told me not to even think about finding one on Google or Pinterest.”
“She’s not wrong.” Taylor laughs. “Casey went to Exposed Ink to get a tattoo for her eighteenth birthday and dragged me along with her …”