Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
I pry myself out from under Frankie’s luscious body and reach for the nearest pair of jeans. As I stumble to the door, my bare feet slap the hardwood.
The porch shows two guys in dark suits flanking a woman with platinum helmet hair. And beside her, a man with shoulders so wide he blocks out half my damn front door. I recognize them instantly. Governor Charles W. Foxworth and his wife, Rosalind, with their Secret Service wannabes in tow.
This is not how I envisioned waking up when I went to sleep with Frankie wrapped tightly around me.
Fuck it. I’ll have to deal with them sometime.
I yank open the door, bracing for a handshake or at least some kind of preamble. Instead, the Governor just scans me, eyes flicking down to my bare feet, up to my “Prestige Motors” t-shirt, then up to stare into my eyes.
Rosalind’s eyes narrow, her micro-expressions so controlled it’s almost scary. She’s dressed for a funeral, posture so perfect it’s a miracle she doesn’t snap in half. Her gaze slides over my shoulder, searching for her missing daughter.
The security goons say nothing.
“Mr. Rutherford,” the Governor says, voice smoother than top-shelf bourbon. “We’d hoped to speak with Francesca.”
I try not to flinch at the full name. “She isn’t awake yet. Would you like to come in, and I’ll go wake her up?” I force my voice into politeness, reminding myself these two are going to be a part of my life whether I like it or not.
“Thank you,” Mr. Foxworth mutters as they follow me inside.
I lead them to the living room. “Have a seat.”
There’s a bang from the hallway, followed by a muffled, “Shit!” Frankie barrels into the room, hair wild, wearing my oversized t-shirt and a pair of old high school basketball shorts that hit halfway down her thighs. She looks like she got dressed during a fire drill. Her glasses are fogged, and she’s rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Mother. Father.” She says it with a composure that almost makes me do a double-take. I expect her to wilt or apologize, but she just folds her arms and plants herself at my side.
Rosalind’s lips flatten into a line so thin it’s practically invisible. “Francesca, may we speak to you alone?”
“No,” Frankie says, beating me to it. “I’d prefer you say whatever you came to say right here.”
There’s a silent, brutal war of wills between mother and daughter. You could hear a pin drop if not for the furious grinding of Charles’ molars.
Rosalind turns her glare on me. “We wanted to confirm you are well, and that you’re making good decisions.” She says it like a threat, every word sharp enough to cut glass. “Which isn’t a strong suit of yours.”
Frankie snorts. “It’s too early for a symposium on my various failings.”
Charles cuts in, “We understand you’re pursuing a new… relationship. Since you won’t return our calls, we decided to come by and meet your new,” he pauses and looks me over like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of his shoes, “beau for ourselves.”
Frankie’s smile is all teeth. “How nice. But totally unnecessary.”
Charles’ jaw flexes. Rosalind’s gaze slides from my feet to Frankie’s bare knees, and she just shakes her head, slow and disapproving. “We’ve been worried about you, Francesca.”
Frankie’s voice sharpens. “No, Mother. You’re worried about how my life choices will reflect negatively on Father’s political career. I’ve been hearing the same speech forever, and I’m tired of it. I’m going to live my life my way. And you can support my decisions or not. I don’t care.”
“You are part of this family,” Rosalind hisses, her mask slipping for half a second. She glances at Charles. “We have certain expectations.”
Frankie’s posture goes steel-rod straight. “As far as I’m concerned, you can take those expectations and shove—”
“Francesca,” her father barks. “Vulgarity isn’t necessary.”
“In my house, I’ll be vulgar if I want to.” My gorgeous girl stands her ground. “If you don’t like it, I’m sure there’s something that needs your attention back at the capital.”
I watch this tennis match, not sure if I should jump in. Then Rosalind turns on me with the full force of the Foxworth dynasty.
“Mr. Rutherford, what are your intentions toward our daughter?” She says it like a closing argument, cold and final.
I take a breath and step forward. “My intentions are to take care of Frankie and make her happy.” I hold her gaze as she absorbs my words.
There’s a pause, and then Charles grins. It’s not warm. It’s clinical, calculated. “That won’t be easy,” he says.
Frankie’s hand finds mine, squeezing hard. I squeeze back, promising her I’m not going anywhere. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.” As the tension eases slightly, I decide to invite them to dinner tonight. “Would you like to join us for dinner tonight?”
Charles glances at Rosalind, and I see them communicating in that silent, telepathic code parents use, a flicker of eyes and tilt of heads bypassing words altogether. “We have other engagements. Thank you for your time, Mr. Rutherford. We will arrange to have dinner when our schedule allows.”