Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
But…I couldn’t remember much about his personal life. Ten-year-old me hadn’t cared if he was married and had a kid. That was shit I’d associated with my parents. Clomsky was a hero, not an ordinary, run-of-the-mill boring dad.
Or maybe he was. I hadn’t cared then, but now…I really wanted to know.
I scoured Google and Wikipedia for personal information and damn, there wasn’t much. Dwight “Ketchum” Clomsky was forty-nine years old, originally from Nova Scotia. He’d married D.W. Clomsky and had one child. The pair divorced a year later. Clomsky retired with a record of blah, blah, blah, and now resided in Toronto. That was it.
Deeper digging netted a name for his ex—Deanna W. No surname. There were no photos of them together online at charity functions or in magazines for PR.
I ignored the paper I was supposed to be writing for my Euro Civilization class and switched my focus to Deanna.
Jackpot.
I knew Walker’s mom was a journalist, but I’d had no idea she was so famous. Like really famous.
Her Google entries made Clomsky’s look cute. She was everything Walker had claimed and more—a brave journalist with an impressive pedigree, a patriot, an educator, a human rights activist. The list went on and on. She’d graduated from Harvard, gotten a PhD from Yale, lived in New York City, Chicago, Toronto, London, and Kabul. There was a page dedicated to the awards she’d amassed and her contribution to the legacy of the Woodrow family. But no mention of a husband.
Her son got a shoutout in her obituary, though. Deanna Woodrow, age forty-four, killed in the line of fire in Afghanistan, survived by her brothers, Ansel and George, a slew of nieces and nephews, and her son, Walker.
That was it.
I searched through images and found a ton of Deanna. A fuckton.
There were pics of her as a child, posing with her famous ancestors, playing tennis with her brothers, protesting at rallies with college classmates, and later as a no-nonsense journalist who’d taken on a cause to fight for women’s rights in the Middle East. I hit paydirt when I stumbled across a photo of her holding a small boy who couldn’t have been more than three or four.
Christ, Walker looked just like her. They shared the same keen eyes, determined jawline, and flaming red hair. Huh.
I double-checked the obit, but there was nothing about an ex-husband or a former partner. No connection whatsoever to Clomsky other than the almost throwaway line I’d found on his page. Seemed strange. They were both noteworthy individuals with major accomplishments. Surely somebody somewhere would have referenced their combined story. Fuck knew Hallmark would have made a movie about them in a heartbeat…with a happier ending.
Next up, I researched Walker, who had the kind of online presence that guaranteed page after page of information. The gist…age twenty-three, born in New York City, occupation: influencer and student. Nothing I didn’t know. His mother and the rest of the famous Woodrow clan were mentioned, but nothing on dear old dad.
There had to be a reason. Of course, it was none of my fucking business, and I’d have been completely clueless about the connection if Walker hadn’t shared it. But now that I was aware, I was curious to the point of obsessing. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And as much as I’d like to claim that I was only interested because in a twist, his dad was my childhood hero, that wasn’t true.
I hated to admit this, but I had all the telltale signs of a small crush on Walker.
Super small.
Microscopic, tiny, minuscule, so little it wasn’t worth filing in my brain.
I chalked it up to begrudging admiration. It had nothing to do with his smart mouth, sassy attitude, and boundless energy. No way.
Sure, Walker had pretty, plump lips and a tight bod. And maybe I’d noticed his pert ass, but his khakis were snug and I was only human, so…whatever.
It wasn’t a thing. Seriously.
But that sort-of kiss had happened and I was under water, trying to make sense of this “non-crush” crush who’d somehow slipped into my subconscious. I wanted to believe it was the result of a newfound connection to Clomsky, but that wouldn’t explain my brain’s X-rated sidebars.
One second I’d be jacking off to visions of some beautiful girl with a talented mouth sucking me into oblivion and the next thing I knew, she was a redhead with tawny eyes and…facial hair. Walker on his knees, his tongue circling my crown, his hands on my ass, kneading my cheeks as he swallowed me whole.
I’d come to, blinking wildly, my heart beating like a thousand hummingbirds had taken residence in my chest, wondering what the fuck was wrong with me. Walker was off-limits. Period, end of sentence.
Tell that to my fucked-up head. Please. I mean, it. ’Cause now I was thinking about Walker watching me get blown in the alley and holy shit, it was happening again.