Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
He’s quiet for a long beat. Once we cruise along Van Ness Avenue, he says, “This is a massive line I can’t cross.”
“It’s a line for me too. I would never want to hurt my father or change how he might think about the team he loves coaching. The only thing he loves more than his team…is his daughters.”
Miles manages a tight smile. “I wish he’d called you and your sister by your names the few times he mentioned you. And she’s the only one he even mentioned coming to a game since I’ve been with the team.”
“She’s in high school so she still lives at home. And as for my dad…he’s a private man. He’s always been that way.” His reputation is pristine. The respect he’s earned from his players is well-deserved. I’m not going to ruin that.
A few minutes later, I’m at the front door of my building in the Mission District, a far cry from the Marina.
Miles sighs heavily, letting his head fall back against the seat. “I didn’t mean that last thing—about wishing I’d known who you were beforehand,” he says softly, then turns and looks at me with such longing in his eyes. “I’m glad I didn’t know who you were, and I don’t regret anything about tonight.”
“Me neither.”
With that, I leave the best date I’ve ever had in the past.
“Potatoes. Scrambled eggs. No butter, please—just oil. Well-cooked. Toast dry.”
Before our dad can finish his order, Riley and I chime in unison from across the booth, “And a cup of fruit on the side.”
The server at our regular café near Riley’s school laughs. “Someone knows your order, sir,” he says to my dad.
My father gives us a stern look, like he’s challenging my sister and me to just try it again. “And coffee—”
“Black. No sugar, no cream,” Riley and I say together, since we can’t resist needling him.
The server chuckles, jotting it all down. “Noted.”
“And for you?” he asks, turning to me.
I order pancakes. After last night went sideways, it just feels like a pancake kind of morning. “With extra syrup,” I add.
My dad tilts his head in curiosity, studying me. “You always order eggs with artichokes and mushrooms.”
A pang hits me in the chest, sharper than I’d like. Artichokes feel off-limits today, tangled up with the memory of Miles mentioning he’d make them for me last night. Then the jar breaking at his feet. The thought feels too fresh, too close.
Riley jumps in. “She usually does, but she mixes it up way more than you. You’re a creature of habit, Dad.”
“Nothing wrong with habits. Especially good ones,” he says.
“True. But I need pancakes today, Dad. Maybe even whipped cream,” I say, pushing the memory of last night away. I’ve been doing that all morning long. I feel like I’ll be doing it longer than I’d like.
The server nods my way, like we’re kindred spirits. “I hear you, girl. Some days, you just need all the extra sugar.”
Yeah, like after you sleep with one of your dad’s players.
But I try to shove that thought of Miles out of my mind. His hands, his ink, his eyes, the way he talked, the way he listened…I sit up straighter, focusing on keeping my hands still. I won’t be seeing him again. My dad will, though—in two hours when he gets on the team bus, then boards the team jet as they head to their first pre-season game.
After Riley places her order and the server takes off, my dad turns his attention back to us. He’s dressed for travel today, so he’s wearing a charcoal suit with a light green tie that Riley and I gave him for Christmas last year. All his ties come from his daughters. “So now that you’ve mocked me for ordering the same thing—”
“Which you do every time,” Riley interjects.
“It’s breakfast. Breakfast is supposed to be the same. Mornings are for routine. You get up, exercise, eat a healthy breakfast,” he says, like it’s a mantra.
“And you already ran three miles, right?” Riley asks.
He rolls his dark blue eyes at her—we get our eyes from him. Our mom has brown eyes. I can’t say it bothers me that Riley and I look more like him than the woman who barely wants to know us.
“Yes, Riley. You saw me come back from the run. You still live with me, you sass monster,” he teases.
That’s mostly true—that she lives with him. She also stays with his parents, who live next door to them. When our mom left nearly a decade ago to ostensibly focus on her handbag line, but actually to shack up with Dad’s agent, he became our primary parent. He built a house for his parents on his property in Mill Valley so they could help raise us. I was fourteen then, Riley was six, and Mom had moved to Miami.