Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“Thanks, Sue.”
“And Amelia?”
I look back as I pull the door open.
“You’re doing everything right, okay?”
My heavy body lifts, and I nod, thankful for the pep talk when I’m uncertain about so much of my life. “Thanks, Sue.” I leave and take a few breaths, but still when I hear Leighton in the distance. I can’t promise I won’t launch him into outer space with my good hand if he spews any of his smarminess all over me, so I hotfoot it back to my office and grab my things, before exiting the office swiftly.
I walk through the front door and drop my bags, calling out a hello.
“Grand Girl!”
Poking my head around the lounge door, I find Grandma and Grandpa in their obligatory spots on either side of the fireplace. “Hey, you two.”
Grandma beckons me, so I perch on the arm of her armchair as she sets her knitting needles down. Her grey eyebrows lift. “How are you?”
Since I last saw her? Well, I got back together with the man who gave me fanny flutters, and we’ve split up again. Things are peachy. “I get the keys to my new place Friday.”
Grandma rolls her eyes. “Boring.”
“I’m fine, Grandma,” I assure her. You silly, silly girl. She wasn’t wrong. The best kind of love hurts the most. I don’t want to love him! “Have you spoken to Clark and Rachel?”
“Yes,” Grandpa chirps up, snapping his Financial Times shut. “Video call, Amelia. It was like I was in Greece with them!”
I laugh, looking back to the kitchen. It’s quiet. “Where’s Mum and Dad?”
“Having a discussion in the garden,” Grandma says, craning her head to look back too. “Your mother wants to do more shifts at the florist and your father would rather she didn’t.”
“Oh God,” I breathe, getting up and heading out the back, ready to split them up. I see them out the window on the patio, Mum with a gardening fork in her hand, Dad with a watering can and a scowl on his face. It looks like it’s getting heated, so I hurry to the back door.
“You’re not even retired!” Mum hisses. “You’ve been in the office every day this week!”
“Every day?” Dad laughs. “It’s Tuesday, for Christ’s sake.”
“And will you go in tomorrow?”
“I have to, Clark’s on his honeymoon.”
“You have three managers!”
“Hello,” I say, resting my shoulder on the doorframe. Mum slaps on a smile and whips off her gardening gloves, and Dad drops the watering can. “What’s all the noise about?”
“Nothing, darling.”
“What happened to your hand?” Dad asks, coming to me.
“It’s fine. I cut it and needed a few stitches.”
“How did you cut it?” He lifts it and checks the bandages. “You’re leaking. This needs changing. Jenn, Amelia’s dressing needs changing.” He looks at Mum, who glances between us. She’s a little red in the face. Exasperated.
“You do it,” she snaps. “I have dinner to cook.” Stomping past us, she throws him a filthy glare, and Dad recoils like she could have just slapped him.
“Jenn?” he murmurs.
“You’re in the doghouse,” I say, pointing out the obvious. The poor man looks so wounded. Yes, he’s old-fashioned to a fault, but he’s a good man. “Come on, help me change this thing. I have a dinner meeting. I can’t be bleeding all over the table.”
Dad sighs. “What do I need?”
“Some salty warm water.” I link arms with him and walk us through the patio doors to the dining room, avoiding Mum in the kitchen. “Actually, I’ll get the water. You wait.”
I grab my bag from the hall and go back to the kitchen, where I find Mum stirring the pot on the stove aggressively. I leave her be and get some water from the kettle and salt from the cupboard, then join Dad again, lowering and giving him my hand. “Get on with it.”
He peeks up through his lashes with only mild warning, and I smile, making him shake his head. “Your mother was always the first-aider when you were kids.” He peels away the dressing carefully with his big fingers as I sprinkle some salt into the water.
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
“No, you’re not, Amelia Gracie,” he muses. “You’re certainly not a kid.” He winces when he reveals the cut. “Jesus Lord above,” he gasps, horrified. “How the hell did you manage this?”
I grimace at my wound. It really does look angry. “I leant on a piece of glass.” I take some cotton wool from my makeup bag and dunk it. “It looks worse than it is. Here.”
Dad accepts and starts gingerly dabbing. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I smile fondly. What Dad doesn’t realise is the only time he hurts me is when he’s an unwitting misogynist. “You’re not hurting me.”
He grunts, brushing at the cut delicately. “I had my first golf lesson today.”
“But Mum said you were in the office today.”