Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“Good idea,” I say, even though it’s not the fake boyfriend in me that’s doing this.
Not one bit.
* * *
When I return home, my arms are laden with hardbacks, the well-worn scent of old paper from the library books drifting past my nose. Ironic, since my sister runs a bookstore, but it’s a romance shop and my dad’s still into the hard-boiled mysteries he’s always loved.
“Got your latest Damon Cross right here,” I say, patting the new release, as a big, burly Siamese cat leaps from who knows where onto the middle of the table, his white paws skidding across the wood, hellbent on the almost-done puzzle.
“Thor,” I call out to the little shit, who clips the edge of the puzzle, knocking loose a corner piece and some friends.
Dad chuckles. “He’s such a turd.”
“He’s a cat, so yes,” I say, then bend to pick up the pieces, but Dad’s already waving me off.
“I got it.” He doesn’t like me to help him with things he can do for himself.
I step back and let him. “Almost done,” he says, grabbing the remaining pieces that my asshole cat knocked off.
“Has he been bad?”
“Course he has,” my dad says, but it’s with affection. Dad sits back down and in no time Thor leaps onto his lap and proceeds to play the piano on my dad, like he’s saying all is forgiven, right?
Dad pets him like yes, he’s still the best boy, then he looks at me. “What have you been up to?”
“Just went to the store,” I say evasively, since I don’t want to get into the details of the Remy situation. It’s far too complicated. “Got some cereal and mini pizzas.”
He arches a dubious brow. “You don’t shop.”
“But I know how to.”
He scoffs. “Was there a woman involved?”
“Dad,” I warn, but inside I’m thinking how does he see through me like that?
“It’s been three years.”
I want to tell him it’s been a while for him too. Mom left a long, long time ago—when Clem and I were in high school—and Dad dated some after that but not much. There’s no need to point out the dearth of dates for him since it’s not like he’s going to go on a date here in the house. “I’m fine,” I say.
“You should date again, Lake,” he says, and there’s a twinkle in his blue eyes—a twinkle I haven’t seen in ages. He was fond of Heather, or really, fond of Heather and me. He’d even venture outside on the ranch with us to say hi to the horses or check out the egrets—even to look for the owls. A pang of missing lodges into my chest for those days, those moments of sunshine and fresh air for him. “Really, you should,” he adds, just shy of plaintive.
I flash back to the moment in the car earlier with Remy, to my own reticence about what to say to my teammates or to her boss about dating. Would it make Dad happy if I was dating? Maybe, just maybe, it would. I like that spark in his eyes.
It’s not a lie, really, to say, “There’s someone I’m kind of into.”
He pats the chair. “Tell me about her.”
9
REBOUND PLAY
REMY
The next morning, I finish dotting all the i’s and crossing the t’s for an upcoming event at Doctor Insomnia’s Coffee and Tea Emporium where the guys are going to be serving drinks, with proceeds that day benefitting a neighborhood job training program. I save the spreadsheet. Double check that it’s in the correct folder. Email it to my boss.
With that done, I practice what I’m going to say to him in a few minutes when I swing by his office. It’s not against the rules to date a player, but I want to be upfront. That’s what I did last year, too, when I told Daniel I wanted to start a romance design-slash-dating coach business. I already had my podcast, so he knew I had some side gigs. His response was As if I’d hire anyone but you to plan a date for my tenth anniversary.
I step away from my standing desk in a cluster of cubes in the marketing department and head down the hall to his office. The door’s ajar. He’s on the phone, the receiver cradled against his black hair. “Right, sure. See you soon.” He adds something in Chinese, then ends the call.
When he hangs up, he waves me in. “Rems, the herder of hockey baristas, what’s happening today?”
“You reviewed the event plan already? I just sent it,” I say, amazed he’s already checked it out.
He checks his watch. “Five minutes ago. And yes. It looks good.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk. On the corner sits a photo of his husband and their young son, adopted from Taiwan, where Daniel’s from originally.