Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 41935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 210(@200wpm)___ 168(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 210(@200wpm)___ 168(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
His lips twitch, which is him smiling. For the past few evenings, Dalton has carried my dad out to the living room and streamed one of his old hockey games on our TV. He’s teaching us about hockey and all the little things he sees himself doing on film that he’s always working on.
My dad loves every minute of it. My mom says he works harder at therapy when Dalton takes him. It’s just been the two of them for a long time, and my parents are thrilled to have time to get to know Dalton and catch up with me.
I close his bedroom door and find Dalton in the kitchen making sandwiches for our lunch.
“You’re not tired of my mom’s chicken salad?”
He grins at me. “Are you kidding? I love this stuff. She should package it and sell it.”
I walk over to him and hug him from behind. He raves about my mom’s cooking, and she eats up every word. I think he genuinely does love it, because he has a bowl of chicken salad on the counter with a fork in it that he’s snacking on while he makes the sandwiches.
“Did you notice that since I don’t like the grapes in the chicken salad, and you love the grapes in it, she put more grapes in it this time?” I roll my eyes as I walk over to the dishwasher.
“I’m a growing boy, babe. Maria knows it.”
My mom adores Dalton. In the three weeks he’s been staying with us at their house, he’s done all the grocery shopping, taken over mowing and trimming the yard, and fixed the leaky roof on their shed. Not to mention his help with Dad’s care.
Dalton and I have been taking Dad to his therapy and doctor appointments in what Dalton calls my parents’ “party van.” Once we’ve used the wheelchair lift to get him inside and secure him, Dalton gets behind the wheel of the van and asks Dad where he wants to go. He lists off ideas like casinos, gentlemen’s clubs, and the golf course.
Dad has always had a great sense of humor, and his lips twitch with mirth as Dalton pretends he’s taking Dad to play poker or shoot nine holes.
“Speaking of my mom, where is she?” I ask as I unload clean dishes from the dishwasher.
“She went to get a pedicure.”
“Oh, that’s right. She’s getting her hair done, too. She’s so excited about Will coming for the weekend.”
Dalton sets my plate down in front of me on the counter, my chicken salad sandwich on white cut into two neat triangles. “I finally get to find out if you’re the good twin or the evil twin.”
“Let me know what you decide,” I quip. “You’re free to share a bed with Will if you want.”
He wraps his arms around my waist from behind as I put a bowl in a kitchen cabinet.
“You’d miss me too much, Miss Morrow.” He holds me close, my back to his chest, and I let my head fall back on his shoulder.
“You do have certain talents I’ve grown fond of,” I say playfully.
It took me more than a week to convince him to have sex with me in my parents’ house. He said he felt like a high school kid who was worried about getting busted.
We’ve become great at stealthy sex. Dalton is particularly skilled with his hands, using one to slowly tease me while he covers my mouth with his other one to conceal my moans.
He kisses my neck, gently tugging on my earlobe with his teeth. I get that familiar swirl of desire in my stomach for him, his hand sliding underneath the hem of my T-shirt.
“You know, we could--”
The ringing of the doorbell cuts me off. I turn and look at him, grabbing a handful of the front of his T-shirt and pulling lightly.
“Probably just a delivery. Want to meet me in the bedroom?”
His gaze darkens. “You know I do.”
I close the dishwasher door, leaving the rest of the clean dishes for later. Dalton is scarfing his sandwich as I go into the living room and open the front door.
Farrah is standing there, a vase full of colorful flowers in her hands.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes locking with mine.
“Hi.”
My heart races as it sets in that she’s really here, at my parents’ home. It’s nothing like the mansions she owns.
“How’s your dad doing?” she asks.
I’m too stunned to answer for a second. Farrah has never asked how I was doing, let alone one of my family members.
“He’s home. Still himself inside and able to communicate with us.”
She nods. “Good. I brought these for him.”
She’s dressed in black leggings and a plain, lightweight white T-shirt, her long blond hair flowing out of the back of a baseball cap. This is how she dresses for plane flights, and she also has on the big sunglasses that help disguise her a bit. It looks like she’s not wearing makeup, which is rare for her.