Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“I’m going to train your dog, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here for you.”
If I had more experience, I might be able to figure out if there was genuine chemistry between us yesterday, or if he was just being friendly. Maybe he saw our small house and took pity on me, offering to train Buckie, but that doesn’t explain why he wants me to do his tattoo.
He’s bringing the photo of Sergeant today, too, giving me a chance to study it before tomorrow’s session.
So, what am I thinking exactly? He wants me so badly he’s going to let me doodle on his back so we can be close to each other?
I’ve got the back door open, and the hallway door, meaning I’ll hear when he rings the bell. I’ve still got this crazy fear I’ll somehow miss him, and then he’ll leave, going into one of his pissed moods, never wanting to return.
Buckie spins when the front door makes a loud knocking noise. He sprints into the house and starts barking like crazy. I leap to my feet, nerves jangling like a tattoo gun moving through me, vibrating as I try to settle myself down.
It’s no big deal. That’s what I tell myself—no reason to freak out being alone with this man. Anyway, I’m not alone. Buckie is at the door, yapping.
I attach Buckie to the leash, not knowing if he’s able to restrain himself. Then I think about me restraining myself with Kayden, but it’s not like I have an arsenal of moves to throw at him.
“Forgot my keys,” Dad says when I pull the door open, holding onto Buckie’s leash with the other hand.
I let the length extend when I see it’s Dad. He’s a tall, lean man, sixty years old. He and Mom had me later in life. His camo-colored military jacket hangs off him, pins and medals casually pinned to it. He’s balding in the middle, letting it grow wild on the sides.
“Hey, boy,” Dad says, reaching down and patting Buckie on the top of the head. “And I forgot the recipe for Mrs. Lancaster. She’s a very proper Brit, don’t you know, and won’t stand my tardiness for a single second.”
I laugh at his faux British accent, but it’s difficult not to think about Kayden driving up any second, hauling his bulky body from the car, walking over with those muscular wide shoulders.
Then Dad will turn and ask, Who the heck is that, and why the heck is he here?
“Why do you have the recipe, anyway?” I ask.
Dad pushes past me, absentmindedly scratching Buckie again. “She asked me to take care of it. Honestly, I thought she was joking. I didn’t think she actually wanted me to protect it, like some sort of CIA operation. She’s treating them like secret nuclear plans.”
I laugh again, closing the door, and let Buckie off the leash. He chases Dad as Dad rushes around the house, picking up ornaments and opening drawers.
“Easy, boy,” Dad says, waving a hand at Buckie as Buckie leaps up.
“Buckie, here boy,” I say.
Buckie turns to me, looks for a long second, seems to really think about doing what I ask, then wriggles his butt and turns away, chasing after Dad again.
Dad’s often losing things, ever since I was a teenager, and he left the military. He showed the signs—the word that made Kayden snap at me.
Signs of his PTSD.
“Dad, just relax. Where did you have it last?”
I follow him into the kitchen, where he grabs the wicker basket with the bills. He starts hastily sorting through it, grinning tightly at me, Buckie leaping up on the cupboard like he wants to get involved.
Dad pauses, standing up. “I think I put it with the pamphlets for the bake sale. It’s in my room. Hang on.”
I walk anxiously to the bottom of the stairs, meaning I can look out the front window and up the stairs at Dad at the same time. I’m not sure why I’m freaking out so hard.
Would Dad care?
“Dad,” I say, following him up the stairs.
Buckie has already darted ahead of me, keen to help Vincent Stevenson if it’s the last thing he does in his doggy life.
“Yeah?” Dad asks, as he walks into his bedroom.
I stand at the door of the simple room. He’s got it set up like a military barracks, how he has ever since I was a kid. Mom died before I can remember, so I’ve never seen the room looking any different.
“What if I found a boyfriend?”
Dad nods as he opens the drawer to his desk. There isn’t a single piece of paper on the desk, just a stapler and an eraser, which seems pretty random to me, but Dad says he had his systems.
“I think that would be fine if he was a good man. Are we talking hypothetically?”