Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“Noah’s not here,” I point out like a desperate idiot. I know he’s at school and probably has a game this weekend. I don’t get home to Beacon enough. I need to make more of an effort.
“He’s covered.” He stands and faces the windows. Crossing his arms over his chest. “He has the best cheering section around. Mom and Marina traveled to Pennsylvania to watch his baseball game.” He looks back over his shoulder. “It’s an off-season fundraiser, but we heard he’s being scouted for the minors.”
“What about grad school?”
“It will always be there. Opportunities might not.” He sits on the couch and opens his briefcase. This is not the strict hard-ass I grew up with. He used to be all business, rarely home, sometimes even missing vacations because of a trial. He had made his fortune, enough for him to retire and for his kids to never work again, but he continued, longer hours than ever. But when Harbor almost died, something clicked for him.
He's been present and available, a good dad. Noah and Marina have it easy. If I’d had the same version of him, I wonder if I would have become a lawyer. “That’s great,” I reply. Everything my youngest brother touches or tries turns to gold. He’s the luckiest little shit I’ve ever known. He’s also lucky to have awesome big brothers to keep him out of trouble, and there’s been some over the years that my parents don’t know about.
He asks, “When’s the last time you saw Harbor?”
“A few weeks ago. I didn’t know he was back from Italy.” I click open the file on my computer for a last review of the case before my meeting.
“I’m sure Lark’s keeping him busy.”
Glancing at him, I laugh. “She’s a doctor, Dad. I’m pretty sure she’s busy herself.”
“True.” He asks, “What does the rest of your day look like?”
“I have a five o’clock.”
He rubs his hands together and says, “Excellent. Let’s get to it.”
Oh great. I get my dad watching me perform like I’m a kid in grade school. Okay . . . “Let’s get to it.”
The meeting drags past when I told Tuesday I’d be home. She doesn’t text, and I haven’t had a chance to. As soon as I walk the clients to the elevator, I hurry back to my office, hoping to give Tuesday a heads-up about my father and the meeting.
Unfortunately, he’s on my heels, clapping me on the back. “Impressive, son.”
I set my phone on the desk and start on my post-meeting notes. “Thanks. Is there anything you know that might benefit future cases?”
“No. I think you’ve covered the bases and outcomes. Besides their comfort level with you being evident, winning the case seals this relationship. I think you’re really making a name for yourself.” He takes his briefcase from the couch, and then says, “Should we celebrate over dinner?”
This is it.
I don’t know what he’s going to think about my involvement not only with Tuesday’s attack but also this new relationship with her happening so quickly. I need to rip off the bandage and tell him before this blows up in my face, and he finds out some other way.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“Let’s talk on the way. I’m starving.”
Other than Brady silently laughing at me the entire way home, I feel like I do a solid job of explaining Tuesday’s circumstance.
I’m about to put the key in the front door when my dad’s troubled expression reaches me. “Just terrible. It’s really a tremendous thing you’re doing for her. Her recovery won’t be easy, so I’m sure she’s grateful to have your help.” He pats my shoulder again just as I insert the key. “She’s lucky to have you, Loch.”
Though I wouldn’t change a thing, I might have failed to mention how beautiful she is. Not that it’s relevant to why I helped in the first place, but it hasn’t hurt since. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Such a traumatic event. This poor woman.”
I open the door only to hear a scream in front of us.
Tuesday. And she’s wearing nothing but a Westcott Law T-shirt.
Fuck.
17
Loch
I slam the door closed and turn to face my dad. “I—”
“I take it that’s Tuesday?” He’s not really asking, considering there’s no confusion whatsoever on his face. There is, however, a very pointed glare aimed in my direction.
Looking down, I don’t know what to think. My thoughts race through a hundred different scenarios and how I’ll explain this away. I take a deep, exasperated breath, and then reply, “Yes.”
“You made her sound . . . different.” He’s still studying my face, so I’m careful not to crack under the scrutiny. “I was expecting someone a little older, more my age.”
“A little?”
“One day, you’ll be my age—”
“And it will be a fucking honor.”
He chuckles. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but you do have, from what I could tell, a lovely young woman in there who is probably mortified that your dad just saw her in a Westcott Law T-shirt and what appeared to be nothing else. Go check on her, Loch.”