Fuck.
Only one person I know knocks like that.
“I am so dead,” I whisper, ruing the day I got Josh’s phone call.
Kendall frowns at me as she tiptoes to the front of the house to peek through the blinds as though we could hide at this point.
When she sees who it is, her eyes widen, and she blanches, her normally rosy skin going white.
Go ahead, I motion. Let’s get this over.
“Mr. Mills!” she chirps as she opens the door, like she’s not mortified my dad stopped by today so we could talk about my hand-on-dick modeling job.
“Hey, Kendall, good to see you.” He gives her a hug and then frowns at Damon, who’s busy glaring at the street.
As she ushers in my dad, Kendall explains that Damon is a bodyguard, and my father nods slowly, like he’s trying to make sense of the giant on my doorstep.
But when my dad finally turns to me, it’s obvious he’s heard the news. He’s heard, but he’s still here.
I’m so grateful to see him, I could cry again. Grateful and so mortified, I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
I swallow the boulder-sized lump in my throat and offer a rueful smile. “Hi, Dad.”
Pretty sure I’m blushing from head to toe.
Because the truth is a father should never know about his daughter’s sexual escapades. And I had fully planned to maintain that veil of secrecy if I ever got married someday. Sex? What sex? We sleep on twin beds, Ricky and Lucy style.
But the look on my dad’s face isn’t embarrassment, like it is on mine. No, it’s fury and frustration, and dare I say resignation?
He shakes his head, taking off his baseball cap to run his hand over his scruffy hair. “Didn’t I warn you about dating someone like Cartwright?” he mutters.
I roll my eyes. “Pretty sure you never specified Cartwright.”
“Damn it, Evie, you know what I mean. People like your mother.”
“Rich?”
“Filthy rich. So rich, they don’t think their shit stinks, but I know for a fact it does.”
While it would be easier to let my dad say his piece, something deep inside of me needs to defend Josh.
“He’s not like that, Dad. He’s—”
“Don’t say it, honey.”
“He’s different.”
My father looks at me like I’m crazy. Like I should know better after what my mother put us through. “Yeah? Then where is this knight in shining armor? Why isn’t he here right now defending your honor?”
My eyes well with tears, and I finally give into the sob that’s been choking me. “Because we broke up, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Will that make you happy?”
“Son of a bitch. Are you serious? After all of this?” He tosses his baseball cap onto the kitchen table. “I have half a mind to go over to the Cartwrights’ and give that whole fucking family an ass-kicking they won’t soon forget.”
“Okay, Maximus,” Kendall says, forcing him to take a seat next to me. “No storming the castle before noon. You want some breakfast?”
“No, I’m too pissed off right now.”
“It’s my famous veggie omelet,” she singsongs.
He pauses and quirks an eyebrow. “Could you toss in a little bacon?”
Ah. There’s my dad.
Kendall eyeballs him. “Turkey bacon, because we all know you’re supposed to lay off the greasy stuff.”
He bitches about it but nods, and she pats his arm before she pours him a cup of coffee and gets to work whipping up his food.
“Kendall, please tell me you’re at least dating a nice boy,” he grumbles.
“I’m going to become a nun because men my age are pricks.”
Nodding like he approves of this plan, he finally takes a look at me as I wipe away my tears.
“Come here, doodlebug,” he whispers as he wraps me in a hug. “How about we never speak of this again? It shall forever be known as The Incident in the annals of Mills family lore.”
I laugh, and it’s snotty and gross. “Sounds good, Pops.”
“This shit will blow over,” he says. “Don’t let these assholes get you down, okay?” I nod against his chest and wipe my eyes. “Love you, Evie.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
He sighs and leans back. “All right. Lay it on me. Tell me about this Josh fella and why I don’t need to kick his sorry ass to Mount Hood and back.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Only if you pinky-swear you won’t get riled up again.”
Waving my finger at him, I wait for him to roll his eyes, but he eventually gives in. Then I tell him why I fell in love with Josh, and how it started the day he gave my dog a bath.
35
Josh
At some point last night, I’m pretty sure the room stopped spinning and I fell asleep. I only know this because I’m waking up now to the sound of construction outside, so logic dictates that I must have gone to sleep.
It takes a second to remember drinking myself into oblivion with Drew last night as we debated who might’ve ratted me out. I think it’s Kendall. He thinks it may be someone at Evie’s firm.
I look down. I’m in my bed, wearing my sweats and a black T-shirt, but I feel beaten up, like I went through the washer and dryer while wearing them. My body aches. It hurts to move—even to do something passive, like hear. I have no idea what they’re chainsawing outside, but it’s horrid.
The sunlight streams in the loft. It’s a clear summer day, although I can see clouds gathering off to the side. I blink, like I’m opening double-hung windows that have been painted shut. The jackhammer in my head starts, and sickness washes up into my throat. I sit bolt upright and run to the bathroom, focused only on making it there safely, without making a mess on the way.
When I return, not feeling better at all, I realize there’s no construction noise. It’s Drew snoring, passed out on my couch, with a blanket thrown over him, snuggled up to a bottle of Jaegermeister under his arm.
I never want to see either of those two again in my entire life. Scratching my stomach, I shuffle into the kitchen, down a whole Gatorade, two glasses of water, and four Advil, make a pot of coffee, then go sit on the couch near his feet. There’s enough room for me with him curled up, and I rest my legs on the coffee table, lean back, and rub my temples. I grab my glasses on the side table and put them on.
When Drew’s sleeping, his sandy hair flops into his eyes and he looks about twelve years old. If I felt better, I’d fuck with him. It’s the perfect opportunity to stick his hand in warm water like I used to do to Henry, or shave his eyebrows or draw a mustache on with a Sharpie. He’d do it to me.
But I can’t muster the energy.
With a snort and a gulp, the sawing noise stops, and he opens his eyes. “Hey, asshole,” he mumbles.
“Morning.”
“I think I’m still drunk.” He groans, sitting up and looking around. He fell asleep in his jeans with his shoes on.
“Me too.”
Holding out the bottle of Jaeger to me, he asks, “Hair of the dog?”
My stomach roils at the idea. “You have to be kidding.”