Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I hug my dad tightly, burying my face in his neck. Even though we have different skin colors, I love my dad so much it feels like his blood runs through my veins. I never once bemoaned the fact I didn’t know my birth parents, and I never took it personally the woman who gave birth to me abandoned me in the hospital. Instead, I chose to accept the love George and Clara Westin gave me when they brought me home and adopted me as their daughter. When I got older and after my mom died, my dad offered to help me try to track down my birth mom again. I declined. I never felt like I’m a mysterious puzzle with a crucial corner piece missing.
I owe that to the strength and love of my father as we navigated life together, alone.
My dad is everything to me. He raised me with such love and care, and while he may not have been perfect, there was nothing I ever wanted for. He taught me everything I know… Not just how to steal stuff and do it well, but how to read and do math. He’d even concocted science projects with me late into the night for school. He sat at the kitchen table, helping me with my homework every night. On the weekends, he taught me how to pick a lock with a bobby pin before I was ten. Because my world revolved around him, it is no wonder why I wanted to be like him when I grew up.
It simply feels good to be in his arms right now, so it’s with reluctance I pull back and let him see I’ve brought a guest to visit.
I feel my dad jerk slightly as I pull out of his embrace, telling me that he has seen Saint over my shoulder. When I step aside, I note the pure delight on my father’s face as he takes in the man who was once deeply involved with his daughter.
My dad adored Saint. He was the only man I have ever introduced to my father, who came to feel he was a man worthy of me not only by the generosity of his heart or the way he cared for me or the way he wanted to protect me, but also simply because he was a thief like us.
“Saint Bellinger,” my dad murmurs in awe, sticking his hand out.
Saint takes it, then my dad pulls him toward him for a half hug. “How the bloody hell are you?”
Saint shoots me a quick look. We had talked about this last night… what my dad does and doesn’t know about what went down between us and my current situation with Mercier.
It’s simple. My father knows everything that happened between Saint and me three years ago. I’d confessed to him—the one man I could talk to about anything—about what I had done to the man I had loved. My dad held me as I cried for everything I’d lost and assured me that I had no other choice, even though we both know I did. He’d never chastised me for it. Never made me feel like crap. Never once threw it in my face that I could have handled that situation a dozen different ways.
He was simply my dad, and he loves me despite my mistake.
“I’m good, George.” Saint releases my dad’s hand, then takes a good look at him. “How are you doing?”
My dad blushes from the notable concern in Saint’s voice. “Oh, as well as can be expected. Ready to get back to work, actually.”
Saint and I share another look. We talked a lot about my dad last night. There’s no way he can go back to work… not as a thief, anyway. And past that, he doesn’t have any other transferable skills. Since the stroke, my dad simply doesn’t have the reflexes it takes. Besides, his memory has taken a bit of a hit. I even notice it’s a little harder for him to process some things. I haven’t had the heart to tell him that he can’t do this anymore.
Instead, I say, “Dad… you don’t have any need to work. You’ve got more money than you know what to do with. It’s time for you to relax.”
My dad motions us into the apartment before shutting the door behind him. He gives me a sly wink. “I’m bored, Sindaria. I belong in the shadows, filling my coffers off the backs of the insanely wealthy.”
It makes me laugh—my father’s romanticized version of the type of life we lead. Shaking my head, I move into the small kitchen that’s separated from the living area by a half counter. “I’m going to make some tea for us.”
As I bustle around the kitchen pulling out the kettle and some loose-leaf tea, my dad motions Saint to the couch while he takes a seat in his recliner.