Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
To one side of the stairs was the dining room that led to the kitchen.
But I turned away from that, going instead through the living room that led back to the study.
It was the darkest room in the entire house with its dark wood paneled walls and the collection of antique books that no one in the house had ever read. I’d asked. They were just for show.
The gleaming executive desk, however, was always in use.
The man of the house was seated behind it, dressed in a full suit just to do work inside of his own house.
I couldn’t decide if I admired his dedication to his image, or found it obnoxious.
“Theo,” I said, leaning on the doorjamb, waiting for his gaze to lift from his paperwork to find me.
“Theodora is a more suitable name,” he insisted. “And don’t slouch. It makes you look poorly bred.”
“I was poorly bred,” I said, but I did straighten. He had that influence. “Or don’t you remember? Dad,” I added, driving that little knife home.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten a sick kind of joy continually bringing that up, especially given the circumstances, of his health, of the agreement of me being there.
“Must we?” he asked, sighing in a way that was very familiar to me. I had his sigh. And his glare. And his stubbornness.
Basically, I’d inherited all his bad traits.
What a shocker that was.
I’d inherited all my mom’s ones too.
Shitty taste in men. Poor impulse control. A mouth that ran away with itself.
“What did you need?” I asked, letting it drop.
We hadn’t actually talked about it. The past. The feelings connected to it. Him, I figured, because of guilt. Me, I knew, because I was a horrific communicator. Communicating meant exposing vulnerability. And I had learned long ago never to show that kind of weakness to anyone.
“I have some more paperwork for you to look over,” he told me, waving toward a pile of folders on the end of his desk.
Being here was a lot like high school. Except, in high school, I managed to skate by without ever actually having to do my homework.
I couldn’t do that here.
He would question me on it.
I had to know those folders inside and out in a matter of days.
And by then, there would be more of them.
“Okay. Can do,” I agreed, going to grab them. “Do you need something to eat? Another coffee? Without a lecture about how you’re supposed to be cutting back?” I added, getting a smirk out of him.
I guess, objectively, if you were looking through kinder eyes than mine at this man, you would say he was good-looking.
He was sixty-five and rapidly losing weight, but his solid bone structure, blue eyes, and healthy hairline suggested that when he’d fathered me thirty-one years ago, he’d probably been a stupidly attractive guy.
It was no wonder my mom went for him.
She’d always liked a man in a suit.
And I guess, to an extent, that was why I’d always avoided them like the plague. Not that my guys in biker cuts or mechanic jumpsuits had treated me any better than her suits had treated her.
I definitely looked more like my mom. The lighter eyes. The softer features. The straight, dark hair. The curves.
The only thing physically I’d gotten from him instead of her was my height. My mom had been five-three on her best day. It was why she wore heels. Even when working eight to ten hours behind a bar. Or, well, her… other work.
“I could always use a coffee,” he admitted, reaching up to rub his eyes that had been staring at work crap likely since he’d finished his morning workout and shower.
Why he was even bothering to workout or work at this point was beyond me.
If some doctor told me I had a year, max, left, I would spend it eating every shitty food imaginable, taking naps, going to the beach, fucking everyone who would have me, doing shit that was enjoyable.
Not working out and work.
He was a peculiar man, my father.
I was still getting used to saying that, even in my own head. It sounded weird.
I was a fatherless daughter.
I’d, you know, built up all my daddy issues on that fact.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, turning to head back to the kitchen.”
“Theod—Theo,” he corrected when I turned with a raised brow.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you ever get yourself a coffee?” he asked, brows furrowing.
“Because this isn’t my house and I can’t help myself to everything in it,” I said, shrugging.
I’d heard those very words, in fact.
Just not from him.
“I’m not saying to remove priceless art from the walls and raid the safe,” he said, snorting. “But you can have some coffee. Or food. You’re here all day.”
I was.
And it was pretty much a full-time job. Then I had to leave from the manse and go to actual work all night.