Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
He follows me over to the dishwasher and starts helping me load, scraping the plates as he does. “So, Luke,” he says with an edge of hesitation.
I peek up at him, slightly hesitant myself. “What?”
“Well, I wanted to do this properly.” He looks past me to the table, and I follow his line of sight, finding Pops, Tia, and Todd all engrossed in conversation.
“Do what properly?”
“Ask you for permission to marry your daughter.”
The plate I’m holding slips from my grasp and crashes to the tiles. I look at him in horror. “Come again?”
“What’s going on over there?” Tia calls.
“Nothing,” I call, finding the dustpan and sweeping up the scattered porcelain, fighting Steve back constantly as he tries to lick the broken crockery. “I’m sure I didn’t hear you right.”
The River smiles, a little awkward, a little amused, and a lot nervous. “I want to marry Tia. I’m asking for your permission.”
I’m hot and bothered as I stamp on the pedal of the bin and drop the contents of the dustpan in. “You’ve known each other a matter of minutes,” I splutter incredulously as my eyes drop to his flip-flopped feet. It’s fucking freezing outside. The idiot.
“Over a month, actually.” He smiles at my skeptical face. “And I knew the first day I met her that I was going to spend the rest of my life with her.”
The flat of my fist rests on my chest and massages. Ouch, that hurts.
“Are you alright, Luke?”
“It’s Mr. Williamson to you,” I snap, facing this . . . this . . . interloper. Stig of the Dump wisely backs off, hands up in surrender.
“Sir, with all due respect, I love her. I’d never be able to put into words how much but, and it might sound soppy, she’s literally my world. I know how much she adores you. I’d love for you to give me your blessing.”
“Does she know?”
“I wanted to ask you first, since you’re so close. It felt only right.”
I stare at the man in front of me, and though I thoroughly hate myself for it, I want to shake his hand. I want to congratulate him on a speech well made. But I don’t. “Can I think about it?”
The River laughs deeply. “Sure you can, Mr. Williamson.” He’s humoring me. Good. I need it. “When can I expect an answer?”
“Let me sleep on it.” I return to the dishwasher and mindlessly stack the plates. Fucking hell. Here’s me, forty-two years old, single, no potential takers, and now I’m faced with giving my daughter away to that fucking thing called love.
Life fucking sucks.
Once I’ve cleared up, we all move to the bar, Todd giving Tia an evening pass to our male-only joint. I watch as Pops settles in his favorite seat, right at the end so he can see the whole room, and point to his favorite Scotch on the optics behind. I put the jukebox on, getting a loud hoot of glee from the old fella when The Rat Pack launch into song. “This is the best bar in town,” Pop announces. “Get me my tipple, Grandboy.”
“You’ll have to stay here tonight, Pops. I plan on indulging.” After The River’s bombshell, I’m officially back on the drink.
“A sleepover?” he asks. “Marvelous!”
I fetch everyone drinks and watch while The River mindlessly throws Steve’s ball for him to fetch. “What possessed you to get a dog, Dad?” Tia asks.
Lo. Lo possessed me. “Company.” I shrug off her question.
“You need a woman, not a—” She flicks Todd a shit! look. “Sorry.”
“We talking about Lo?” Pops asks.
“No,” I answer flatly. “We’re talking about Steve.”
“Stupid name for a dog,” Pops grumbles.
“Yeah, where did that come from, anyway?” Tia asks, reaching down to lift him onto her lap. “He looks nothing like a Steve.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” The River pipes up. “It’s a solid, manly name. Steve looks like he’s going to be solid and manly to me.” He gives my pooch a scratch, and I narrow suspicious eyes, deliberating over whether he’s licking my arse or being genuine.
I settle on a stool, silently observing Tia and her man-thing as they coo over my dog, often throwing each other gazes. If it wasn’t so endearing, I might throw up in my Scotch. And that would be a waste of damn good Scotch. Sacrilege.
“How are you getting on with that family tree of yours?” Pops asks, presenting his empty for me to fill.
I top him up on demand. “Good,” is all I say, because there’s nothing I can tell him, since I’ve not been researching our family tree.
Pops knocks back his fresh drink, savoring the flavor before swallowing. “Mildred wanted to dabble in all that ancestry nonsense. Mind you, she was an orphan, so it’s understandable. You, Grandboy, know exactly where you come from. I don’t know why you feel the need to explore it.”