Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Nixon grinned and folded his arms across his chest. How was this even my life right now?
“She looks lovely.” Mom glared at Jeremiah. “But, Zoe, you must be uncomfortable, and I wouldn’t want you to get anything on it.”
“I’ve been trying to get her out of it all day,” Nixon agreed.
Every head snapped toward him, and my mouth fell open.
He read the temperature of the room in a heartbeat and grimaced. “Not that way. I swear. We are strictly professional.”
Dad cleared his throat and stood across the island from Nixon.
“Well, that’s nice. Zoe, why don’t you run up to your room and change? You still have an entire dresser of clothes here,” Mom suggested.
I nodded in agreement, and as I walked by the island, Nixon grabbed my wrist, his eyes flaring slightly. “I’ll be right back,” I assured him, leaning in to keep our conversation private.
“Your dad’s about to grill me. I can tell,” he whispered.
I gave his hand a little pat. “You’ve survived press conferences with major news outlets. I think you can handle my dad. Besides, you were the one who wanted to come here. Time to pay the piper.” A flash of a smile later, I raced up to my room and got changed.
When I came back down, Dad was mid-interrogation, asking why Nixon felt the need to share his entire life on social media.
“It’s not about how I feel,” Nixon answered as he saw me. His shoulders dipped in relief, and then his eyes flared slightly as he looked me over. My jeans were old, worn, and hung a little lower on my hips than they had when I bought them years ago. I’d pushed the sleeves up on my fitted black shirt and unbuttoned the top two buttons over my gray cami. It was the most casually dressed I’d ever been around Nixon, which wasn’t exactly helping me remember this was a business trip.
Nixon was not my friend and most certainly not my anything else.
“But you kids still broadcast your whole lives,” Dad continued.
I took mercy on Nixon and explained that not only did he loathe every platform, he didn’t even post on it himself, taking care to relate both the positives and negatives of social media and the importance of marketing. The conversation shifted to what I did for the band as we all chipped in to get dinner going, and by the time we were ready to sit down, Dad was almost finished grilling Nixon.
“And your family?” he asked.
I stopped scooping the potatoes into the bowl.
Nixon’s jaw ticked once as he took the spatula from my hand and finished the job. “Not much to tell. Parents divorced when I was young. Dad got remarried. He died in a car accident a few years back.”
That was the standard answer given in every media interview, and it stopped my father’s inquisition as he gave his condolences.
“So, why exactly are you here?” Jeremiah asked again as he reached for the glasses in the cabinet. “Did you come in for the Fall Festival? Because it’s this weekend. Wait, is Hush Note playing?”
“No, Hush Note is not playing at the Fall Festival.” I shook my head at my brother. Until this morning, Nixon hadn’t even known Legacy existed.
“Too bad, because that means we’re stuck with—”
Thud.
Jeremiah winced, and Mom sent a sympathetic smile my way.
Guess that hadn’t changed since I’d left.
“I thought Zoe needed a break.” Nixon rolled right through the awkward pause. “So, I rented out the McClaren Ranch and brought her home for a little R and R.”
“Together?” Jeremiah’s eyebrows rose.
“She’s on babysitting duty while I write a few songs for the next album.” Nixon shrugged as he helped Mom carry dishes to the table. “We’re kind of a package deal for the next few months.”
That was me, all right. Glorified babysitter.
“And now we have our very own rock star here in Legacy. Surreal.” Jeremiah shook his head as he opened the refrigerator. “Fat Tire, sweet! Dad, Nixon, you want a beer?”
“No!” I shouted.
“No, thank you,” Nixon replied.
Everyone stilled.
“I’m driving, but thanks,” Nixon said easily, but that smile was his fake, fan-and-media one.
“Okay, then,” Jeremiah replied.
The door blew open and Naomi rushed in, still wearing her scrubs from the clinic. She gasped when she saw me, then let out a yelp when Nixon stepped into the kitchen. “Oh, sweet mother of all that is holy. Nixon Winters.”
“Hi there.” He turned that trademark smirk on her, and I almost pitied my sister-in-law. That thing was pretty damn lethal.
She stared at Nixon so hard she walked right into the kitchen island.
“Easy now.” Jeremiah laughed. “She’s got your picture taped up in her locker at work.”
“I do not,” she hissed at her husband.
“She does.” Mom gave Naomi a pat on the shoulder as she passed by. “Now, Nixon dear, do me a favor and carry the mashed potatoes to the table.”