Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Grace! Let’s hit the stables. It’s colder than a polar bear’s ass in here today,” he hollers as he walks toward the ring’s gate. She leads Pegasus easily, both of them following Miller, and I settle in to wait for her to finish her chores.
At home, she goes upstairs for a quick rinse to get the horse smell and sweat off while I start pulling out ingredients for dinner. I’ve chopped an onion and two bell peppers when the doorbell rings. Cameron didn’t say he was expecting anyone today, but it might be something he or Grace ordered online, especially with Christmas only a few weeks away, so wiping my hands on a towel, I go to open the door.
I really wish I hadn’t bothered. Because as soon as I open it a crack, I see that it’s not a delivery person, or even a Harrington making a random visit. It’s Austin.
I immediately try to slam the door shut, but it gets stuck on his foot where he’s slipped it over the threshold. I know it has to be hurting him, but still, I push harder. “What the hell are you doing here? Leave now.”
Damn it, I wish I still had my boots on, but I took them off when I came in, and right now, I’m only armed with fuzzy socks. They’re cute, with neon hedgehogs on them, but not nearly as effective as my boots would be at stomping Austin’s foot.
He plants his hands on the door and shoves. I’m no match for his strength and instantly stumble back a couple of steps, sliding in my now least-favorite socks. With the door open, he walks on in like he owns the place. He even whistles as he glances around, taking in the sparkly chandelier, the fancy marble floor, and then my hate-filled glare.
“Rye, that’s no way to greet your old man.”
“You are not my old man. Get out, Austin,” I order, injecting every drop of venom I possess into the command and pointing back at the open door.
He ignores me completely, the way I wish he had all those years ago and all those years since, and walks on past me. I swear I’m about to jump on his back, spider monkey-style, and start wailing on him, but a single word stops me.
“Riley?” Grace is standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at Austin and me with a look of concern on her face.
Fuck. I don’t know what to do.
Because as much as I’d like to, I don’t think I can technically beat him over the head with the brass candlestick from the console table and claim self-defense. But he also has no right to be here.
Why is he here?
I try to gauge the situation as best as I can in the span of a single heartbeat. The instinct that’s screaming the loudest is the most obvious one—protect Grace. I need to get her away from Austin, away from any danger, and the best way to do that is to play every single damn card I have at my disposal. As far as defenses go, I’m not sure 52-card pickup is ideal, but it’s what I’ve got right now.
I lock eyes with Grace. “Hey, honey, can you call Cole for me? Tell him we’ll be late to babysit Emmett tonight because my… friend showed up unexpectedly. Thanks.”
I hate to call Austin my ‘friend’ when he’s most definitely not. But I also can’t exactly call him my dad because that would confuse the hell out of Grace and lead to a whole bunch more questions that we really don’t have the time for right now. As it is, I’m praying she understands that something is very, very wrong here and I need her help.
“Uh, okay.” Her brows are furrowed and her eyes ping-pong from me to Austin, who is walking deeper into the house like he has any right to. The only good thing about that is he’s not trying to talk to Grace or go upstairs because then I would full-blown lose my Mama Bear shit, and I’m trying really hard to de-escalate this dumpster fire of a situation.
“Hurry,” I tell her, and then I chase after Austin, right into the formal living room, where he plops down onto the couch, stretching both his arms out along the back and throwing his feet up on the coffee table. I can see the dirt on his boots falling to the table’s pristine glass surface from here. It feels like a symbol of how he intends to ruin everything for me.
It’s what he always does. I can see that now. Over the years, every time I found some sense of happiness, some tiny shred of hope for better days ahead, he’d show up to shit on it. He’s a ruiner, and one of the big reasons I never dare to dream of the future.