Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
She spins around, then blinks, before she quickly smiles. “Hello, Doctor Blackstone,” she says. She’s about my dad’s age, with mahogany skin and tight black curls under a golf visor. She has the poised demeanor of a fellow doctor, and I’m not at all surprised when my dad says, “Good to see you, Doctor Wesley. Retirement must be treating you well.”
“I can’t complain,” she says, then nods up ahead. “I’m golfing with my daughter.”
“Excellent,” he says, then claps me on the shoulder. “This is my son. Doctor Monroe Blackstone.”
Of course that’s how he’s introducing me. I can hear what’s unsaid in the back clap too. Don’t tell her you’re not practicing.
I extend a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” she says, warmly, then to my father she adds, “I see it runs in the family.”
Yes, medicine does. As well as the inability to sustain a relationship.
“Yes, it does. I trust your daughter is keeping the practice going?”
“Of course she is,” Doctor Wesley says with obvious pride.
“Wonderful,” my father says, and it’s a miracle he can get that one word out without coating it in the jealousy he must feel. He shifts gears quickly. “I’ll see you this weekend though?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says, then her gaze lingers briefly on my father with a hint of appreciation—maybe attraction—in her eyes.
Save yourself. Find someone else. The Blackstone men are no good.
“I better go,” she says. Then, smiles at him. Just him. “Jameson.”
He smiles too. “Jada.”
Is my father fucking flirting? Kill me now.
I’m going to pretend that never happened.
I hunt for topics to tackle next just in case he’s thinking of telling me something about his romantic life, but he speaks first when she’s out of earshot, saying, “I was just thinking. Would you be willing to give a speech at the party? Right after the cocktail hour.”
Did I hear him right? He wants the son who disappointed him to extol his virtues? “You want me to give a speech for you?”
There’s nothing but yes in his eyes. “Who better than my son?”
Anyone. Literally anyone. “What do you want me to say?” We’re not close. We’re not friends. Does he want me to lubricate the path for him to Jada? That’s just weird. And it’s not happening.
“Something appropriate for a retirement party. That sort of thing. You’re good with words,” he says, and I wait for the dig that’s sure to follow.
But nothing more comes, so I set up the ball on the tee to keep busy. “So, something like he’s a great doctor and teacher?”
Dad beams. “It’s practically writing itself.”
Not exactly.
“And maybe how you’re glad everyone is here,” he adds. “How nice it is to see everyone. Like all your friends.”
Wait. What? He better not mean kids from high school. The last thing I want is a high school reunion vibe. There’s a reason I don’t do those things. The reason being high school sucked. “Who?”
It’s a miracle I don’t breathe fire when I ask.
His smile is gregarious. “Sawyer. Carter. Gage. Juliet. Axel. Those kind of friends. My assistant sent out invites this afternoon,” he says, then points to the tee, move it along style.
But I can’t move on. I drag a hand through my hair, brow pinched. “You invited my friends?”
“Yes. You’re always mentioning them on the podcast. So I thought it’d make it more enjoyable for you,” he says, and the therapist in me appreciates the effort, but the son is still struggling, especially when he just motions to the tee once more, moving on. “We’re going to get all bunched up.”
I turn to the tee. I’m not even sure what’s happening anymore as I take a swing, feeling totally disconnected from my body.
I’m giving a speech, everyone is coming to my father’s party, including his new crush, and he listens to my podcast.
22
JUST YOU
Monroe
There’s still no dirty bathtub pic from Juliet, but that’s no excuse for me to show up empty-handed when I return. I take a detour to Main Street on the way home, pulling over at The Slippery Dipper.
Grateful the store is still open at eight in the evening on a Wednesday, I hustle inside, scan the offerings, and grab a bath bomb. The scent is honey and cinnamon. Sounds good enough to eat and that describes Juliet, so I grab one. As I’m checking out, I spot a vanilla body spray.
When in Rome and all.
I snag that too, then set them down on the counter. The man at the register has a young dad vibe, tired but affable with red hair and fair skin. “How’s your evening going?”
“Great,” I say, choosing to answer how it will be rather than how it was. “And you?”
“Not so bad.” He glances down at my purchases. “Good picks. My wife loves this bath bomb.”
“Good to know.”
He lifts a curious brow. “Want them wrapped?”