Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Abby’s the one you have to watch out for,” Kat says. She’s been watching the interaction along with Trey, Wade and Kellen. She looks right at Sylvie and says, “Your aunt Abby is a badass and single-handedly took down a large puppy mill ring back in Pennsylvania.”
“Badass or fool?” Kellen mutters and admittedly, I like that answer. I tend to blame him for letting her get herself in trouble, but truth is… there’s no containing Abby and I know it.
“Oh, stop,” Abby shushes her husband. “All’s well that ends well.”
“Yes, dear,” Kellen says with an overly bright smile. We all laugh because no one thinks Kellen is the type to roll over and bare his throat to his wife, but he also knows all that stuff is in the past and no sense in continuing to berate her for her foolishness.
But Jesus, she was an idiot to do what she did.
“How is work going for you?” my father asks Kellen. “Any exciting missions?”
“Missions?” Sylvie asks, eyes gleaming. “What does that mean?”
“It means your uncle Kellen will sometimes be hired to protect famous people or even rescue others who have been kidnapped,” Abby provides.
Sylvie’s green eyes widen with interest. “Wow. Have you ever been shot at?”
“Yeah,” he says with hardly any snark at all, even though it would be deserved. “When your aunt Abby tried to steal a dog from the puppy mill.”
“No way,” Sylvie exclaims, but she’s not horrified in the least. “Tell me the entire story.”
And so Abby and Kellen do, both of them providing their radically different views on whether Abby should’ve even been involved in the first place. It’s a battle we’ve all witnessed before, a retelling of an impetuousness that almost got Abby killed. But in the end, she got the man of her dreams, so she reasons that she was fated to shut that mill down.
“Come here,” I say quietly to Marcie, and pat the cushion closer to me.
She doesn’t hesitate, sliding over the green crushed velvet and snuggling into my side. I can’t miss the approval gleaming in my mom’s eyes as she gives us a quick side glance. Marcie has complete family approval, each parent and sibling gushing at me at one time or another about how awesome she is, but it’s my mom who’s the happiest for me.
I think she despaired of me ever settling down and finding someone to love.
Love.
It’s a word that shouldn’t have entered my thoughts and yet, I’m not bothered that it has. Do I love Marcie?
I’m not sure. All I know is that I didn’t think I had love to give to a child a mere month and a half ago and look where I am now. Marcie has brought such enrichment to my life in ways I never knew I needed, I’m guessing I had no concept of what romantic love could be.
For the next hour, Sylvie gets to see what being a Blackburn is all about. She’s seen it in bits and pieces—meals together, time with her aunt and uncles, building a relationship with me. But all of us here together, laughing and speaking with fondness and respect, genuine care and poking fun—I can’t help but wonder if she’s comparing us to the Mardraggons. Is she really understanding that she’s in the best place?
And perhaps finally realizing that her mom knew what in the hell she was doing?
I send up a silent message to Alaine if she’s listening. You did the right thing and I’ll take good care of her.
Eventually, Sylvie yawns and it’s on the third one that I finally call a halt to her fun. “All right, young lady… time for you to get ready for bed.”
“But Papa,” she whines as she pauses her thumb-wrestling match with Wade.
I practically bite through the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing, totally delighted in having my kid grumble over one of my orders. I’m equally delighted in holding the line. “Sorry, kiddo. It’s a school night and you should’ve been in bed an hour ago. Say good night to everyone.”
One by one, Sylvie goes around the room and gives everyone a hug. She lingers exceptionally long on my mom, accepting extra squeezes, and then does the same with Marcie. When she gets to me, she pouts up at me in an adorable way that’s meant to melt my heart. I pull her into a hug. “Nice try. Almost had me.”
She returns my embrace with vigor, telling me she’s not really mad. “Good night, Papa.”
It’s not a French endearment the way she has given my parents, but for some reason, I like that she uses the American version to address me as her father. It means she’s acclimating, accepting a part of me the way I am. It means more to me than she’ll ever know.