Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I returned to the counter and grabbed a napkin to wipe my hands before turning on the iPad so I could review the instructions on how to make the cream frosting.
Fabiola, the housekeeper, had stocked up on all the ingredients I needed so I headed over to the refrigerator to retrieve them. As I was grabbing a pack of strawberries to add to the pile I’d already gathered in my arms, my father came over to help me.
“Here, let me,” he said, but his voice was different. It was no longer playful but full of tension.
I let him, but I didn’t have the courage to look at him. I already knew what was coming. He helped me set the ingredients down on the counter, but his mind was elsewhere. I could feel my throat begin to clog up. Eventually, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knew I had to let him go.
“When will you be back?” I asked.
“One hour, tops,” he said, and the relief in his voice was palpable.
“One hour?”
“Yes,” he replied with a grateful smile. “This is an emergency. You know I won’t leave on your birthday. I just need to go pick a kid up and bring him here.”
“You’re bringing someone here?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” he replied. “He’s just a kid who needs a helping hand. He will stay with us for a short time while I handle his case.”
I didn’t know how to respond. It made no sense as to why my father was suddenly bringing a stranger to our home, and the absence of any details left me feeling muddled.
“Don’t start icing the cake without me,” he said, his eyes on the oven. “It should be perfectly cooled and ready by the time I return.”
“The cake and I will be waiting right here for you,” I assured.
“Good, because I always keep my promises,” he said and hurried out of the room.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen and listened to his footsteps echoing in the foyer. I heard the sound of his keys, and then the front door shut.
Once he was gone, I was surrounded by a persistent, pervasive, dense silence. It was nothing new though. It had come to live in this house since Mama died four years ago. She left me with a father who distracted himself from dealing with her loss by filling his time with endless work and pursuing noble causes.
As he was doing tonight.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop him or make him understand how much I longed for him to spend a bit more time with me. I didn’t know how to intrude in his intentionally busy life so I chose to trust instead that someday, hopefully soon, he would reduce his workload, and I would have him home again the way he was when we were a happy family of three.
With a sigh, I headed over to the living room.
I lay on the couch and tried to keep myself entertained by scrolling through Instagram. Eventually, the oven’s timer pinged. I switched it off and took the cake out. It smelled good. I left it to cool and went back to my phone. Three hundred and thirty-three images of gorgeous birthday cakes later I slipped into sleep. I awakened to the sound of the door lock clicking open. I could hear masculine voices, but I couldn’t quite make out the words.
My father called out to me, but I was still somewhat half-asleep and a bit grumpy so I didn’t respond to the first call. Still, I could never stay angry with my father for any length of time, so by the third time he called I felt remorseful enough to lift my hand and wave it.
“Here,” I called drowsily.
He came over to the living room and cocked his head at the sight of me sprawled on the couch.
“You became tired?” he asked, and I spied a bit of guilt in his voice.
“I lost interest,” I replied.
“Go easy on me,” he murmured and turned to the unwanted guest he’d brought with him. “Come over, Dante, and meet my daughter.”
I immediately shot up, horrified that he would think to introduce me in such a state.
“Papa!” I muttered, shaking my head and straightening the oversized T-shirt I was wearing.
“Dante, this is Zola,” he introduced.
I lifted my gaze. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but the vision in front of me was not it. My father had called him a ‘kid’, but the young man standing before me was surely no one’s idea of a kid.
He looked more like an avenging angel.
Tall and broad with jet-black hair that curled around his collar. His features were so perfect he looked as if he’d been chiseled from stone. He was … indisputably, and undeniably beautiful. He stood there like a living, breathing work of art.