Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
If I’m being honest, these days I view Grace’s dad as a father figure. He’s a decent guy, if you overlook the fact that he prefers football to hockey. But nobody’s perfect.
“Tim. My man. I’m not going to let my kinda dad pay money to get an oil change when I can do it for free,” I inform him. “I grew up working in our garage. I can change oil with my eyes closed.”
“Are you sure?” he pushes, readjusting his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You know I would never take advantage, son.”
Son. Damn, that does me in every time. There’s no good reason Tim should call me that. It’s not like Grace and I are married or anything. Back when we first started dating, I thought maybe he was the kind of man who called every younger guy “son.” But nope. Just me. And I can’t deny I love hearing it.
“I know you wouldn’t, which is why I offered,” I assure him. “And like I said before, don’t you dare go to that money-sucking dealership of yours for repairs ever again. My brother will take care of you. No charge.”
“How is your brother these days?” Grace’s dad locks his car before heading to the garage door.
I follow him out to the driveway, where the chill in the air instantly cools my face. It still hasn’t snowed in Hastings yet this winter, but Grace said the forecast is calling for a huge dump of it tomorrow morning. Perfect. I love a white Christmas.
“Jeff’s good,” I answer. “He told me to wish you a happy holiday. They’re sorry they couldn’t be here for dinner tonight.”
My brother and his wife, Kylie, are spending the holidays in Mexico this year with Kylie’s family. It’s her parents’ fortieth anniversary, so they decided to do a huge sunny destination celebration. My mom and stepdad, David, are joining us tonight, though, which should be fun. Grace and I always get a kick out of watching her straitlaced molecular biologist father converse with my incredibly bland accountant stepfather. Last year we had a bet to see how many boring subjects they could discuss in one evening. Grace won with a total of twelve. I’d guessed ten, but I underestimated Tim’s new fascination with antique milk bottles and David’s new ceramic elephant collection.
“Josie’s sorry she couldn’t make it either,” Tim says, referring to Grace’s mother, who lives in Paris. Although Tim and Josie divorced years ago, they’re still very close.
Unlike my folks, who can’t be in the same room together, even with my dad being sober now. Grace and I have had numerous conversations about what’ll happen when we get married—when, not if, because come on now. We’re end game and we both know it. But we’ve stressed about it, wondering how we’d handle the issue of wedding invites. Eventually, we decided we’d probably elope to avoid all the drama, because there’s no way Mom will attend if Dad is there.
Not that I blame my mother. Dad made her life a living hell during their marriage. She was the one who dealt with years of drunken tantrums, blackouts, and rehab stints while trying to raise two sons essentially on her own. I don’t think she’ll ever come around. It’s a miracle Jeff and I managed to find some forgiveness for him.
“Do you know yet if your schedule will allow you to go to Paris with Grace this summer?” he asks as we round the side of the house toward the wraparound porch.
“It all depends if the team makes the playoffs. I mean, on one hand, spending two months in Paris sounds lit. But that would mean us not playing in the post-season, which sucks balls.”
Tim chuckles. “See, if you played football, the season would be done in February, and you’d be able to make the trip…”
“One of these days, sir, I’m going to strap you to a chair and force you to watch hockey games on a loop until you have no choice but to love it.”
“Still wouldn’t work,” he says cheerfully.
I grin. “You need to have more faith in my torture abilities.”
Just as we reach the porch steps, a big brown van pulls up at the curb in front of the house. For a second I’m confused, thinking it’s Mom and David, until I glimpse the UPS logo.
“They’re still making deliveries?” Tim marvels. “At six o’clock on Christmas Eve? Poor fellow.”
Poor fellow indeed. The delivery man looks frazzled and exhausted as he bounds up the path toward us. He’s got a cardboard box in one hand, a bulky phone in the other.
“Hello, folks,” he says when he reaches us. “Happy holidays, and sorry to disturb you. You’re my last delivery of the day—it’s for Grace Ivers?”
“Happy holidays,” Tim says. “And that would be my daughter. She’s inside, but I can run in and get her if she needs to sign for that?”