Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“He’s not our son,” she repeats.
“Yet, here you are,” I say.
“I think you just wanted to make up a weird job like when Hunter Morrison hired a homemaker. Bragging rights. What’s next? Are you and Hunter going to see who can hire a knocker-upper first?”
I cough a laugh, pressing a fist to my mouth. “If I want someone knocked up, I’m still plenty virile to do it myself.”
She rubs her temples. “My father is dead, but I know he just lifted his lifeless hand and smacked it against his forehead because his daughter married an idiot. A knocker-upper was a human alarm clock during the Industrial Revolution. Don’t you remember in Great Expectations, Mr. Wopsle gets knocked up? They used a long stick to tap on the window.”
Thirty-three years of marriage, and she still amazes me. I married the prettiest, kindest, smartest woman in the world. And I don’t even have to say it anymore. She knows this look I’m giving her, and it still makes her blush and smile even if it’s not enough to bring her out of her dark place when she goes there.
“Flynn’s friend, June, looks so familiar. Don’t you think?” she asks, quickly changing the subject because she doesn’t take compliments well, not even the silent kind.
“Not really. But she seems nice. I’m not sure how he got her attention.”
Callie rolls her head to the side and gives me a look with one eyebrow peaked. “How did you get my attention?”
I sit straight, hands on the edge of the lounger. “My charm.”
“Pfft …” She rolls her eyes.
“My good looks?”
“Try again.”
I frown. “I don’t like the version of this story where you claim to have only given me a second glance because you knew I was the kind of guy your father hated.”
“Well, Mr. Rawlings, that’s the only version there is of the story.”
“Not true,” I say, reclining in the lounger. “There’s two sides to every story. And your father passed away many years ago, yet here I am. You haven’t rehomed me yet.”
Her sigh sounds like a grumble. “I’m just too exhausted to train another.”
I don’t tell her she’s training Flynn. Reminding me twice he’s not our son is enough for one day.
“Hey, guys. I let myself inside.”
Speaking of Flynn.
“As long as you haven’t stolen anything,” I say to him.
“No offense,” he says, shoving my feet off the side of the lounger so he can sit on the end. “But aside from your car—”
“Which you already tried to steal.”
“Borrow,” he says.
Callie snorts.
“There’s not much around here that’s my taste.”
“No offense taken,” Callie says.
“What does taste have to do with anything?” I ask. “Thieves don’t steal things they want. They take what’s valuable to sell.”
“Oh, thanks for the tip, Mr. Rawlings. Mind sharing the combination to your safe while we’re on the topic?” Flynn says.
Again, Callie snorts.
Flynn unknowingly does his job so well.
“How did June like the flowers?” Callie asks.
“Well, you were right. Girls still dig that sh—stuff.” He gives me a tight grin.
“Flowers are timeless,” she says. “A little cliché on Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, birthdays … but they are always the best first step after an argument. A proverbial white flag.”
The word proverbial goes right over his head. I can only imagine how he’d respond to knocker-upper.
“What’s next for the day?” Flynn drums his hand on his leg, the same leg that’s bouncing. He’s incapable of sitting still.
Callie sees it too.
“Aren’t you golfing?” she asks me.
I lumber to my feet. “As a matter of fact, I am. I’ll see you later.” I bend down and kiss the top of her head.
“Lie back,” she says to Flynn as I head toward the door.
“For what?” he asks.
“Your job for the rest of the day is to sit with me.”
“And do what?”
“Nothing. Just be.”
I snicker to myself.
Chapter Thirteen
Flynn
“How was your day, darling?” Monroe says in a high-pitched voice when I step into our apartment after work.
I give him the bird, and he laughs, standing by the toaster oven, waiting for his pizza to cook. He eats a pepperoni Totino’s pizza every day after work as a snack before the poop sheriff arrives and feeds him a meal with perfectly balanced macros.
“I got paid,” I say.
“Thought you got paid the other day.”
“That was my last paycheck from the detail shop. This is from the Rawlings.” I hold it an inch from his face.
He rears back, eyes bulging. “Fuck me.”
“Right?” I stare at it.
“You have to be screwing his wife. Or him. Dude, are you sucking his dick? No judgment. I might suck dick for that paycheck.”
“Nope.” Again, I hold it in his face. “This is a sexless paycheck. Although, Mrs. Rawlings made me sit in a lounge chair beside her for three goddamn hours!”
He pulls his pizza from the toaster oven. “And?”
“What do you mean, and? That’s just it. There was no and.” I steal a hot pepperoni and pop it into my mouth.