Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Since your last big trip was to jail, I think you’re due. How do you feel about Nashville?”
“You’re sending me to Nashville? Do I look like someone who knows how to line dance?”
I shake my head with a silent chuckle. “I can’t answer that until we get you some boots and a proper hat.”
“I’ve got bad knees. You know that. One wrong move, and I could be ass over ears. What about Vegas? We could rent one of those stripper buses like Warren did for his son’s fortieth birthday.”
“There were twelve of us on that trip. I’m just talking about the two of us.”
“We’ve got the means. Who cares if it’s just the two of us.”
I steal the remote from the arm of his chair and shut off the TV. “There’s a woman I want to visit in Nashville. I’ll put you up in a nice hotel since we have the means. But you have to promise to be on your best behavior. Shower. Eat. Act like the grown man you are.”
“You’re flying to Nashville to get laid? Surely you can get laid locally. It’s better for the environment.”
Resting a fist on my hip, I stare at the ceiling. “She’s a friend. And she’s alone and on crutches from an accident. I can tell she’s having a rough time since her roommate’s out of town. I want to help her out for a few days.”
“Then I’ll stay here.”
“The last time I was gone, Talia Johanssen called the police because you got the mail … naked.”
“You know that’s not what happened. It was an Amazon package—”
“In the mailbox?”
He frowns, squinting his eyes. “And I wasn’t naked. I was wearing boxers.”
“You were drunk and wearing them on your head.”
He lifts a shoulder and drops it. “I was wearing underwear. That’s the truth.”
“I’ll pack your bag. Now, go take a shower. We can get an eleven-twenty flight tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
When the plane lands in Nashville, I check my dad into a hotel and order him room service.
“I’m probably staying the night with Anna, so don’t wait up. And by don’t wait up, I mean lights off, TV off, and the laptop shut by eleven. I’ll be back in the morning to check on you.”
“You’re going to get some whoopie with a girl on crutches?” He whistles. “Good for you, son. Just be careful. The last thing we need is you getting sued and losing more of this family’s money.”
I’m speechless.
I shouldn’t be by this point, but I am. My dad used to be a stand-up guy. A shrewd businessman. A well-respected publisher. A loving husband. A devoted father.
Now he’s … I don’t even know.
“Call me if you need anything that’s a true human necessity.”
He plops onto the bed and turns on the TV. “Well, that’s open to wide interpretation.”
“It’s not,” I say before shutting the door behind me.
Anna opens her door after several knocks. Her glossed lips part while she balances on one leg and crutches. After a few seconds, her gaze slides to the backpack in one hand and then to the petal-less bouquet of stems in my other hand.
“What …” The trail of petals on the sidewalk behind me steals her attention. “What are you doing here?”
“I have no idea. One minute I was texting you. The next I was FaceTiming. And in the next breath … I was boarding a plane to Nashville.” I shrug. “Are you busy? I can come back another time.”
Shock still dominates her face, but she grins after a few more seconds. “I have a little free time to spare.” She hobbles backward a few feet to let me inside.
I set my bag on the floor and the stems on the banister. “Are you up for a drive? Or have you and an Uber driver already gone on a date?”
Anna laughs, and I instantly think of anything to keep her laughing. I’ve missed it so much.
“If you’re calling my outing with an Uber driver a date, then it implies that you taking me for a drive would be a date.” She leans forward a fraction, putting more weight on her crutches. “Did you fly to Nashville to take me on a date?”
“Do you need help getting to the car?”
We have a stare-off.
“I do not.”
I glance over her shoulder at the artwork on the wall. How did I miss it the first time? Her gaze follows mine to the oil-painted portrait of an old woman.
“You like it?” she asks.
“It’s … well, no offense to your friend, but it looks a little juvenile.”
“Juvenile?”
I nod. “Like a child painted a portrait of their grandmother in seventh-grade art class. But hey, art is very personal. I’m sure Shaun fell in love with it.”
“Juvenile?” she says slowly.
I shrug and nod; then it hits me. “Oh, don’t tell me, he has a child who painted it?”