“Did you catch suspicion from Anika?” DK asks.
“Like she was Alex Cross.”
“Who?”
“The detective onCross. Played by Aldis Hodge,” I add, when it still doesn’t register.
“Oh. So it was bad?”
“I managed to evade, distract, and avoid. But my heels were too happy to mind.”
“They’re feeling okay then?”
“Much better. All bandaged up while I get dinner ready. My father’s on his way.”
“Nervous?” he asks, which I suspect is the primary reason for him calling ahead of our ten o’clock schedule.
“Only about the lying. Not about you. He’s going to be fine once he hears everything.”
DK’s silence says he believes otherwise. He can’t imagine how my father could see a man trying to defeat his daughter as anything other than a threat.
“Can you send me his number so I can call him later?” he asks.
“This isn’tBridgerton.”
“What’s that?”
I shake my head. “Your lack of good TV knowledge is sad. I just meant you don’t need to get his permission.”
“It’s not permission,” he says. “It’s respect. I want to speak for myself on how I feel about his daughter.”
Aw. This man has me ready to propose. “He’ll actually love that.” A knock sounds at the door. “He’s here.”
“Ngikhona nakuwe,” he says, deep and warm. “It means I’m with you.”
“I know you are, boo. Talk to you tonight.Mwah.” I end the call and go answer the door.
“Hi, Dad.”
Montell Webber looks like he just stepped off the pages of GQ summer edition. He’s casual-chic in an unstructured tan blazer over a white cotton T-shirt, beige chinos, and brown leather loafers.
“Hey, Pumpkin.” His eyes crinkle. “Is that coconut I smell?”
“The key to your heart,” I joke, accepting his bone-crushing hug.
He’s been the steady harbor in my life. Someone who loves me unconditionally, whose support has never faltered. Telling him the truth will be a huge relief. Just maybe not as the opening act.
I lead him to the kitchen, where he pops the cork on the bottle of wine he brought and pours us each a glass. His gaze drops to my bandaged heels, and he frowns.
“From street-stomping?”
“In the wrong shoes. But other than that, the day was great.” I fill him in while we prepare dinner together like old times.
“How’s Farah?” I ask, nudging his shoulder. “Any new developments?”
“Nope. She’s still a wonderful companion,” he says, reciting the usual script. “We enjoy the symphony, good food, and antiquing. This works. No reason to add a shared zip code.”
I watch him squeeze lime over the salsa, and wonder—not for the first time—if he’s guarding more than just his freedom. Had losing Mom left a scar so deep that he refuses to let anyone close enough to reopen it?
