Page 85 of A Simple Life

Abby dropped my hand, folding her arms over her chest the way John did when he was upset.

“He isn’t a cowboy. He’s a farmer. That’s important.”

Preston ignored her the way he always did.

“I heard you moved to some hick town, Quinn. No doubt you fit in well with the locals. Having a big day in the city, are we?” His pitch was condescending, bordering on snide.

His fiancée snickered, covering her mouth, the large diamond on her hand ridiculous and ostentatious.

John took a step closer. “Watch your tone.”

Preston smirked. “Or what? You’ll plant me?”

“We’re here celebrating Quinn’s birthday,” John replied, ignoring his jibe. “Not that you’d understand how that works.”

A dull red soaked Preston’s cheeks. He hated being called out for what a lousy husband he had been. It was John’s turn to smirk.

“And I’m taking my girls for a fun afternoon. Shocking, no one did that when they lived here. As if someone couldn’t be bothered to look after them. Treat them the way they should be treated.”

“That’s enough,” I said quietly. I had no desire to stand here and trade insults with my ex and his cold partner. “Let’s go.”

Preston glared at me. “Maybe I’d like to spend some time with Abigail. We could catch up.”

I knew he was saying that to upset me. He had zero interest in “catching up” with his daughter.

“Over my dead body,” I hissed at the same time John cursed. But what was the most shocking was Abby’s reaction.

“No,” she said loudly. “I don’t like you, and you’re not my dad. Farmer John is the best daddy ever. He’s nice to me. He makes Momma smile. You were mean.”

Preston glared. “Be silent,” he demanded. At John’s huff, he glared. “Back off, cowboy. This doesn’t concern you.”

“No!” she said louder. “Farmer John is the best. You—you are just an asshole!”

“What did you say?” he snapped.

“Asshole!” she repeated, once again crossing her arms. “Useless as pig shit.”

I gasped, John smothered a laugh, and then Preston’s face turned darker.

“This is how you raised her?” he snarled. “To be a mouthy, classless little brat?”

His hand flexed, and for a terrible moment, I thought he would attempt to strike her. I grabbed at Abby to push her behind me and John moved to block him, but Abby was faster than anyone. She ducked under my arm, lunged forward, her hands raised—and nailed Preston right in the nuts.

He gasped, dropping to his knees.

“You’re pig shit!” she repeated. “Full of cooties!”

Shocked, I stepped back, watching my daughter yelling at her father, calling him pig shit. Taking him down with a punch to the junk. Berating him for calling John a cowboy.

“Farmers!” she insisted. “We are farmers!”

I had no idea how to react. I met John’s eyes. It was a mistake. He was amused. Highly amused. He lifted a shoulder. “She’s right. We are farmers.” He leaned closer, his voice low. “I guess punching is the way to go for her. Highly effective at that height.”

And suddenly, I was laughing. Uncontrollably.

John joined me, and our mirth was unforgivable. Outrageous. Undignified.

John bent and scooped Abby away from Preston, who looked shell-shocked. John handed her to me. “That’s good, Pumpkin. I think you got your point across.”