Page 23 of Playing With Forever

To let her off the hook, I dropped a kiss on the top of her head on my way to the coffee pot.

“I painted, but only for a little while, then I went to bed.”

That was what I liked to hear. When Lindy was younger, there were rules about how many hours she could paint and a set time when she needed to go to bed. But that changed after she graduated high school. It would’ve been plain weird for a dad to tell his adult daughter what time she needed to go to sleep, but also Lindy needed to learn to self-regulate. That didn’t always happen, but she was never moody, depressed, or reckless, so I kept quiet about the hours she kept. But also because, as she’d explained, and I’d seen firsthand, when she was in front of an easel with a brush in her hand, she was utterly lost to her art. So, I let her be.

“I won’t be home for dinner tonight,” I told her as I poured coffee into a travel mug.

“Overtime?” she asked.

But really, it was more of a statement than a question. In the last few years, overtime or the time I spent at the center volunteering were the only things that kept me out late on weekdays. Before she graduated, it was extremely rare for me to work late, and I only did it when I couldn’t get out of it.

“I have a date.”

I heard the clatter of metal clanking against glass. “A date?” she shrieked. “With Josie?”

I ignored the screeched excitement and the way my chest tightened at the reminder I’d screwed up raising Lindy and answered, “Yeah, with Josie.”

I braced for whatever response Lindy would have. However, I hadn’t been prepared for her to jump off the stool, do a dance that was reminiscent of her toddler years when she’d dance around in a series of uncoordinated moves, which were an early indication she’d inherited her mother’s hopeless rhythm while her fist punched the air.

“I knew it.”

I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. And I did so, praying she hadn’t seen Josie sneaking out of the house or, alternately, her bra tangled in my sheets.

“That she was perfect for you.”

Thank fuck.

“About that⁠—”

“I know.” She held her hands out in front of her. “It was sneaky and underhanded, but Dad, something had to be done.”

We were inching toward dangerous territory.

“Done about what?”

“You, living your life like a monk. Never dating and rarely going out. I get it, when I was a kid, I was your responsibility. But I’m an adult, and you still live like a monk, which is crazy. Isadora’s mom thinks you’re hot. You’re also a really good guy, and you’re single—no dates, no lady friends, no friends with⁠—”

“Please don’t finish that.”

My daughter gave me a sassy smile I wished I’d never seen because if that was the smile she shot at the boys who were interested in her, I was fucked.

“You do remember I’m an adult, right?”

How the hell could I forget? My baby had transformed right in front of my eyes all too quickly. And twenty-one was right around the corner.

“I do, but that still doesn’t mean I want to, nor will I ever discuss having lady friends or anything of the sort with you.”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and when they refocused on me, she frowned. “As if I want to hear the details, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to have a private life. You know, one outside of being a cop and my father. I want you to date. I want you out all hours of the night with your lady friends doing whatever it is old people do. You could, like, hang a sock on the doorknob so I know not to come into the house because you’re entertaining a lady of the night.”

Christ.

I wasn’t hanging a sock on the door like a frat house so my kid knew I had a woman in my bed.

Fucking hell, the thought made me nauseous.

“You do know that a lady of the night is a prostitute, right?”

Lindy’s eyes rounded, her lips stretched thin as she grimaced.