Page 81 of Tanner

I extend a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Doyle.”

He eyes me up with his brows pinched and his stance strong. I’ve got a couple of inches on the guy, but he looks like he can box Tyson and win the match. He’s a man’s man, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. From what I’ve been told and what I deduce from the raise of his chin, he doesn’t care about what’s in my bank account or the job my family has lined up for me. All he cares about is that his little girl just brought a man home.

He takes my hand. I shake it firmly, not hard. I’m sure his calloused hand is taking in how smooth mine is. I feel oddly insecure about it. I don’t waver though. I give a sharp nod, letting him know I’m up for anything he wants to throw my way because Harper is worth it.

After a few seconds, he lets out a loud laugh. I’m taken aback as he reaches around my back and pulls me in for a manly hug, including a few hard pats on the back.

“I’ve been dying to meet you, son. Please, come in.” He steps through the storm door and holds it open.

Harper’s smile is the best I’ve seen as we enter the home she was raised in. The front door opens to a small porch where there’s a formal front door that opens into a living room. It’s cozy with a fireplace ensconced with bookcases.

A stairwell to the right leads upstairs with school photos of Harper on the wall going up. The one closest to the bottom looks like her kindergarten picture. She has pigtails, and her eyes are open as wide as can be. Looking up the wall, I can only see as far as third grade from where I’m standing. I’m gonna have to get a look at all of them before I leave.

“My eighth grade picture is particularly geeky.” She rolls her eyes at herself.

“You were geeky?”

“Braces, glasses, and a terrible case of forehead acne. I blame the bangs I had. They were very trendy but terrible for my pores.”

I lean into her with a whisper. “Teacher, I didn’t know you wore glasses. That could come in handy.”

“I had Lasik surgery.” She elbows me in the gut and then whispers, “I might have a fake pair from the teacher talent show that I could put on later.”

Luckily, her dad is now in the dining room, or he’d see me adjusting myself at the thought of Harper wearing glasses and one of her sexy pantsuits.

I wonder if the schoolgirl uniform is in her old bedroom.

There are more photos throughout the living room. Family vacations—they are a Disney family—holiday pictures, and family portraits are framed on every surface.

Her dad is easy to recognize in the pictures. Twenty years ago, he had the same barrel chest and fighting-Irish grin. The only difference is he had a mane of thick black hair.

Harper has her dad’s eyes, but the rest of her is her mother. Her mom was curvier but with the same blonde hair she wore long with the curls hanging loosely down her back. She smiles the same smile, too. Full rosy-pink lips set on a heart-shaped face.

There are even some old black-and-whites of couples posed seriously for the camera. A man in an officer’s uniform sits next to another of a sailor. A folded American flag sits on the mantel. The Doyles have a strong sense of family history. Their family crest is even on the wall by the front door—that and the name Sabella, which I assume is her mother’s maiden name.

I mosey over to the bookcases that are filled, not a bookend in sight. The classics are all here. Austen, Fitzgerald, Joyce, Twain, Dickens, Hemingway, Orwell, Woolf, Tolstoy, Brontë. They’re not first editions, but they’re worn and loved.

“Those are my mom’s,” Harper explains and then points to the lower shelves of political thrillers and biographies about the Mafia. “Those are Dad’s. He doesn’t get prime library real estate.”

I see a copy of Pride & Prejudice and slide it out. “My mom loved this book. She used to read it at our lake house in Tahoe. I want Austin to read it. I think he could use some advice.”

“Austen for Austin?”

“He met a girl. I think he’s in love.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me she’s a pain in the ass. That’s a damn near declaration of love for my brother.”

“You have the craziest things to say about your brothers.” She takes the book from my hands. Her fingers glide over the cover. “This is my mom’s favorite, too. Dad still reads to her. She doesn’t remember her name sometimes or where she lives. She gets angry a lot. She’s been known to throw things. But, when he reads, she relaxes. Sometimes, she’ll recite a line or utter the name of a character. She doesn’t remember much, but she knows the pages like being reacquainted with an old friend.”

There’s melancholy in her tone. I brush a loose curl behind her ear and run my thumb over her lower lip that’s sticking out.

“Can I meet her?”

She grins and then leans up to kiss me.

I think that’s a yes.