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I step out of her hold, averting my gaze to the floor to hide the blush. I don’t want to see more of the truth.
“What’s his story?”
“Widower. Single dad.”
She grimaces. “Shit. That’s rough. What age is he? He’s hard to judge.”
“Thirty-eight.” I swing my foot along the carpet.
“A little old for you then?” It’s more of a question.
I shrug.
I fucking shrug.
Like there’s even a possibility.
“I knew it,” she squeals.
“Shut up, Amy.”
“It makes sense with your daddy issues.”
“I don’t have daddy issues.”
She pops a hand on her hip, blinking at me. “You were engaged to a cop.”
I see where she’s going with this.
My father was also in the force.
Idohave daddy issues.
“You also have the same issues,” I remind her.
We always revert to arguing like children.
“Emotionally damaged are always the best in bed. With your combined emotional trauma, I bet you’d be fire together.”
Jesus, she’s relentless.
“Stop talking. You’ve got a credit card in your hand that I’m pretty sure doesn’t have a spending limit. Have fun.”
“Whatever, grumpy. I’ve got spare underwear in the back in case yours are wet.”
“Shut. Up.”
Needing to fidget, I run my fingers over the guitar strings before moving to the pianos lined against the wall.
“A music room?” she questions, eyeing me a little too closely. My chest deflates, grateful for the change of subject. “It’s a great idea. Thanks for coming here. I’m about to make more profit today than I have all month.”
Pressing the keys lightly, I notice the slight puffiness around her eyes. “Things aren’t bad here, are they?”
“No, things are good.”
“How’s Mama?” I’m pretty sure she’s the reason for my sister’s exhaustion.
I wish we could share it.
