AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You know what? I’m not doing this with you. I’m not going to play whatever twisted little game your mind is set on. Welcome home, I guess. Hope to not see you around.”
With that, she spun on her sexy-as-fuck heel and stormed off, leaving me to the ravenous vultures flocking over once I was alone. And how pathetic was it that once she stormed off, it only took moments for me to miss her, to want to hunt her down and throw her over my shoulder. To maybe, just maybe finallykeepher?
I’d give her that play, at least this time. Because she’d be seeing me around whether she liked it or not. She’d be seeing alotof me. I’d make damn certain of it.
Chapter Six
PRESLEY
Sundays were spent at my parents’house. It had started as a weekly dinner shortly after I returned from college and had become a tradition, but as the years went on and my parents got older, I started coming over earlier and earlier. First it was in order to help my mom cook so she didn’t have to stay on her feet in the kitchen for so long. Then I started to notice things around the house that needed fixing, like the siding on the house needed to be power washed or pickets in the fence that needed replacing. Bulbs that needed to be change or water stains on the ceiling that needed to be painted.
My father was a proud, hardworking man who’d spent his entire adult life busting his ass for other people. He made his living as a handyman of sorts, painting houses, fixing garage doors, mowing lawns, and cleaning pools. You name it, he did it. A quintessential jack of all trades. But he gave so much of himself to his clients—primarily the Whitecap elite, those with more disposable income than my family ever had—that he didn’t have the time or energy to fix things in his own home.
He still gave too much of himself to people who didn’t appreciate how hard he worked for them. Now he did it witharthritis that would have crippled most other people, but he was too strong to let it keep him down.
Where he made home repairs, my mother cleaned and cooked for the families who owned those homes, both of them working too damn hard this late in their lives. They deserved more and were both working their way toward retirement with dreams of gardening and fishing, lazy days on the beach with a stack of books waist-high. So I spent my Sundays helping them with their own home so they could have a bit of a break.
As I pulled up to their house, I noticed the white picket fence around the postage stamp-sized front yard was looking a little dingy and put a fresh coat of paint on my list of things to do, along with weeding the front flowerbeds.
I turned off my car and grabbed the grocery bags from the back seat before heading to the door. “Guys?” I called out as I finagled the door open with my arms loaded down. “I’m here.”
My mom appeared in the entryway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Oh, honey. You didn’t have to carry these in all by yourself.” She draped the towel over her shoulder and moved to me. She pressed a quick kiss to my cheek before taking one of the bags from me so I could close the door.
I followed her into the kitchen, taking in the sink full of soapy water and dishes as I placed my bag on the counter beside hers.
“What’s with the sink?” I asked as I began unloading everything I bought to make her famous roast chicken with broccoli and cheddar casserole.
“Oh, that? That’s nothing.” She blew the sudsy dishes off like it was no big thing. “The dishwasher’s on the fritz again is all. I’m just washing by hand until your father’s finished fixing it.”
That was the third time in the last six months that the ancient dishwasher had gone “on the fritz.” It didn’t need to be fixed, it needed to be replaced all together.
“That’s it,” I grumbled as I turned and slammed my hands down on my hips. “I’m buying you a new dishwasher. I don’t care how much you argue.”
Before she could do just that, my father entered the kitchen from the door that led to the backyard. His features—drawn tight with the constant pain he lived with—smoothed out at the sight of me.
“Hey there, puddin’ pop.” He dropped his toolbox on the old, scarred-from-use butcherblock counter and came over to wrap me in one of his classic bear hugs. Arthritis or not, Alan Fields didn’t skimp on hugs, and the ones he gave me were as strong and warm as always. “Good to see you.”
“Hey, Daddy,” I said softly, snuggling deeper into him for a few more seconds. It had to be said, my mother’s home cooking could cure any sickness, but my dad’s hugs could cure pains of the heart.
He placed his hands on my shoulders and pulled back, holding me at arm’s length so he could take me in with a tender smile like he did every time he saw me. “My beautiful girl,” he said affectionately. “How’s tricks?”
“Tricks are good, same as always. And I was just telling Mom I’m going to buy you guys a new dishwasher, so no need trying to fix this one.”
He blew a raspberry past his lips and waved his hand at me. “Not necessary. I got this. It’ll be fixed in a jiff.”
“Dad, that thing is a piece of junk,” I said in exasperation. “How many times have you had to fix it? Just let me do this for you.”
My mom spoke up then as my father started rummaging through his toolbox. “Honey, we can’t let you do that. Aren’t you still trying to buy that bar of yours? You need to save every penny, not blow it on a silly dishwasher.”
She wasn’t too far off the mark. But buying them something that would make their lives easier wasn’t “blowing money” in my opinion.
I was trying my hardest to buy the Dropped Anchor, but it turned out a bar manager with little more than a single credit card with an embarrassingly low limit and a buttload of student debt wasn’t a very appealing candidate for a loan.
I needed to show the bank that I could come up with at least ten percent before they’d even consider giving me the money I needed to make my dream come true. But a new dishwasher for my folks was the very least I could do. And I did mean theveryleast.
“Everything on the bar front is fine,” I lied. “Just let me do this for you, okay? You guys have done so much for me. I want to return the favor.”
She reached out to give my cheek a gentle pat. “You’re such a good daughter. Now, how about we get started on dinner? That chicken isn’t going to roast itself.”
