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She tips her head pensively. “Guess that makes you the daddy’s girl type, yeah? Falling for the bad boy musician.”
Horror washes over me. “What? No.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. It’s not like I compare every dude with a guitar to my dad. If anything, I’ve avoided that whole scene because I have zero interest in getting sucked into a bad rip-off of my own origin story. Nate is the first musician I’ve ever been attracted to, truth be told.
“It’s not like that,” I insist.
Celeste’s amused expression says she’s not buying it.
I think harder on it and realize, well, maybe the bad boy part isn’t so far off. I might not typically be drawn to musicians, but I will admit to a teeny fascination with the rough-around-the-edges type.
Girls just want to have fun after all.
So what’s a little prosecco and polo?
10
PARENTS SHOULDN’T HAVE INTERNET IF THEY CAN’T USE ITresponsibly. They’re fragile and can’t be allowed to run wild on the mean streets of cyberspace. Case in point: my dad’s downloaded every London news app to his phone and spends his mornings sending me articles and weather updates. I thought he had friends. And, like, hobbies. Instead, terrorizing me has become his full-time occupation.
Dad: Three Arrested in Organized Crime Bust—BBC
Me: I’ll keep my eye out for Tony Soprano.
Dad: The mob is no joke, kiddo.
Me: I’m screenshotting this entire exchange and forwarding it to Dr. Wu.
Sitting on my bed after getting home from class, I’ve got my laptop open and am trying to do homework. It’s slow going with my dad’s nervous texting. It’d be endearing if I didn’t have to worry about him spinning himself into a panic all alone on that ranch.
Dad: You’re not commuting to school alone, right? Safer to travel in packs.
Me: Like the roaming wolves of the countryside.
Dad: I just want you to be safe.
Me: I know. Don’t worry.
I remember the time in elementary school back in LA when a couple girls got into a fight at the bike racks and one of them got half her lip torn off after being slammed on the concrete. So far, London is far less intimidating.
With a tap on my door, Jamie pokes his head in. “We’re ordering sushi for dinner. You in?”
“Sure, whatever you guys like.”
He comes in and sits on the end of my bed. He’s wearing fitted ripped jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe and a salmon-colored polo that shows off his leanly muscled arms.
“You look nice,” I tell him. “Do you have a date or something?”
“Nope. Just wanted to look pretty for you, darling.”
“Stop flirting with me. I’m busy.”
He chuckles. “Still getting to the bottom of the painting?”
“Trying to. Hey, maybe you can help. Tell me more about the Tulleys.”
He sighs, settling further onto the bed. “That’s a long and sordid tale.”
“Go on,” I prod.
