Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“You don’t have to change for anyone. You know that, right?” he continues as if he hasn’t heard a single pleading word. “You’d look beautiful in a garbage bag.” He stares across the table. “Right, Jay?” Not even waiting for an answer. “We support all your choices.”
“As long as the garbage bag covers you from neck to ankles,” Dad adds, eyes twinkling. Always the practical one.
I smile around a bite of pancake. “Will you s-support my choice to shave my head and join a r-radical political party?”
“No,” they simultaneously and forcefully clap back.
“What the fuck, dude!” a loud and angry male voice cuts into our conversation. It cuts into all the conversations. This restaurant is full and everyone turns to stare at the commotion happening behind me.
“Sweet Pea?” Dad’s brown eyes narrow and his lips practically disappear, his gaze pinned on something or someone behind me.
“Hmm?” I glance up from stirring my latte.
“If you care for your old man at all, please don’t ever bring a guy like that one home.” He tips his chin at the commotion happening behind me.
“Jay––” my other parent scolds.
Curiosity has me turning in my seat, my attention trailing after Dad’s glare. It leads me straight to a guy wearing a black wetsuit that’s peeled down to his waist, his torso naked, his dark hair wet, and his bare feet covered in sand. He looks like he came straight from the beach. Maybe even the one this restaurant overlooks.
Standing over a table, he points angrily at whomever is sitting there. I can’t see them, my view blocked by the healthy width of the angry guy’s back.
“We are broken up, Cody. Do you understand broken up?” a girl, presumably sitting at the table, responds in a pitchy voice.
A love triangle. My favorite shape.
“You’re making a scene, Holloway. Run along,” a guy grinds out, one that must be sitting at the table next to the girl because Cody seems visibly peeved about it.
Transfixed, we watch the manager walk over and implore the angry guy and the people sitting down to take it outside. The manager gently places his hand on the angry surfer’s naked bicep and the guy jerks away.
“––the fuck off of me,” angry surfer barks, directing his ire at the manager who takes a step back, understandably spooked by the exchange.
“That’s it,” comes from across the table. My Dad is out of our booth and striding toward the ruckus while my father and I watch him go.
Ramos to the rescue. Sometimes I think he was a superhero in a past life. His compulsion to keep everyone safe is almost too much. My other dad’s compulsion––if you haven’t already guessed––is to fix everything. Whether it’s broken or not.
“Jay, be careful––” There’s tension and concern in my dad’s voice. There’s always cause for concern when the Chief’s on the job.
At six four and fighting fit, Jay Ramos cuts an imposing figure, but he isn’t invincible. Every time he stepped out the door when he was still working in the field, he was at risk. It’s a persistent low current anxiety all law enforcement, military, and firefighting families have to make peace with. The fear has only subsided recently, since he made Chief.
My father approaches the table with authority. Which with his size doesn’t take much. He pulls his badge out of the back pocket of his jeans, and brandishes it at the manager and trespasser.
Angry surfer’s face stiffens while the restaurant manager’s body language tells a completely different story, his shoulders slumping in relief.
My dad’s presence takes all the energy out of the situation. Angry surfer abandons the table and walks out of the restaurant, making an even bigger scene when he sends the door crashing open. Meanwhile, the restaurant manager shakes my dad’s hand. Pride fills me. Both my parents are pretty awesome people.
Then they step aside, giving me a perfect view of the two people sitting at the table. A pretty brunette and Dallas, who’s staring right at me as if he recognizes me. Not in the impersonal I-think-I’ve-seen-you-around way. More like the I’ve-had-my-tongue-in-your-mouth way. A slow-burning heat crawls up my neck and over my face.
He’s wearing a faded blue Malibu University Water Polo T-shirt and a very serious expression. Streaked blond hair tumbling around his face, darker blond brows drawn down over an unblinking electric blue gaze. His pouty lips pressed together tightly. He looks like a supermodel in the midst of doing his taxes.
The girl sitting next to him tries to nudge him out of the booth, but he ignores her, never breaking eye contact with me.
“Dor?…Dora?”
My dad’s question breaks the staring contest. I rip my attention away from the subject of all my dirty fantasies a few feet away and meet my father’s curious stare. His brow quirks.
“Do you know that boy?”
“Who?”
My dad takes one look at my molten red face and knows. He knows. And does a terrible job of hiding the spark of interest in his eyes. Nor the smile wanting to spread across his face. God, please let him drop the subject.