Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
He looks at the ceiling and exhales a plume of smoke. “Yup.”
I laugh, and the grin on my face isn’t forced. No “owly” Murphy at this moment.
“I love your daughter,” I say, meaning every word.
“I know you do. But she may still change her mind.”
I nod then try not to inhale again. This time I manage to blow out without coughing. Does it taste good? No. But sometimes we do things because it makes other people feel good. I don’t know if Blair and I will make it to the altar and both say, “I do.” But I like Hunter. He’s unapologetically himself, even when it’s frowned upon or offensive. Blair hates that about him. I can respect it without agreeing with everything he says.
“Would your father have liked my daughter?” he asks.
“My dad liked everyone. He was an artist too. So he would have been drawn to Blair’s passion.”
“She’s a good person,” he says. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but I’m proud of her. We’ve tried to give her everything, but she’s always found more joy in forging her own way, achieving success on her own. She’ll be a good mother and wife.”
Again, I nod. He’s not telling me anything about Blair that I don’t already know. She’s beautiful, talented, and kind. Any man would be lucky to have her.
“So”—he takes a puff and blows it out—“what are your … what was the word? Icks?”
I chuckle. “You first.”
“Murphy, my wife hired a homemaker for me. She’s perfect.”
“Your wife or the homemaker?”
Hunter doesn’t look at me, but he smirks.
“My ick with Blair is she’s been engaged three times but never married. And I feel pretty arrogant thinking I’m different.”
“You’re confident. She needs that. Hell, she needs you to drag her to the altar by her hair if need be.”
This is the perfect example of things he says that angers Blair, but I find humorous. I’m more laid-back than my fiancée. It’s easier for me to enjoy life without running it through a filter, dissecting everything to determine if it offends someone before I let myself laugh. I try to tell her intention and context matters, especially with her father’s generation.
“By the way, thanks for the dance lessons. I got laid.” He holds out his fist.
Golfing and sharing inappropriate jokes are one thing, fist-bumping after he nails my future mother-in-law is another. Still, I bump his fist.
“I got laid the same night too.” I offer my fist.
He scowls at me. “Too far, Murphy. Too far.” Then he opens the door and climbs out.
I chuckle then wait a few minutes and head upstairs to see if I’m still engaged. Before I reach the main floor, Blair appears at the top of the stairs in her workout wear.
“I’m going to exercise so my body doesn’t go on your ick list.” She descends the stairs and tries to slide past me without our bodies touching. I wrap my arm around her waist to stop her.
She huffs, lip protruding in a pout.
“I’m sorry. There is no ick list. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
“Liar,” she says, rolling her eyes.
I nuzzle my face into her neck. “I’m not lying.”
“You need to shave. And you smell like cigar smoke. Yuck.” She tries to push me away.
“Wanna know a secret?” I ask.
She refuses to smile, but she stops trying to wriggle out of my hold. “What?”
“My dad used to make things out of wood. He had a lathe and carving tools in his garage. My mom resented all the hours he spent with a ‘tree stump’ instead of her. I was fascinated by it, so he taught me.”
Blair’s forehead wrinkles. “You’re a woodturner?”
I nod.
She blinks several times, face soured. “Why have you never told me this?”
“Because I don’t do it anymore. And since my dad died, I let that part of my life die too.”
“Murphy, I’m an artist. I create things out of clay. You met me at an art expo, and you never thought to mention that you’re an artist too?”
“You’re far more talented. I never wanted to sound like I was competing with you.”
Her head juts back. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I told your dad that my dad would have liked you because he was an artist too.”
“So the only reason you’re telling me is because you don’t want my dad to tell me first? Jesus, Murphy. What is wrong with you?” She jerks out of my hold and continues down the stairs.
I drag a hand over my face. There is nothing I can do right today. Perhaps I should take a nap and try again tomorrow.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Alice
Only fools judge others for their mistakes.
“Where’s your mom?”
I look over my shoulder at Murphy in his swim trunks and baseball cap. Wiping the dirt from the garden off my hands, I sit back on my heels.