Have a good life." She walked off.
He watched her go with regret. He'd made an error in judgment. She didn't like immature men with an unwillingness to commit to anything beyond their own pleasure. Neither did he, so how could he judge her?
What the hell got into him? Every time he was around her, his foot ended up in his mouth like some green, sex-starved teenager. Ah. The operative word here: 'sex-starved,' with a heavy dose of frustration thrown in. In every way possible, she appealed to him more than Anne had. He'd never experienced this intense attraction. He didn't think of himself as a passionate man, so where did this come from?
Lindsay had lit a small spark of hope in his soul. Maybe this time, he could have that deep connection to another woman that some other men experienced. He knew, in his heart, that Lindsay Keith could be that woman. Yeah, provided he could make her believe he wasn't an irresponsible jerk just getting by on his looks, on the prowl for a little booty.
If the shoe fits, buddy. Your whole life you've had women because of your looks and money. Women were always there, without any effort on your part. You've finally met a woman you want. She's not interested, and you haven't a clue what to do about it. Well, hell, it's not something you can look up on Wikipedia.
The rituals of courtship were not anything he ever wanted or needed to know. He wished he knew some now. This was stuff you should have learned in high school. He was off studying quadratic equations. He gave a wry shrug, falling back on an old cliché. The bad news, as far as she was concerned, is he had alienated her forever. The good news is that he knew her last name.
Chap t er Eight
Ozark mornings were addictive, David decided, as he emerged from the kitchen, onto the porch with his mug of coffee in his hand. He succumbed to the lure without a whimper, settling into a chair, with his feet up.
Porch sitting, java in hand, breathing in the fresh air before the last of the summer heat returned, was a daily ritual—a chance to think quietly before he went inside to his office to work.
Squirrels busied themselves with the pre-winter task of finding food, insects hummed lazily; drifting in the early day sun. The thunderous pounding of a Pileated Woodpecker attacking a succulent, dead tree, rattled the peace of the neighborhood.
Restless energy plagued him this morning, the result of thinking about Lindsay. He still rankled from her rejection, but his gut told him this woman, who had stirred emotions he thought long forgotten, could play an important role in his life. Never had a woman bedeviled him like this.
He heard the toaster, and the sound of a cabinet door opening. Sarah was in the kitchen making her breakfast. Would she opt for coffee or orange juice before she joined him? She didn't like coffee. She only drank it, he knew, so he'd complain and tell her it wasn't good for her. She liked to goad him into arguments. Typical teenager, he supposed.
"Morning," he said, noting, as she came through the kitchen doorway, the glass of orange juice in her hand. The prospect of an argument faded with the expression on her face; she clearly had something on her mind that she hesitated to bring up. He wasn't going to like this.
She didn't waste any time but sat down and dove right in. "Uh, my friends, um, Tiffany, and Ashley, and Madonna, are going to get a tattoo. Is it okay if I get one, too?"
Tattoos? Shit! Another 'father' thing I hadn't anticipated. He frowned.
"Where?"
"You mean, 'where's the tattoo place?'"
She was stalling. Major conflict ahead. Trying to keep disapproval out of his voice, he said, "No. Where on your body do you intend this to be?"
Wary now, she replied, "Uh, we thought we'd do the one that looks like barbed wire, around our wrist, like a bracelet. Ashley says it's real swag."
"Absolutely not." How could she even think it? He had a personal prejudice against tattoos. My God. His beautiful daughter,
Jessica Anya Blau
Barbara Ann Wright
Carmen Cross
Niall Griffiths
Hazel Kelly
Karen Duvall
Jill Santopolo
Kayla Knight
Allan Cho
Augusten Burroughs