Page 19 of Dust Storm

Oh God.My stomach roiled.That was so fucking gross.

“Are you okay, Miss Cassandra?” Gracie said, leaping off her uncle like a monkey swinging from a tree. “You look like Bree when she’s about to throw up.”

I took a steadying breath and put on a smile. “I’m fine.”

“Daddy says that when women say they’re fine that it’s a lie, so we’re not supposed to say we’re fine.”

Becks snorted.

I braced my hands on my knees and bent to be just above her level. “Did your daddy also tell you it’s not nice to demand a different answer when someone has already given you one?”

Gracie didn’t flinch. “No, but my therapist says that it’s better to say how we feel so we can deal with it and move on rather than letting it soup.”

“Rather than letting itstew,” Bree corrected from across the room.

Gracie shrugged and skipped away, blissfully unbothered. “I like soup better. Chicken noodle is my favorite.”

What kind of father encouraged his kids to go to therapy like an emotionally available, self-aware parent?

Didn’t Christian know he was supposed to ignore all expressions of personal feelings like the rest of the dads out there? Or at least like mine had.

“You must be Ms. Parker,” an older woman said from behind me.

I turned just fast enough to catch a glimpse of silver hair before arms wrapped around me.

My back went ramrod straight.

Therapy and hugs. This family was so fucking weird.

“I would’ve been here to greet you when you got in, but I was taking the girls to dance class. How was your trip, honey?”

“Just fi—” And because I knew that child would correct me if I said “fine,” I said, “It went smoothly.”

She beamed. “Oh, that’s just great to hear.”

“Hey, Momma,” Christian said with an incredible tenderness in his graveled voice. “Thanks for getting the girls.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “Anytime. It gave me an excuse to go into town.”

“Cass, this is my mom,” Christian said with his burly arm still around her shoulders.

I nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Griffith.”

“Please, call me Claire. Or Momma. Everyone does.”

“Claire,” I said decisively.

Calling someone who was not your mother “mom” was bizarre.

Claire looked around. “Where’s CJ?”

“I’m here,” a slightly younger-looking version of Nate said as he strolled in. He was positively filthy.

Like Christian had done, the man hung his hat on the hook and kissed his mom on the cheek.

She raised her eyebrows. “Who raised you to walk into this house when you’re that filthy?”

He smirked. “The same woman who taught me to never be late for dinner.”

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