But that’s not entirely true. I have a choice.
“No questions. But I didn’t get to finish what I started saying earlier.” I give him a smile that is in no way pleasant. “You can go fuck yourself, Harold. Have a good day, now.”
On that note, I walk away and leave Daisy to deal with him.
Fuck my father. Fuck Harold. And fuck Daisy for trying to play hero.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Beckett
Armed with a chainsaw, I stride to the edge of the woods and unleash my pent-up frustration on a fallen tree.
I hate to lose—control, money, my temper, my sanity. But over the past two weeks I’ve done a damn good job of losing my grip on all of them.
After sawing off the limbs, I cut the trunk into twelve-inch logs and make a few trips back and forth with a wheelbarrow, unloading all the wood onto the lawn at the side of the house.
I set a piece of wood on the chopping block and line it up with the blade, lift the axe above my head and swing. With two more strikes, the wood splits down the middle with a satisfying crack, and I split the remaining pieces in two.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Splintered wood goes flying as I work my way through the pile on the scrubby lawn.
The temperature has risen a good ten degrees since I’ve been out here and the afternoon sun is beating down on me, sweat suctioning my T-shirt to my skin.
Don’t ask me why I’m chopping firewood in July. I just am. But there’s something satisfying, almost primal about swinging an axe, and with each strike of the blade, I can feel a little bit of the tension draining from my body.
Caiden’s music drifts from the roof—The Revivalists’ “It Was a Sin.” A slow lamentation. Regrets. An apology.
My father never apologized for his actions.
Not when I was thirteen and he shipped me off to boarding school.
Not when I was fifteen and buried my mother.
Not when he showed up at my office under the guise of making amends last year.
Would I have forgiven him? Probably not. But he could have at least tried.
I set the axe down on the tree stump, tug my T-shirt over my head and use it to wipe the sweat off my face.
“Finally,” Daisy says, sauntering across the lawn. Her hair is hanging loose around her shoulders, and she’s changed out of her work clothes into a loose tank top, short shorts and flip-flops. “You’re fulfilling all my fantasies. A sweaty, shirtless lumberjack. You should grow a beard and start wearing flannel shirts, you sexy beast.”
Ignoring her, I ball up my T-shirt and toss it on the lawn then set another piece of wood on the chopping block, poised to strike again. But Daisy moves to my side so I lower the axe and shoot her a withering glare that would make anyone else cower in fear or at the very least, back the fuck off.
Not Daisy though. She moves even closer until she’s standing right next to me, practically glued to my fucking side.
“Can I try?” She holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers like she’s expecting me to just hand over the axe.
“No.”
Undeterred, she darts in front of me and inserts herself between me and the chopping block. “Come on,” she pleads. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
“You can’t always get what you want.”
She grins. “But you can always try.”
Just as I suspected. She wants something, but I have yet to discover exactly what that something is.
She’s obviously expecting a favor in return for her good deed. Quid pro quo.