Page 72 of Ruthless Redemption

“And the scratch on your neck?”

“Same thing.”

She raises a brow. “You’re either a really bad cook or you haven’t learned your lesson on lying.”

“Believe me, I learned that lesson well.”

She sweeps the stray strands of hair away from her face and shoots me a sideways glance. “Will you tell me about your father? What did he do to you?”

I stiffen. “I don’t refer to him that way.”

“As your father?”

“Yes.”

She stops. I do the same, hitching the board higher under my arm.

“He hurt you more than he did me, didn’t he?” Her eyes turn somber, but I’m not sure if the emotional display is real. She’s a perfect little actress.

“Nothing hurts more than losing your dad,principessa.”

“But he hurt you, right? What did he do?”

“He killed someone I cared deeply about. Just like he did with you.”

“I’m sorry.” She gives me an awkward look. Half cringe. Part wince. Then starts walking again. “Was it a long time ago?”

“Sometimes it feels that way. At others, it’s as if it were yesterday.” I take the lead, wanting to be in front of her before she steps into the ocean in case there are jellyfish.

The first trickle of water is like liquid ice. The second is more punishing.

“That’s what it’s like with my dad, too.” She follows me into the shallows, her mouth gaping as a gasp escapes. “Holy crap. It’s freezing.”

“I did warn you.”

“I know, but…” She bounces on her toes. “It’s so cold my feet are stinging.”

“Does this mean we’re not surfing,principessa?”

She drops her bottom lip. Slinks her shoulders.

“Okay, let’s get you back inside.” I smirk. “Your mom won’t forgive me if you get sick.”

“Can’t we sit on the beach for a while? I haven’t told you how to win her back yet.” She looks at me with Bambi eyes, making me question whether she came out here to surf at all.

“You sure are manipulative, aren’t you?”

“I take pride in my work.” She bounds out of the water, her arms wrapping around her middle as she plops down onto dry sand, completely ignoring Hunter and Decker who stand at the edge of the house yard like guard dogs on patrol.

I’m almost inclined to give them a reason to attack just so I don’t have to dodge questions from the miniature detective.

“So who did he kill?” she asks as I dump the board out of the way and sit beside her.

“It was the woman who mentioned me in the yearbook. It happened when I was a teenager.”

“And you stopped calling him your dad after that?”

“The very same day.”

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