Page 87 of Swiped By My Dad's Best Friend
Even if I were wrong, I’d still get my project done. And I couldn’t think of a better motivation to do my best work than helping my Daddy the way he’d helped me so many times before.
Simon tapped away on the computer, following my directions and offering a few helpful suggestions as I began shaping my campaign proposal. By the time my next headache struck, we had the basic proposal written up and emailed to my professor for approval.
Taking a look at my pinched expression, Simon asked, “Need a break?”
I pressed a fist to my temple and closed my eyes. “Yeah, thanks. Damn. I was hoping to get more done.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ve got Thanksgiving break coming up. I bet you turn most of this stuff in after.”
“I just don’t want to leave it too long,” I muttered.
“Concussions are a bitch,” Simon said emphatically. “The headaches will get better though. But the harder you push, the longer it will take.”
“You speaking from experience?”
“Yup. It’s only happened a couple of times, but you can’t totally avoid it when you play contact sports.”
I grimaced. “Can’t imagine signing up for this.”
He snorted. “No kidding. Guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“Shit, sorry,” I said. “That must suck.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I miss it like hell,” he said. “Other times, I’m fucking relieved. It took up so much of my headspace, you know? If I’m not a college athlete, what am I?”
“Well, you’re still a frat boy,” I joked. “So you’re not without a label yet.”
He rolled his eyes, smiling good-naturedly. “You joke, but the frat has kept me from falling apart. Seriously.” He nudged my shoulder. “You guys gave me a place to land when I blew up my life.”
“We’ve always got your back.”
“And we’ve got yours. Go take a fucking nap. If you’re up to another round of work later, I’ll be here.”
“I think I will,” I said, suddenly missing my own bed. I’d never pass up the chance to spend time with Trace—he was my home now above all others—but it felt like ages since I’d been in my personal space. I slipped off my shoes, climbed into my bed, and fell into a light doze free of worry.
Between Trace and Simon, I’d catch up my assignments, and thanks to that note from my philosophy professor and Trace’s work to keep the housing rehab projects on schedule, I had hope that everything would work out okay.
For the first time in a long time, I had purpose and direction. I knew who I was and where I wanted to go.
***
TRACE
Sunday arrived too soon. Cooper and I had spent the weekend reaffirming our love and commitment, and I felt a lot more certain about where we stood. But I still hated the idea of leaving him again.
“I wish you could stay,” Cooper said as we loaded our bags into my pickup. I’d be dropping him off at the frat on my way out of town.
“Me too, brat.” I paused to kiss his pouty lips. Then added teasingly, “But, it’s your fault I have to go.”
He looked indignant. “What do you mean?”
I smirked. “You’re the one who told me not to give up on my business.”
“Oh.”
“And, you’re also the one who came back here Saturday night full of ideas for how I can compete better.”
Though I’d appreciated his enthusiasm, I’d been skeptical when Cooper suggested that Facebook advertising could help me. People didn’t go on social media to find their landscaper, I’d argued. Cooper had then pulled up a marketplace post where residents were asking for recommendations for all manner of work—mowing, landscaping, house cleaning services. Apparently, social media was where people foundeverything.
