Page 110 of Who's Your Daddy
“Oh, there will be many, many more next times.” His low whisper makes my stomach dip.
“We are working, Mr. Murphy,” I remind him, my tone far too breathy for my liking.
“Ooo, I love it when you get all formal.” He nips at my collar.
“Really. I have a lot to do today.Too much.” Though I fervently fight the desire coiling in my core, a whimper slips from my lips.
“Give me fifteen minutes, then we’ll both put our noses to the grindstone for the rest of the day,” he promises.
A thrill flows through me, but before I can give in, the front door opens and slams shut again.
“Hellooo!”
My body goes rigid at the sound of the far too familiar voice.
I yank back from Cal. “What is my mother doing here?”
He frowns at me, his expression one of genuine confusion.
“Anyone here?” My father calls.
Panic pulls my heart right into my throat. “Both of them?”
Maybe I’m overreacting. My parents aren’t awful people. Not at all. It’s just that they don’t share the respect I have for responsibility and planning ahead.
They just go where the wind takes them, oblivious to the havoc they cause when they disrupt schedules and organized lives.
“You okay?” Cal assesses me, his brow knitted in concern.
“Fine.” Resigned, I stand, smooth my skirt, and head to the front entrance.
“Lola!” My mom, who’s talking to Amy, rushes to me. She throws her arms around me, her long blonde hair covering my face as she rocks from side to side with the exuberance she possesses at all times and for every occasion.
“Hi, Mom,” I mutter when she finally releases me.
“Buttercup.” My dad’s hug is next. Rather than rock, he lifts me off the ground and arches back, causing his leather jacket to crinkle oddly between us. “How is my girl?”
“Ready to be put down,” I tell him.
He laughs in response, easing me to my feet.
They are a pair. My mother is dressed in ripped jeans, with some type of lacy shirt thing under her denim jacket. My father is decked out in head-to-toe leather. And they wear matching bulky black boots. It’s a relatively new look. When I was a kid, they were more hippie than biker. Though they went through a goth stage during my teen years. In my experience, it’s the kid who typically goes through that kind of phase. Not in my house. In my house, I was the stability.
Two years ago, they discovered a passion for motorcycles. And when they find a passion, they go all in. At least until a new passion comes along.
“What are you doing here?” The moment the question is out, I wince. It sounded more like an accusation than I meant for it to.
“We’re meeting some friends nearby. Then we’re headed up the coast to see the leaves.” My father shrugs, as if he couldn’t care less about the leaves; he’s just happy to ride.
“Leaf peeping,” my mother corrects. “We’re going leaf peeping in Vermont.”
I dip my chin. That kind of thing is right up their alley. But… “So you’re here because…” I let the sentence trail off.
“When we realized we’d ride past your new office, we thought we’d come by for the day.”
My stomach sinks. “The day?”
“Of course,” my mother chirps. “We want to see our daughter.”
