Of course, I’d agreed to that combo of paint colors. I made a mental note to text my contractor the next day as I focused on the floor-to-ceiling glass, staring at the ocean.
After our house tour, we’d gone to the club, hit two baskets of balls, and eaten dinner on the terrace. Grilled cheese for her and a cheeseburger for me; french fries, smoothies, and apple pie for us both. Like I said, it was the best Saturday night I’d had in a long time.
Maybe ever.
At home, we’d watched several episodes of an Animal Planet TV show I was sure Jules would kill me for letting her watch, but it was educational. I couldn’t help that it included a baby whale being born.
This somehow led to one of Darla’s favorite subjects. Turtles. We planned to get one the of those next day too.
When I tucked her in, kissing her forehead and both her cheeks, she said, “’Night, Daddy.”
I nearly collapsed in the swell of emotions. It was a lot—even for a ballbuster like me.
“Love you, superstar,” I’d answered.
At eleven, I took my second Scotch upstairs and checked on her. She was fast asleep. I stood in the doorway admiring her for several beats until I heard a car door open and close outside.
Good. That Bryce prick listened to me and sent Jules home early.
Which was why I wasn’t at all prepared for what I saw outside the front door. Molly was helping Jules up the stairs, who had a boot on her foot and crutches in one hand. Her free hand held on to Molly, her right foot lifted in the air.
“What the ever-loving fuck?” I ran down the stairs. “Jules, stop.”
“Drew, not now.”
“Here.” I shoved my Scotch at Molly and lifted Jules into my arms. “Take these too,” I said, nodding at the crutches.
“It’s not her fault, Drew,” Jules argued as I carried her up the stairs.
“What the hell happened? What the fuck is Molly doing here?” The questions vomited out of me as anger seeped out from my pores.
“I got hurt. I called her. Period.”
“No shit. Why the fuck didn’t you call me?” I asked, shoving the door open with my hip.
“Put me down. This isn’t good for your knee.”
“Shut up, Jules.” I laid her down on the sofa. “Molly? Want to enlighten me?”
“Hey.” She put her hands up in mock surrender. “I didn’t do it.”
“Molly, thanks,” Jules said from the couch, her arm flung over her face. “Go home. I owe you big-time. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Then I saw something red on her face, a fingerprint, and I fucking lost it.
“What the hell is that?” I dropped to the floor and moved Jules’s hand.
“I’m going to explain, but you need to promise to remain calm. Remember, Darla is here.”
At the mention of my daughter’s name, my anger faded a little. I took a deep breath and nodded. “Please, Jules. I’m dying here. What happened? You have a mark on your face and a broken foot.”
She proceeded to tell me about an argument with Bryce over my call, explaining that he then got handsy with her, forcing his lips on her.
“Take a drink,” she insisted at the mention of his mouth touching hers. “He was drunk and out of line, but you shouldn’t have called him. Still, he was out of control, and I ...”
My head swam with rage and thoughts of revenge. I think she said something about smashing his foot, but she’d broken hers in the process. And twisted her ankle.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” I ran my hand up her boot.
