Dad stared after him, amusement sparking in his eyes. ‘The man can’t keep a fern alive. Are you sure he’s the right fit here?’
Steve might not have a single green finger, but he made up for it in customer service. The man was relentless in his positivity. I trusted him to keep the store running in my absence, so I could forgive his lack of plant knowledge.
‘What are you doing here?’ I placed my hands on my hips.
‘Can’t a man come visit his son?’ His thick northern accent instantly catapulted me back in time. Over the years of being in London, my own accent had diluted somewhat, not as much as Oliver’s, which only came out when he was pissed. Hearing it now, and seeing Dad after a shitty morning, loosened some of the tension in my shoulders.
‘Course, it’s just a surprise,’ I said, softening my tone. ‘You drove here?’
I jutted my head to the window of the car park. Since Oliver’s career in football had taken off, and the press around him heightened. Journalists and paps would start sniffing around his relatives, digging through our bins to find scraps of information on him. It got so bad paparazzi had nearly run Dad off the road when he was coming home from a doctor’s appointment. He was edging into his late seventies.The experience had shaken him more than he let on. In the past few years, he rarely left the house, relying on delivery services, Oliver, or myself to take him places. I didn’t mind, and neither did my brother. But Dad hadn’t come to see the shop in over a year. Having him see it now, with the paint peeling and the significantlackof customers coming in and out, made me self-conscious.
He waved a hand, batting away the concern on my face. ‘Needed to get out of the house. Being cooped up for so long, ain’t good for me.’
My old friend, guilt, prodded me with his long finger. Scratching the back of my neck. ‘I was planning on stopping by in a few days to check Mum’s plants. Give them a weeding and tidy up.’ It had been too long since I was there. Usually, I stopped by weekly to tend to his garden to stop it getting out of hand. As he got older, it was getting harder for him to get around as easily as he once did.
He put up a weathered hand. ‘None of that. You’ve got your own life. It’s not your job to look after me. I just came to pop my head in.’ His head craned to the side. ‘You know that sign outside could use a lick of paint.’
Along with everything else in this place.
I forced a smile. ‘I’m working on it.’
His head bobbed as he looked around the room. A wistful glimmer in his pale eyes. ‘She would have loved this place.’ The emotion was thick in his voice. ‘You’ve done so well, son.’
Fuck.I schooled my expression, careful not to let it show how close I was to breaking over those words. How much I wanted to let this facade drop and say that I didn’t have anything together. It was all falling apart, slipping through my fingers like sand.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I choked.
His attention flicked back to mine. Pale grey eyes lookedon in only the way a parent’s can do. As if they already knew your secrets, already knew what you were thinking and were waiting for you to come out and say it.
‘Maybe when you stop by you can tell me more about this girl.’
I consistently make the mistake of over sharing with my father. Each week, I called and filled him in on my life and asked what he’s been up to. Growing up, Dad had always felt like a safe place. He let me vent about anything and everything, offering grunts and soft hugs when I needed them. He rarely voiced his opinion unless I asked. So when I went to pick up Rosie that very first night and saw her drunk and sad, the following day when my dad called, everything spilled out.
Everything I’d kept firmly close to my chest. All those feelings that I’d sworn to bury at all costs.
I scratched the back of my neck. ‘It’s uh?—’
‘Bad time?’ A lyrical voice called from behind me.
As if the mere thought had conjured her out of thin air, Rosie stood a few feet away, dressed in a warm navy coat over a pair of ripped jeans. Her hair pulled back into a messy bun, several strands falling out to frame her face. Once again, my dick failed to read the room. All it thought about was the way she felt pressed against my body that night and how it had been far too long since her lips had been on mine.
She was here. Looking at me with a quizzical quirk of her brow, the longer I stayed silent.
‘What are you doing here?’ I blurted out.
Her brow arched in surprise. ‘You say the sweetest things to me sometimes.’
‘I didn’t mean it like—I just meant—’ Words weren’t supposed to be so fucking difficult.
A warm hand came to rest on my arm. ‘Let me jump in there and stop you digging that hole any deeper, lad,’ Dadsaid, stepping around me and holding out his hand to Rosie, whose entire face lit up as she saw him.
‘Peter Blake, you must be the girl he’s told me all about.’
She shook his hand, eyes bright and happy as she laughed.
Great. There was a God and apparently I’d done something to royally piss him off.
Rosie shot me a quick glance. ‘As long as he’s told you nothing but good things, then yes, it’s definitely me.’
