Page 66 of Worth the Fight

“Grady—”

“He disrespected Dylan, so don’t give me a lecture on how fists don’t solve problems. I get it. I know better. I’m not twelve anymore, and I didn’t pledge my life to upholding the law. But this time around, he deserved it. You don’t brag about sleeping with a woman when you didn’t and then say rude shit to disrespect her.” There’s more anger in my tone than there should be, but I’m so sick and tired of being pushed right now.

I look over to my dad to see his lips pursed. It’s his tell when he has a shitload to say but is holding back.

“And this Dylan woman,” he finally says, “what did she think of you protecting her honor?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Hmm.” He nods but gives nothing more on the subject. “You’ve missed the last couple of Sunday dinners. You know what that does to your mom. Maybe you should bring this Dylan around the house sometime since it seems you don’t want to leave her.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to leave her. It’s that I’ve been on shift. And bringing Dylan to the house would only encourage Mom’s matchmaking you-should-marry-this-girl-and-give-me-grandbabies frenzy. No thanks.”

“She means well.” After forty years, there is still affection in his voice every time he speaks of her.

“I know she does.”

“So are you?”

I’m pretty sure I choke on the air I’m breathing. “Am I what?”

“Are you going to marry this girl and give us grandbabies?”

If whiplash were possible, I’d have it from the breakneck speed I turn to look at my dad. “We aren’t even . . .”

Aren’t what? We aren’t dating but we’re fucking?

Classy, especially after I was just talking about respect and women.

“Grandbabies aren’t in the future.”

“But you like her.” It isn’t a question. Just a statement.

I chew the answer on my tongue before nodding. “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.”

“You got in a fight for her, Grady. That means she’s more than pretty cool in your eyes. In fact, it says you more than like her.”

“Seriously?” I laugh, feeling like I’m on the playground bickering with a classmate.

“A songwriter, you say?” he asks, switching gears like the seasoned interrogator he used to be.

“I didn’t say what she did.” He has definitely been talking to my brothers. “But yes, she’s a songwriter.”

“Does she sing too?”

I think of her voice. How it’s throaty and sexy with that hint of rasp to it when she sings. “Yeah. She has a great voice.”

“So is she going to transition to singing for herself instead of hiding behind the scenes?”

Let the cross-examination begin.

I know my dad, and right now he’s angling at something. “No,” I respond as we turn down my street. “I keep telling her she has a hell of a talent, and it’s too bad she isn’t putting it to use.”

My dad pulls up to the curb in front of my house and looks at me for a beat. “Kind of like you.”

“What?” My fingers tense on the door handle.

“You have a hell of a firefighting talent.” He shrugs. “Too bad you aren’t putting it to use.”