I grip the mallet in my hand. “Might I have a name?”
He smiles, albeit it looks somewhat forced. I get those kinds of smiles a lot. “Andrew Larsen. London’s dad.”
The confidence slips from my face.
“Do you remember me?” he asks.
“The smile’s throwing me.” I tilt my head to the side. “Can you yell at me instead?”
He only smiles broader. “I’m glad I don’t have to remind you what happens when you hurt my daughter.”
Everything in me wants to correct his not-so-subtle threat. Technically,hehurt his daughter.
“No reminders.Everythingabout that time is very clear,” I say, clenching my jaw so hard it ticks.
“Look.” He shoves a hand through his graying hair. “London doesn’t know about that.”
“Yeah, I’ve gathered.”
“I never told her. She never saw you at the house, either.”
I guess this is all adding up. I’d planned on talking to London today and asking her about the past. But I’m not about to throw her dad under the bus for my sake. What kind of man does that make me?
“I don’t regret overstepping, but I do apologize for yelling at you. You were just a kid. But you know I have to protect her, right? She’s my little girl.“ His voice drops. “I won’t let you hurt her, or her business, more than you already have.”
I shake off the uncomfortable feelings trying to claw into my chest. He’s not the first parent who didn’t approve of me; he won’t be the last. I get what he’s not saying. Yes, he overstepped all those years ago, but he will gladly do it again. Because he still thinks he knows me.
I won’t prove him right this time.
“It’s been nice chatting with you but I should get started on this.” I finally slip around him, and he allows me to pass.
“Let me know when you need help getting that case in here,” he says.
I only nod before going inside. He doesn't follow.
London is standing on a chair next to the wall, stretching her arms out in either direction. I smile at the duck stickers on her prosthetic arm. They weren’t there yesterday.
“What are you doing?” I ask, a lightness finding me after the uncomfortable talk with her dad.
“Measuring.” She stretches her arms out wider, and the motion pulls the hem of her shirt up, exposing a sliver of tan skin.
I stalk over to her, stopping a foot away. “Most people do that with this little thing.” I hold up a measuring tape.
She doesn’t even look down. “No thanks. I have an excellent eye.”
“Okay then, what are you measuring for?”
“A picture.” She plants her hands on her hips, but her eyes remain trained on the wall like she can see the exact measurement up there.
“Do you need help?” My voice comes out lower than expected.
She turns. Because she’s so short, my head is in line with her shoulders. “Bentley, don’t you know better than to ask a woman that?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Sorry, superwoman.”
“I’m not superwoman.” She shoves my shoulder, and my hands jump up, completely unrestrained to catch her waist. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you were going to fall. And I was going to save you, of course.” Since her feet are still firmly planted on the chair, my reasons for holding her are kind of obsolete. My arms drop to my side.
