Gamed (A Standalone Romance Novel) (Bad Boy Romance) Read Online Free Page B

She should come in the door at any moment," I said as the first
batch of cookies went in the oven.
    "You'll look
for her for a long time. Nothing wrong with that."
    Her calm
acceptance of my feelings made it possible for me to think outside of the warm
and comforting kitchen. It registered that I had seen the door to my father's
office standing open and I wondered where he went. I had ten minutes before the
first batch was done.
    "Have you
seen my father?" I asked.
    Charlotte shook
her head. "He asked for chicken dumpling soup when I came in and then he
disappeared."
    I went to peer in
the door of his office. The lights were off, but I could see his outline
propped in a chair. He stared out the window, a glass of whiskey suspended in
the air halfway to his mouth.
    "Daddy?"
I asked.
    He jumped as if a
gunshot had reported in the wood-paneled confines of his office. "Quinn,
Jesus Christ, you scared me. What are you doing creeping around?"
    "You're the
one sitting in the dark."
    He grumbled and
turned on the lamp next to him. His eyes were red and puffy but dry as he
scowled at me. "How's your mother?"
    "I don't
know, she's still upstairs," I said. "How are you?"
    "Probably a
good idea. She needs to rest. I'm tired. Exhausted. You might not think it’s a
big deal to drive from Vegas to L.A. all the time for school, but it takes a
toll," he said. Finally, he noticed the glass of whiskey and took a long
sip.
    "Speaking of
L.A., I should call school," I said.
    "Your advisor
spoke to all your professors. The funeral is in two days. You can stay with us
until it’s over," my father said.
    "The
funeral?" I asked. A sour taste filled my mouth at the word.
    "Yes, I have
a friend at the Walton's Funeral Home, he's the director. Making all the
arrangements. Viewing, service, reception, it will all be here. Cook knows the
rest."
    "It just
seems so, I don't know, so fast," I said.
    My father snorted.
"What did you expect, Quinn? Decisions had to be made. Not everyone can go
through life wavering like you do."
    "Sienna was
decisive. She kinda proved quick decisions aren't
always the best, didn't she?" I could not take the angry words back.
    He shifted in his
leather chair and refused to look at me again. "Check on your mother
before dinner," he said and turned the light off.
    I retreated back
to the kitchen, and Charlotte took one look at my face and folded me into a
tight hug. "He's just grieving. Anything that comes out of his mouth the
next few months is pure rubbish."
    "I, I accused
her of being rash. I actually joked about where her quick decision-making got
her. It was awful," I said.
    "No one can
know what went through her head. Sienna always had her mind made up and
wouldn't let anyone change it. A trait I'm happy you did not inherit from your
mother."
    Charlotte and my
mother had a long-standing habit of arguing over recipes. Though my mother did
not cook, she clung fast to a few beliefs of how things should be done and
would not hear reason.
    "Everyone
always says Sienna is just like my mother."
    "It never
bothered you before," Charlotte said.
    "What bothers
me now are the ways they are the same. The big mood swings and the
perfectionism. It’s just not that healthy," I said. My voice was low; they
were words that felt dangerous to say out loud.
    "What's wrong
with perfectionism?" my father asked from the doorway. "Do I smell
something burning?"
    I ran for the oven
and pulled the sugar cookies out just before the edges burned. "Nothing is
ever perfect and people who strive for it end up stressing themselves out over
something they can never achieve."
    "Your sister
achieved plenty," my father said too loudly.
    I could not take
anymore. "And what about the mood swings? Are you going to tell me it’s
perfectly healthy to be so depressed you stay in bed behind black-out curtains
for a whole day only to emerge ready to go out for cocktails?"
    "And now,
we're talking about your mother," my father said. "Your arguments
always segue,