Chapter Four
Paul Weaver’s car was not in the driveway next door when Grant parked his truck at his parents’ house.
Where were they? If Ivy had been on the Boston flight that arrived at the same time as the Los Angeles one, they should have been pulling up to their houses at roughly the same time. Had she made her flight?
Or had Ivy decided not to come at all?
Piper launched herself out of the truck and ran through the yard. The front door opened as she hit the first step, and she didn’t slow down as she collided with the solid mass of their father, who hugged his youngest like she’d come home from war instead of college.
As much as it warmed his heart to see the delight on Tim’s face whenever Piper walked into a room, Grant couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy.
If his dad had ever lit up like that when Grant walked into a room, he couldn’t remember it.
Their relationship was based more on business than blood these days, and lately, even that connection seemed tenuous.
Grant felt less like the son in Underwood she’s—” Grant could tell it was on the tip of his father’s tongue to say not old enough, but he caught himself just in time. “She’s in training. Can’t be out all night drinking.”
“Dad, it’s December,” Piper protested.
“And your first game is in February.” Tim had a hard time remembering his kids’ birthdays and occasionally his anniversary, but he sure as shit memorized the softball schedule that had only been released last week.
“It’s one night,” Grant implored, “and it’s Curly’s, not a biker bar or a strip club. I will have them home before they turn into pumpkins at midnight.”
“I don’t like it,” Tim grumbled, sawing his pot roast with unnecessary force.
“Tim, they’re fine.” Grace took a hearty sip of her red wine. “I think it sounds fun. Almost insulted that I wasn’t invited.” She winked so her children would know she was kidding. “But have them back at midnight so I don’t think we’ve got a burglar.”
“I’ll be shocked,” Grant said, “if they’re not bored to tears by ten.”