Page 13 of More For Me

Everly

Iwalk into my parents’ place and am not immediately assaulted by noise. Which is very weird.

“Mom?” I shout, slipping out of my shoes. “Dad?”

“In here,” my dad calls from somewhere in the house. It sounded like maybe the direction of the kitchen, so I head there. Sure enough my dad is standing at the kitchen counter, sandwich fixings spread in front of him. He looks up when he sees me, his face lighting up.

“I didn’t know that was you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I called your name when I walked in.”

“I thought you were Pres,” he says, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “Your little sisters are sounding more like you every day.”

He wraps his arms around me and I let myself nestle into his chest for a long moment. If there was a ranking system, I think most people would agree that my mom gives the best hugs. But I might have to go with my dad. His hugs aren’t as frequent—or as effusive—but that makes them more special, somehow.

“I didn’t know you were coming by today,” he says, releasing me.

“It was a last-minute thing. Had a meeting that got cancelled so I thought I’d spend my unexpected free time here.”

He grins at that, his familiar brown eyes crinkling up at the corners. There are a lot more lines on my dad’s face than there used to be, but he still looks pretty young, closer to early thirties than mid-forties. I know my sisters and I are responsible for the majority of those lines, and more than a few gray hairs.

Which he totally lets Mom dye for him. Rock stars are way more vain than he or his brothers would admit.

“I’m glad. Want a sandwich?”

“Sure.”

He goes back to the counter while I grab a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and start to pour us each a glass. “So what was this meeting about?” he asks.

“Show stuff.”

“Hmm.”

I do my best to suppress a sigh. My dad has come a long way when it comes toRansom the Runway, the reality show Alex, Fox and I signed on for when we were starting our clothing line. Back then, he’d been absolutely opposed, going so far as forbidding me from doing it, despite the fact that I was already a grown adult.

It was the first time in my life that I’d ever seriously fought with either of my parents and it sucked. By the end of the first season, Uncle Daltrey—Fox’s dad—convinced Dad that the best way they could protect us was by becoming more involved, instead of trying to pretend like it wasn’t happening. So they signed on as producers and appear on camera occasionally. They’re still pretty strict about letting the younger kids be featured more than a handful of times a season, but overall, they’ve chilled a lot since the beginning.

Which I really appreciate. Our dads might be way too overprotective, but they have been in the entertainment industry for decades. Their band still puts out number one albums and the record label they started with Grandpa and my Uncle Levi has had more hits than anyone else in the country. They’re definitely good people to have on your side for things like contract negotiations and marketing plans.

It would be nice if he acted a little more excited about it all, though.

“And what about the third location,” he asks. “When does that launch?”

I sit up straighter, excited at the mere thought of our next store. “Not until autumn but it’s going to be amazing. We got to tour the site last week. I have so many ideas.”

“Don’t work too hard.” He plates the sandwiches and grabs a bag of chips from the pantry, then follows me to the table.

I can’t help the little groan of delight when I take the first bite. I chew for a minute than raise an eyebrow at him. “This doesn’t taste like soy turkey.”

He grimaces. “Don’t tell your mother.”

I laugh. “Dad! Why even agree to follow her vegetarian diet when you clearly don’t want to?”

“Because it matters to her and I want to support her,” he says, looking down at his sandwich. He lets out a sigh. “But I can’t do it with lunch meat. I just can’t. A sandwich should taste a certain way, and soy does not cut it.”

“So what—are you hiding real turkey in the fridge?”

“I keep it in Vega’s fridge downstairs,” he mumbles, and I bite back a laugh. My youngest sister is a star baker—seriously, she’s going to be a celebrity chef someday. She already has a Youtube channel. She told me last week that she’s made enough money from advertising and sponsorships on her channel to pay for culinary school when she graduates high school. She’s got her own kitchen set-up in the basement for testing recipes and recording videos for her channel—and also hiding contraband deli meat, apparently.