Page 69 of Embracing the Beat
Shit. How do I start this conversation?
“Well, you know, Michaela came home right after you and Kelly left for your cruise.”
“That must have been a surprise for you,” he jokes.
“Yeah,” I nod. “She showed up at about three in the morning on Monday.”
Dan groans.
“Of course she did. And she’s been here ever since?”
“Yeah, um, about that. Since she’s been back, we’ve been hanging out and well…”
“Well, what?” he prompts.
“I—uh—well, we, I guess.” I let out a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve developed feelings for her. And I think she has some for me too.”
His eyebrows climb to his hairline.
“You and Mikey?” he asks, clearly surprised by my admission. “Aren’t you a little old for her?”
I cringe, because the seven-year age gap has crossed my mind too.
“Dad!” Michaela groans from the doorway and rushes forward to sit next to me on the couch.
“What? It’s a serious question, kiddo,” he says.
“I’m not a kid anymore. And West is right.”
“Right about what?” I ask.
“You’re not the only one with feelings,” she says, meeting my gaze.
I want nothing more than to claim her lips with mine, but I’m very conscious of her father watching the two of us closely. Instead, my pinky finds hers on the couch cushion, and I link the two together.
“So, what does this mean exactly?” Dan asks, interrupting the moment between us.
“I want to date Michaela. And I’d like your approval.” I don’t shift my attention away from her, and her eyes sparkle at my announcement.
“What does Sawyer have to say about all this?” Dan asks.
“He doesn’t know yet.” My stomach tightens at the thought of the conversation I still need to have with my best friend.
“Hmph. I’m sure that will be an interesting exchange,” he says. With a sigh, he continues. “I’ve known you since you were nine years old, West. If anyone was going to date my daughter, I guess I’d be okay if it was you.”
Relief washes through me, and Michaela smiles.
“Does Kel know?” he asks.
“Kelly does indeed,” she says, walking into the room and sitting in a chair across from her husband. She gives me a wink but doesn’t say anything about what she almost walked in on.
“What do you think?” he asks her.
“If the kids are happy, who cares?” She shrugs. “But”—she levels a serious look at first me and then Michaela—“I’m not interested in seeing anything a mother should never see. Got it?”
Embarrassment fills me at what she isn’t saying, and I nod.
“Yes, ma’am.”
