Farrah & the Court-Appointed Boss: A Laugh-Out-Loud Romantic Comedy (The Ampersand Series Book 4) by Pru Warren

Author:Pru Warren [Warren, Pru]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781735991962
Publisher: Qui Legit Regit Press
Published: 2021-11-17T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven—Michael

“All right. What’s got you in a twist, buddy?”

Joe had picked his moment well. Sunday night. Murphy and Tessa both in their beds, pretending to be asleep but both of them reading. Hard to disapprove of that. Arlene enjoying the start of her Christmas break with high school friends reunited from their respective colleges.

And Joe on his night off, staring at me as I took a last pass at the dinner dishes.

“Let those soak,” my father said, a command veiled as a suggestion. “Come in here and sit. You’ve been like a flat tire for a week.”

Not really a week. It had been five days and roughly two and a half hours since I’d fled like a coward from Farrah’s swanky sky palace.

Maybe it would help to talk about it.

I followed Joe into the living room. He took his recliner and I sat on the sofa, hands empty and useless at my sides.

He watched me, this man who’d been a father to me, and then got impatient.

“Well, spit it out. Did you murder someone? Lose your job? Misplace your house key? What?”

I chuckled. “None of those things.” Dad hated having new keys made. Every new key, he’d grumble, is another way in to our house. Now hold on to this one! I’d never lost mine, but Arlene, Murphy, and Tessa went through them like tissues.

“So? Even for you, you’re tightly wound.”

Farrah had said something similar. Did people think I was tightly wound? I consciously relaxed, leaning back against the couch.

Uncomfortable. I sat up again.

“You got ants in your pants, boy?” Dad teased me about my fidgeting, but when I looked up, surprised at his guess, he raised his eyebrows. “Ah. You do have ants in your pants. About time.”

“Ugh, God, Dad. Don’t start with me.”

“Who is it? Not that Izzy you brought over last summer. She didn’t do a thing for you.”

Izzy had appeared at our family barbecue in shorts that were far too short. I’d thought Murphy’s eyes would fall out of his head. And he was not going down that road if I had anything to do with it.

“She’s a very nice woman,” I protested.

“Very nice. You weren’t interested. Easy to keep that medallion on with her.”

My hand went to my chain. It was a point of contention with everyone.

“So—who, then? Not the jailbird? The drunk party chick?”

I sputtered and tried to protest. She was much, much more than that. But Dad didn’t care. He’d identified the problem, and now he wanted to understand it.

“What was her name again?”

“Farrah,” I admitted. “Farrah Ridley.”

“Farrah. Right. Like one of Charlie’s Angels. She pretty?”

I waggled my head in a yes-and-no gesture. You wouldn’t call Farrah pretty. Arresting, maybe. Eye-catching. Magnetic. Mesmerizing.

But nothing so pale and weak as pretty.

“Hoo boy. She’s got you bad. Look at your face.”

“Stop it,” I said, trying to assert my independence. “There’s nothing wrong with my face.”

“Right. Tell it to the mirror. So what’s the story with your angel?”

God. The one thing she wasn’t was an angel.

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