Roseanne.
Dad: Is she being a dick?
Roseanne: No.
Dad: Would you tell me if she was?
Roseanne: Also no.
Dad: Roseanne, if you need backup, just tell me. I can send Gabriel.
Roseanne: That's not even his name. Plus, I grew up around you. I can handle dicks.
Roseanne: Fuck my life. Forget I said that.
Dad: Already deleted.
I sleep like shit. All the witty comebacks I wish I'd said to Lisa last night run through my head like the ticker on the bottom of a news channel.
She agitated me. I let her get under my skin, and I shouldn't have. I walked away like the bigger person, even though what I wanted to do was kick her in the shins. Which would have hurt like hell because everything about Lisa Manoban is hard, and toned, and cut.
She's not bulky, but she's fit. A swimmer's build. Strong enough to stay on, but not cumbersome.
And maybe that's why I'm agitated. Staring at a magazine ad of Lisa in Wranglers with hearts in my eyes as a teenager is funny, but seeing her stripped down as an adult is not.
It's frustrating. Something I need to work off, which is why I'm pulling on my favorite leggings, sports bra, and loose tee. A quick search on my phone brought up one option in town for a gym, and that's where I'm headed.
I march down the hallway, ponytail swinging behind me as I strut into the kitchen with my head held high, trying not to remember the way the light played off every ridge on Lisa's body last night-the shadows between every defined ab, the dip at the hollow of her throat, that perfect v heading toward the other head.
What a fucking dick.
And that dick's dad is already sitting at the table, sipping a coffee, and reading the newspaper.
"Good morning." Marco smiles at me. "Early riser, huh?"
"Yeah." I reach for a mug and pour myself a coffee, making myself at home because, right now, I desperately need some caffeine. "Always have been."
"Me too," he tells me.
As I pass the fridge with my coffee in hand, I catch sight of a photo there, held up by a magnet in the shape of a horse's head. A petite blonde woman beams at the camera beside the shiniest black horse I've ever seen. She's wearing black and gold jockey silks and the horse has a blanket of roses draped over her.
"Who's this?" I ask Marco curiously.
His responding smile is immediate. Deep and genuine. "That's my little girl. Minnie. She's a championship racehorse jockey. Lives over near Vancouver with her husband and my other grandbabies."
I pull the chair out across from him, returning his grin. "You must be very proud of her."
A sad look flashes in his eyes, but he covers it quickly. "You have no idea."
I swallow thickly, sensing that's as far as I can go with this subject. So, I change the topic entirely. "I'm heading into town to try out the gym."
The older man nods. "Good for you. I bet you'll be back before Lisa even wakes up."
"Well, great. If she gets up, give her a tranquilizer until I return."
"She giving you trouble already?"
"No chance. She's a doll." I wink at Marco, and we share a laugh before falling into an easy conversation.
I make Marco and I each a piece of toast for breakfast, and he seems thoroughly amused by me making breakfast. When we hit a natural lull in the conversation, I clean up and head out the front door to hop in my car.
