“He pours a glass of water and pops a handful of pills. “Are you okay?” I ask him. He’s pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t look good. “I’m having growing pains,” he grits out, pointing to his legs. “The T. melvinus must be regenerating my bones.” “Does it hurt a lot?” I ask. “Let’s just say I know what it felt like to be tortured on the rack.” My dad’s back in town for the weekend. He appears at our front door after lunch, wearing worn-out jeans and a black T-shirt and carrying h...is toolbox. “Dad!” I shout, and fling myself at him. “Reporting for duty,” he tells me, holding up his toolbox. “I hear there’s a toilet that needs fixing.” My father is handsome. I don’t say that just because I’m his daughter. He’s the kind of man who women stop and stare at when he walks into a room. He’s got thick, curly black hair and dark brown eyes. He’s usually cast as the rake or the hero in a play. “I miss working with my assistant.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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