Feels like Trouble (Lake Fisher 4)

He chuckles. “You can put the barbs away, Little Miss Priss. I just want to talk about Grady.”

“What about him?”

“My Grady has never had a whole lot of ambition.”

“Bullshit,” I blurt out.

He bristles. “Excuse me?”

I stand up taller. “You heard me. I said bullshit.” I hold up my pinkie finger. “Grady has more ambition in his little finger than most men have in their whole body. He has a job he loves, and a business he created from scratch, using an education he got and paid for himself. I’d say he has tons of ambition. No thanks to you.”

He rubs his finger down his nose. “You might do,” he says.

“I might do what?”

“You might do okay for Grady.”

“Pardon?”

“Me trying to guide Grady was like trying to push a square peg into a round hole.”

I snort. “Understatement. You were pretty bad at it.”

He heaves a sigh. “He’s a success in spite of me. Not because of me.”

I stare at him. He’s finally said something I can agree with.

“What?” He narrows his eyes at me. “You don’t want to disagree?”

“That part you just said? That last line? You are right about that.”

“How’d that taste coming out of your mouth?” He grins at me.

Finally, I let a smile cross my lips. “Terrible. But I’ll survive.”

He pauses for a long moment. “I love my son,” he finally says. “I love him so much. A

nd every time I look at him, I could just pop with pride.”

That surprises me. “You should tell him that sometimes,” I say.

He nods. “I will. Don’t need your advice on that.”

“You never did like me, Mr. Parker.”

“You never did like me either,” he tosses back.

“Still not sure I do,” I reply. “But you have to give Grady his due. He’s a good man who has accomplished amazing things. And to top it all off, he’s happy. You should be happy for him.”

“Can I ask you something?” He eyes me, a smile hovering around the corners of his mouth.

“I think you just did.”

“Why’d you write that on the Jacobson barn? Asking Grady to kiss you? Why’d you write it where everybody could see it?”

I pick at a string on the edge of a couch cushion I’m standing next to, not sure how to answer. “Grady and I turned fighting into an art form,” I try to explain. “But that night, we weren’t fighting. We were friends, real friends, but I wanted more. Still do.” I shrug. “That’s why I wrote it.”

“You’re not embarrassed by it every time you drive by?”