After I deposit the milk in the fridge, I move over to the table. It’s only big enough for two chairs so I take the unoccupied one.
He looks up, a silly grin on his face. It’s a handsome face—very Dick Van Dyke-ish—and I hate I’m getting ready to put hurt there.
Taking in my expression, his smiles slides. “What’s wrong, love?”
“Dad,” I begin, but falter slightly. I give a slight cough, consider not going where I need to go, then tell myself to suck it up. “Dad… you can’t go back to stealing.”
He frowns, lips pursed in confusion. “Why ever not?”
“Because… you’re not physically able because of the stroke,” I say.
“I’m in excellent health,” he replies, completely offended. He sits up straight. “You can’t even tell—”
“Yes,” I cut in on him firmly. “I can tell. You don’t have your full balance. You often reach out to a wall or counter to support yourself, and I don’t even think you realize you’re doing it. You’re not as agile, and that’s both the stroke and your age. And Dad… you process things a bit slower.”
My heart shreds as he studies me, absorbing what I’m saying. I can tell it’s a complete shock.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I continue. “But I don’t think it’s possible anymore. Honestly, I’d worry too much about you if you did. I’m afraid you could have another stroke and die. I’m afraid you’d get caught because things are a little off with you. And you always taught me to never go into any situation unless I was at peak performance in all aspects. Remember that one time I had a bad head cold and I was going to rob that big house over in Knightsbridge… and you told me not to do it because—”
“All right,” my dad snaps, holding up a hand to stop my rant. “I get it.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I get it,” he says again, this time in a low, dejected tone.
I reach across the table to take his hand in mine. He doesn’t pull away, only squeezes mine back as his gaze drops to stare blankly at the paper.
“If it helps,” I say slowly, waiting for him to look up. “After this last job with Mercier, I’m getting out of the business, too.”
My dad’s eyes flare with surprise. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of it,” I say honestly. “I want a different type of life.”
I’d expected that to hurt him, because he raised me to be like him. I willingly followed in his footsteps, and I wouldn’t trade my experiences for anything. But I have always suspected he wants me to love this life the way he does, and I don’t anymore.
Instead, I see a tiny spark of light deep within his gaze. The corners of his mouth tip upward. “Now that is good news to hear.”
It’s my turn to be shocked. “What?”
“Sin, it was never my greatest hope you’d lead the same type of life I did,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t hate it when you did, because it kept us close… but I always knew you had so much more in you. You’re still young, with your whole life in front of you. You should go out and do remarkable things that don’t involve this type of risk.”
“I don’t even believe what I’m hearing,” I say with mock offense, but he knows I’m teasing. “Who are you and what have you done with my father?”
My dad laughs, squeezing my hand hard before releasing it. He pops up from the table, then grabs his cold cup of tea. “Want a cup?” he asks.
“Sure,” I reply and lean back in my chair, trying to process what he’d said.
In the kitchen, my dad lights the stove for the kettle. “Maybe you’ll think about settling down. You and Saint would make some beautiful grandbabies for me.”
“Dad,” I exclaim, stunned he’d even go there. I sit up straight in my chair. “Saint and I aren’t—”
“You love him, he loves you… why are you even acting like this is a huge shock for me to make that leap?”
“He doesn’t love me,” I mutter, slouching down again.
“Bollocks,” he replies, moving around the short counter to the table. He takes his seat while we wait on the water to boil, looking me dead in the eye. “Mark my words… you two are going to have a long and happy life together.”
“I kind of doubt we are,” I say.
“But he forgave you,” my dad points out.
“I know.” Uttering a sigh, I smile pensively. “But sometimes, that’s not enough.”
“Where did my daughter go?” he asks, cocking his head at an angle to study me thoughtfully.
“Right here,” I reply, my eyebrows knitting in confusion.
“No… the daughter who always goes after what she wants and doesn’t sit around with a woe-is-me, attitude waiting to see what happens.”
I blink, surprised he’d call me out like that. And then I realize I have been sounding a bit mopey about the whole thing.