Once Dead, Twice Shy - Kim Harrison [27]
“How would he find out, though?” I muttered, pulling back from the window when my dad looked up at the house.
Josh shifted his glass so it was perfectly situated with his plate. “It’s a small town,” he said, his brow pinched in worry. “I should call my mom.”
We both stiffened when the front door opened. “Madison?” my dad’s voice echoed in the silent house. “Are you home?”
I gave Josh a nervous look. “We’re in the kitchen, Dad.”
His shoes thumped on the hardwood floor, and he appeared in the archway to the hall. Josh stood, and my dad’s eyebrows rose as he took him in. “Hello, sir,” Josh said, extending his hand. “I’m Josh Daniels.”
My dad’s puzzled expression eased and turned into one of acceptance. “Oh! Mark’s son. You look just like him. It’s good to meet you.” His grip pulled away. “You’re the one who left Madison at the prom,” he accused in a defensive-dad sort of way.
“Dad!” I protested, embarrassed. “He didn’t leave me. I ran out on him after I realized you set us up. Josh was a perfect gentleman. I asked him over to lunch to try to make up for it.”
Josh was shifting from foot to foot, but my dad had found his usual good humor, and his face showed a smile again. “I thought maybe it was because your bike had a flat and you needed a ride somewhere,” he said, his eyebrows arched.
I blinked. “H-how did you know?” I stammered.
My dad put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze before he went to the message machine. “I got a call from the bike shop.”
My mouth opened into an O as I remembered I’d left it there. “Oh. Yeah. About that—”
“They ran the registration number and came up with my name,” my dad said as he turned away from the machine and frowned. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. Even called the Flower Bower to see if you went in on your day off. I finally had to leave work.”
Embarrassed, I shrugged. I hadn’t checked my phone in all the commotion today. “Uh. Sorry. I ran out of minutes,” I lied. “Josh gave me a ride.” My dad’s frown was making me nervous. “So I asked him for lunch.” Crap, I was babbling, and I shut my mouth. A soft sound of disapproval escaped him. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he said dryly, passing through the second archway to the never-used dining room. I sighed. “Excuse me,” I said to Josh, then glumly followed my dad. He had gone all the way through the dining room and was standing in the patch of sun that made it into the living room, shining on the wall where he’d hung some of the photos I’d taken at the balloon festival with him last month. He’d sprung for a ride in one, and you could see the entire old downtown in one shot, the rivers outlining its confines. The living room, like the kitchen, held whispers of my mom, from the glass-topped tables to the suede furniture to the Art Deco statue in the corner. Either my parents had very similar decorating ideas, or my dad was still living in the past, surrounding himself with reminders of her. No pictures of her, though.
“Dad—” I started, but he didn’t give me a chance to explain.
“Stop,” he said, hand raised. “What did we agree on about guests?”
I took a breath to speak and let it out. “I’m sorry. But it’s Josh. You set me up with him, so I thought it’d be okay. It’s just a sandwich.” My voice had gotten whiny, and I hated it.
“It’s not the sandwich; it’s you being here alone with him.”
“Da-a-a-a-ad,” I moaned, “I’m seventeen.”
His eyebrows went up. “What’s the agreement?” he asked, and I slumped.
“I said I’d ask before inviting people over,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
Immediately he relented and gave me a sideways hug. My dad couldn’t stay mad at me, especially when it appeared I was starting to make some friends. “It looks like you forgot a lot,” he said when he let go. “Like your bike? Madison, that bike wasn’t cheap. I can’t believe you left it there.”
If he was talking money, then we were cool. “Sorry,” I hedged as I tried to get him to go back to the kitchen. “Josh almost got into an accident and I got distracted.”
At the word accident,