Eight twelve. God, why was time dragging on so slowly? She was tempted to manually change the computer settings to nine o’clock and tell Rob her shift was over, but the new and improved Brett didn’t pull stunts like that. Besides, Rob was too smart to buy such a dumb ploy.
Ding.
Brett smothered a groan when the bell over the door chimed loudly. She pasted on a smile, ready to greet the unwanted customer. When the door swung open, her unhappiness dissolved into relief.
“Hey, princess,” her father said cheerfully. His heavy black boots thudded on the tiled floor as he strode to the counter. “C’mere and give your old man a hug.”
Brett leaped out of the chair and walked into her dad’s outstretched arms, returning the big hug he gave her. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“Just came by to see my favorite daughter.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m your only daughter.”
“Says who?” Jimmy Conlon flashed a sly smile. “Maybe I have a secret attic family I never told you about.”
“Ha. Mom would’ve ripped your throat out with her bare hands if you pulled that crap on her.”
“Never,” he declared. “Your mother was a pacifist.”
Hardly. Brett didn’t have as many memories of her mom as she liked, but from what she did remember, Norah Conlon had been a total spitfire. Headstrong and outspoken, Brett’s mom hadn’t taken crap from anyone, and Brett knew she’d inherited her temper from her spirited mother.
As for her father, she might not have inherited his huge frame or tangle of red hair, but she’d definitely gotten her wild streak from him. She’d heard countless stories over the years about all the trouble he’d caused in the neighborhood growing up, thanks to his act-first-and-think-later nature. Once he’d married and had kids, he’d stopped solving problems with his fists, but he could still drink any of his sons under the table, and his boisterous personality charmed every person who sat in his tattoo chair.
Brett adored her father, but he could be so damn obstinate sometimes. It was probably due to his Irish blood, but man, his stubbornness was infuriating. He still viewed her as his little “princess,” acted like she couldn’t even brush her own teeth without his help. Granted, her past behavior had contributed to his inability to see her as a grown-up, but she wished he could at least acknowledge she was trying to change.
“Anyway, Rob told me you have a new boyfriend.”
Brett’s head swiveled in the direction of Rob’s curtained-off station. Seriously? Already? She’d been working with her brother all day, and she certainly hadn’t seen or heard him talking to their dad. Clearly he’d found a way to sneak in a phone call without her knowledge.
And people accused women of being gossips.
“Yeah, kind of,” Brett answered, keeping her tone vague. “It’s still very new.”
“Well, I don’t need to meet the guy to know I approve.” Her father looked beyond thrilled. “The Ten Grand Touchdown! Fuckin’-A! I can’t believe he’s coming to the house tomorrow. I’m making steak and garlic shrimp in his honor.”
His enthusiasm would have made her laugh if she didn’t feel so damn guilty. She hated deceiving her father, even more than she hated disappointing him.
She’d always been nothing but honest with her family, though her open-book mentality was probably one of the reasons she was forever on their shit lists. If she’d been a better—or more willing—liar, she wouldn’t be in the boat she was currently in. Her family would be blissfully ignorant to all the immature things she’d done in the past. Her brothers wouldn’t be on her case all the time.
Her father wouldn’t have had to bail her out of jail last year…
The incident brought a clench of shame, along with a rush of anger, because she truly hadn’t done anything wrong that night. Troy was the one who’d gotten plastered and picked a fight at the bar. Brett hadn’t consumed a drop of alcohol, but when the brawl had escalated, the cops had carted her off with Troy and tossed her in the drunk tank right along with him.
God, the disapproving stare she’d received from her dad when he’d picked her up that night was still burned in her brain like a cattle brand. And she still remembered the sting of tears when he’d proceeded to blame himself for not “raising her right.”
But he was so fucking wrong. After Brett’s mother had died of cancer when Brett was seven, Jimmy Conlon had stepped up to the plate to raise their children. Dealing with the boys had been easy, but Brett knew he’d had a tough time relating to his only daughter. Her father was a man’s man to the core, yet he’d done everything in his power to shower Brett with the love and attention she’d craved. And all those girlie-girl activities she’d demanded they do together? God. He’d indulged her every whim, just so she wouldn’t miss out on what the other girls her age were doing.