Page 20 of Perfect Assumption

“And there’s Becks.”

“Becks… Listen. All I’ll say is he’s no threat to you, Ward. Not if you’re serious. If you’re just playing, well, there’s plenty of women out there who would jump if you did this.” He snaps his fingers.

I can’t deny the truth in his words. I wonder what it would be like if Angie anticipated my arrival in the office instead of dismissing it as easily as she does every day.

David coughs to get my attention. “Put more time into the relationships you want if you care about the outcome. That includes your sister, by the way.”

My cheeks heat like I’m being scolded by a parent instead of my brother-in-law. “I owe Carys an apology.”

“You owe her your life.” The easy way he says that makes me realize there are no secrets between them. Not that there should be. “Your sister loves you, Ward. She played the grown-up for you at a time when she should have been able to have curled into a ball and crumbled. Don’t ever accuse her of not loving you. That’s bullshit and complete disrespect. Plus, your parents would be ashamed of you, and you damn well know it.”

With that, David slides out of the booth and strides out of the door, leaving me to think about his words. All of them.

After a while, I drop a couple of twenties on the table for our coffee—more for the time I spent taking up space in the booth—and head for the door.

I owe my sister the respect of a full day of hard work.

And an apology.

* * *

When I stridethrough the doors of LLF after I’ve showered and dressed, Angie’s head snaps up. “Good morning, Ward. I thought you were out all day.”

I stop at her desk as I shrug off my coat. “I’m not sure what it was. I felt better after a few hours.”And a good talking-to.“Did you have a good time last night?”

Her eyes widen until all I see are blue lagoons I could lose myself in. “I…I did. Your sister is a good cook. She…she saved some for you.”

“Considering that lasagne recipe was our grandmother’s, I hope she would.”

“Mother’s or father’s?” Angie blurts before clarifying, “I never got to ask your sister if it was from your mother or your father’s side of the family.”

“Too busy joking with everyone?” I toss out, trying to get the lay of the land.

“Too busy stuffing my face. It was so good.” A red stain starts to crawl up her cheeks.

“My maternal ancestors thank you. They were Italian,” I explain when her brows draw together in confusion.

“But?”

“But what?” I turn around briefly and hang up my coat. When I face Angie again, her finger is drawing pictures in the air.

“You look just like your father, and he’s the one who’s dark,” she accuses.

“And my mother’s family is from northern Italy. There’s a heavy German influence there which is how Carys got her blonde hair and blue eyes.” And there wasn’t the ache of a thousand daggers answering this simple question for her.

The puzzlement clears. “Well, wherever that recipe was from, it was delicious. It was a sweet thing for your sister to do.”

Now I’m the one who’s confused. Then, I realize I may have committed a grievous sin. “Did I miss your birthday?”

Horror must have laced my voice. Angie tries to smother a smile, but a small one escapes. “No.”

“Thank God. Even I’m not that asinine.”

The arch look she shoots me doesn’t inspire confidence. I raise my hands in surrender. “Fair enough. I’ll just have to prove it to you. Is there a break in my sister’s schedule, by any chance?”

“Did you hit yourself on the head?” she wonders aloud, even as she pulls up the calendar.

“No. Why?”