Kindle Notes & Highlights
Archie might as well have a blinking road sign on his chest that says Detour to Ab Town.
Where does Piper Quinn get off showing up out of nowhere claiming this house belongs to Cynthia? And when did she grow into her eyes and gain some curves around her butt and waist? And why am I even thinking that my annoying stepsister is kinda hot?
“Yeah, it does. Those were good days, living with my mates, still able to surf big waves…” I nod at the poster. “Being famous for a living.”
“Famous for a living? That’s how you think of your time on the show? Not as a surfer or an actor?” Piper has always had a way of asking direct questions, but it seems less annoying now. Or maybe I’m just more mature. Or maybe I’m that lonely. “Let’s be honest,” I say, giving her a small smile and cocking my head to the side. “I wasn’t much of an actor. And once my collective injuries knocked me out of competition level sport, I wasn’t much of a surfer either. The only reason I was on the show in the first place—or that there was a show at all—is because Dad bankrolled it to make his kids
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Do I answer like an older brother? I’ve never been that. Do I answer like we’re old friends catching up? Because we’re definitely not that either. Do I answer like we’re friends now? At best, we’re acquaintances. For the moment, anyway.
“I'm not ready to sever ties, Frankie. I like Dad. I want to be part of his life…but I want more say in my future.” Seconds tick by before Frankie speaks in a softer voice than before. "It's interesting you say 'like' instead of 'love.'" "I do love him, okay?" I shoot back. “Okay.” Another pause. “That doesn't mean Dad gets to choose your life for you. I love him too, but I'm happier without him pretending he wants what’s best for me when, actually, he just wants what’s best for him." I let those words sink in.
I reckon this is payback for Sunday night, and I let out a soft chuckle. Clever. If I’m not careful, I might start liking this back and forth with Piper. She knows how to keep things interesting.
What I find in the kitchen—to my surprise—is Archie at the kitchen island, his bare back to me. He’s in his usual day wear of board shorts and nothing else, except a full apron. And, yeah, it’s been a few days, but it doesn’t take much to reignite the image of his little towel-dropping antic. Especially when his shorts sit just below his waist, clinging to his hips for dear life, so when he crouches down to get a pan from a lower cabinet, I hold my breath until he stands back up and his shorts stay with him.
I remember the times I’ve accused him of being entitled. Of being like Malcolm. I was wrong. Archie wouldn’t take something that’s not his. He’s not like the people who’ve used me, or dismissed me, or stripped me of credit and called it mentorship. He’s stubborn and messy and occasionally infuriating, but he’s also kind. Loyal. Protective in a way that feels safe, not suffocating.
