Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 201(@200wpm)___ 161(@250wpm)___ 134(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 201(@200wpm)___ 161(@250wpm)___ 134(@300wpm)
“Happy tenth anniversary, baby girl,” Davis whispers into my ear, biting my earlobe. “Let’s cut the cake and send everyone home so I can have you all to myself.”
The soft words cause me to shiver with desire.
“Oh, Jesus,” Grandpa murmurs when he notices the photo on the cake.
It’s me. From one of the modeling gigs I did after my second pregnancy. It’s one of the daring ones, with a mom tummy, boobs and c-section scar. A woman’s body through and through. I look hot in a black lace babydoll, looking into camera while straddling Davis’ lap.
I didn’t think modeling would be my calling but Davis made me feel so good about me, it all fell into place naturally. When I was younger, it was my friends that pushed the modeling always telling me how beautiful I was, tall, thin…perfect for that industry. I do feel lucky that I’ve got what other people consider physical beauty and I don’t struggle with my weight, but I’m just me. I have my flaws and insecurities like everyone.
I do a very rare shoot these days but it’s been fun and Davis goes with me to every show and shoot, no questions.
I finished high school with some tutors, then took some courses at the local college but being a mom was really where my heart wanted to be.
The year after we married, Davis asked me if I ever wanted to try to find my biological father. I thought about it for a few months, then decided yes. Grandpa had revealed that my mother had only told him a first name and that he was a cowboy passing through town with the rodeo.
Well, Davis has some mad skills when it comes to research and giving me what I want because after a month, he had a name, phone number, address, email and lifetime rodeo stats, bank account and credit report. He wanted to pay someone to get his medical records but I said maybe we should meet him first and he would offer up any information that might be important.
He was shocked at first as I can imagine. He didn’t know I existed. He’s a good man, living in Arizona with his wife and two grown children. After some phone calls and lots of emails and texts, we met for dinner at his ranch in Phoenix and it felt like my mom was right here with us.
As time went on, we developed a nice friendship. I don’t call him dad, but he’s been there for me ever since I contacted him. His wife and my half-brothers are all part of our extended family and now I know where my love of horses comes from.
“Franklin,” Davis warns Grandpa, and I laugh when my grandpa lifts his hands in surrender.
It’s still a miracle to see him this relaxed and carefree. If it was 10 years ago, he would probably think of me as the devil incarnated. Not now, though.
“I told you marijuana is way better than the tobacco business,” Stevie says. “Look at old Franklin, finally seeing the fun in life.”
Stevie Ray is right. Stevie Ray convincing my grandpa to change profession was one of the best things to fix my relationship with the man who raised me. And together, they’ve done a lot to help people in chronic pain and with spinal cord injuries. And my gorgeous husband has also helped them. They started a family business of sorts. Davis, Stevie, Paul and my grandpa. Such a weird combination, but it seems to work. Grandpa still has Jesus on his dashboard, but life and time has softened him. He has finally seen the wrongness of his ways. Or possibly it’s the THC. But either way, I’ll take it.
Everything in my life seems to work as I look at the people I’m surrounded by, and the life I’m living with the man I love.
A wolf howls in the distance, and the kids squeal with delighted fear from inside our blanket fort as I close The Hobbit book I’ve been reading to them over the last month. I leave out the really scary parts but it’s a timeless story and I hope they grow to love a good adventure as much as I do.
Davis puts the final touches on our cozy little castle—one final comforter, pulled tight over couch cushions set up vertically—and crawls in with us looking like a giant among the Hobbits. Little Steven and Margaret smoosh between us.
“Daddy. Will you protect us?” Margaret, now nine years old, asks with a hint of worry. She’s old enough to have a curious and active mind, yet still struggles to make sense of everything. With her dad’s eyes and my hair, she’s apple-pie sweet right down to her core. Steven, at the age six, is a spitting image of me, but full of mischief just like his Uncle Stevie Ray.