Callie Reeves is a perfectionist. She has control over everything from her friends to her grades, the cheerleading squad she captains and anyone inbetween - even when it comes to dating.
After creating a list of rules to keep her no-strings attache...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I know a responsible father would demand his daughter change into less revealing clothes," I glance up from my textbook, fork hanging from my mouth as Dad enters the kitchen. He nods down to the counter. "Then again, if their daughter was a hell-raiser and not a study-a-holic they wouldn't need to."
Chewing on a heavily dressed piece of chicken I swallow it down seconds later and stab my salad again. "I'm multitasking. I needed to eat and read this chapter by Monday - that way I can crawl out of bed tomorrow afternoon and not feel guilty."
"Well, to make me feel less irresponsible I'll settle for a be safe and take a jacket with you . . . what are you studying?"
Dad glances at the textbook, opening the fridge and ducking his head in. He grabs the prepared meal from this morning and a beer which indicates him being off call. Most of the time he's constantly attached to his cell and waiting to escape the house.
But at the moment he looks exhausted. His sandy blond hair is tugged up in all directions and falling across his forehead in slight curls. Sleep bags form underneath glassy blue eyes which is a giveaway of how tired he is. Then there's the obvious sweatpants and tee shirt - a complete opposite to the crisp shirts and formal attire he normally wears.
Tonight he's well and truly ready for a break. Fifteen-hour shifts a week - plus being on call weekdays and Sundays - will do that to a person. Saturday nights are his one break and typically I'm going out, pushing more of a divide between us.
Dad pops his dinner into the microwave, the beep drawing me back from my worried thoughts. "Mathematics, we're doing parabolas and their limits."
"Parabolas . . . they're the curved lines, right?"
"I thought you hated maths?"
"I do," He leans beside the microwave while I stab more salad - practically drenched in honey mustard dressing - and dab it in the puddle at the bottom of the bowl. "I hated it. I still do . . . but I still need the measurement part of it."
"It'd suck for the patient if you missed by a couple of inches."
Shoveling the forkful into my mouth I try to suppress a smile at his loud laughter. Now that's a sound I haven't heard in a while. The microwave beeps and I go back to the textbook for a moment, the words blurring in an unwanted mess.
"How's the tutoring going?" Dad places his plate opposite me, moving around behind me to get utensils. "Did you end up taking on another kid?"
"It's as good as it gets," I answer honestly, shrugging my shoulders at the pointed look he gives me a vague answer. "I forget sometimes that these people don't have the same motivation and drive as me - that they're only looking to boost their grades so they don't fail."
"You didn't make another one cry, did you?"
"That was an accident!" I feel flooded by guilt at the reminder. "And a misunderstanding. I'm a tutor, not a cheat sheet for them to assume I'd do their homework."
