“Nice outfit,” I say. “Did you forget to go home last night?” I raise a judgmental eyebrow, just to drive home my disapproval.

His dirty smile grows. “Something like that.”

Whore.

“Oh, hello! You must be Kayla.” An older gentleman with thick white eyebrows and balding hair and a cheerful expression emerges from a door at the back of the office. His short, round frame wades through the minefield of papers and over to me. “I’m Eddie Perkins.” He holds out his hand.

I shake it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Perkins.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Turner,” he says. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.” His cheery face sobers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Yes, yes. My dad is dead. We’re all sad.

I smile politely. “Thank you.”

“I’m pleased that you showed up,” he says. “Your father didn’t think you’d come, you know, but I’m glad you proved him wrong.” He smiles warmly then looks around. “Now where… are my… glasses…?” He pats down his suit coat and turns around in a circle as he searches the pockets of his pants.

“On your head, Eddie,” Daren says.

He taps his head until his hand smacks against the reading glasses propped in his sparse white hair. “Oh! There they are.” He smiles as he pulls the glasses down and sets them on his face. “I’m always forgetting where I put them. Now”—he clasps his hands together—“since everyone is here should we get right down to it?”

I look around and pause. “Everyone?”

The lawyer pulls off the glasses he just put on. “Yes. You and Mr. Ackwood were the only two requested.” He shoves a hand into his inner coat pocket and comes up empty, muttering, “Now… where is my handkerchief?”

Wrinkling my brow, I say, “My dad asked that Daren be here?”

“Yes. Oh, here it is.” The lawyer pulls a yellow handkerchief from his back pocket and starts cleaning his glasses.

I blink a few times. “Why?”

Daren answers, “Your dad owes me some baseball cards.”

I stare at him. “Huh?”

“You are both here to sign papers, Ms. Turner.” Mr. Perkins tucks the handkerchief into his coat pocket and props the eyeglasses back on his face. “But first we need to go over your father’s will.” He scratches his head. “Where did I put the will?” He looks at his messy desk. “It was just here a moment ago.” He shuffles a few papers around then starts digging through a tall filing cabinet.

“By the coffee pot,” Daren says.

“Oh, that’s right.” Eddie smiles as he retrieves my father’s paperwork from a small kitchenette in the corner.

I love that my father’s will was carefully filed between a set of ceramic mugs and a bottle of powdered coffee creamer.

“I still don’t understand,” I say.

Mr. Perkins looks at me and shrugs. “Perhaps your father’s baseball card collection is why Mr. Ackwood’s presence was requested.”

“It’s actually my collection,” Daren corrects. “Turner was just holding on to the cards for me. Kind of.”

I look at Daren first then the lawyer. “I thought my father didn’t have any belongings to bestow to anyone. I thought he gave everything away before he died.”

“Most everything.” Mr. Perkins gestures to the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”

I look at my only seating option and inwardly groan. Daren is sitting on the fake leather couch with one tan arm stretched over the backrest while the other casually hangs off the armrest, stretching out his broad chest, and his right leg expands out with his opposite ankle propped on the knee. God. Could he take up any more space?

His brown eyes dance with amusement like he knows just how obnoxious his splayed-out limbs are and is waiting to see how I react. I pointedly avert my gaze and situate myself on the far end of the sofa, squeezing my hips as close to the other armrest as possible to avoid touching him. He looks at me with a hint of a smile. I ignore him and cross my legs with a deep inhale.

Daren smells good. Really good. Like oranges or lemons or something. Clean and fresh.

How in the hell does he smell good when he’s wearing a walk-of-shame outfit and yesterday’s deodorant?

Mr. Perkins leans his round frame against his cluttered desk as he silently reads through the will then looks up. “What it comes down to is this: Mr. Turner donated Milly Manor to the town of Copper Springs and designated a few personal items to some of his close friends.”

I tilt my head. “He left personal items to friends?”

He nods. “There were a few things he wanted to give to his loved ones.” He refers to the papers. “He donated all of his books to the local library. He left his golfing equipment to Gus Ferguson—you might know him as Golf Cart Gus. And his antique furniture and record collection he gave to Valerie Oswald.”

I bite my tongue to keep from cursing. My father donated everything but a handful of possessions, and of course he left those things to a guy named Golf Cart Gus and some woman I’ve never heard of before. Typical James Turner. Slighting his daughter, even in death.

“Of course, Gus and Valerie weren’t requested for the reading today because Mr. Turner settled his affairs with them before his passing.” Eddie pushes his glasses up with a plump finger and looks at us. “Which brings us to his unfinished business with the two of you.” He leafs through the folder and distractedly says, “Although I don’t believe… it concerns Mr. Turner’s… baseball card collection.”

“It’s actually my collection,” Daren repeats.

I snap my eyes to him. “Why are you even here?”

“Uh… because your father and I had an arrangement concerning my baseball cards. Have I not made that clear?”

“Oh, you’ve made it clear. You’ve made it crystal clear,” I say, feeling my pulse rise. “I just don’t understand why my father is leaving a bunch of crap to people I don’t even know.”

Daren mocks an offended look. “You know me.”

“Do I?” I say, mimicking his sarcasm. “No. I know of you, but I don’t know you. So forgive me if I don’t understand what you’re doing at the reading of my father’s will.”

His charming good looks ice over and a muscle works in his jaw. “I spent more time with your father than you ever did. If anyone’s presence here is unmerited it’s yours.”

Our eyes lock in a gaze of mutual contempt. Daren’s attendance at this very personal, and somewhat heartbreaking, will reading makes me want to howl. He knows nothing about my father and me. Nothing.

Mr. Perkins clears his throat and we break our gaze to look back at him.

“James Turner’s last wishes were to leave something to you both. Something he entrusted to me.” He sets the folder down and scratches his head again before scurrying about the messy room. “I know I had it here somewhere…”

I have no idea what the bumbling man is looking for now, but after spending two minutes with him, I’m impressed he managed to leave his house today without forgetting to put on pants.

Daren leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches Mr. Perkins fret about the room. I watch as he laces his long fingers and casually taps the pads of his thumbs together.

“Ah, yes. Here it is.” The lawyer holds up a DVD then slips it into a large TV across the room and cues it up. “James put together this will himself just a few months ago. I only opened the initial package last week. Inside, he requested that the two of you be present for this video message.”

He presses Play and my father appears on the screen. His brown hair is grayer than I remember, his green eyes a bit faded, and he’s thinner than ever before, but everything else about his youthful face is the same. He was in his fifties when the cancer took him, but he looked like he was thirty and probably acted like he was twenty. Mom always said that’s what she loved most about him—his childlike silliness. That’s what I liked most about him too.