Daddy strides into the living room, between me and the TV, and switches off the “Buffy” rerun I’m half heartedly watching.
Then he holds up a pack of cigarettes and a romance novel. “I found these in your room, Cherise. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Heart pounding like a techno track, palms wet and mouth dry, I plaster on a brassy, totally fake smile. “You always tell me I should read more?”
I squeak at the end.
Damn it. He’s caught me by surprise, and it’s making me nervous. “Smut isn’t what I had in mind.”
“It’s just a romance novel, Daddy.” I knew the cigarettes would get me in trouble, but I’m surprised he’s harping on the book. He’s always got his nose in a book—sometimes some classic, since he’s a lit professor, but just as likely a thriller, and he knows I love a good
