Count Your Lucky Stars (Written in the Stars, #3)(79)

Olivia reached for her phone. “I need to call my dad. I don’t—I don’t understand why he wouldn’t tell me if he was moving.”

It didn’t make sense.

Margot passed her the phone without a word, only a grim smile.

Olivia navigated to her recent calls, bypassed Brad’s number, and tapped on the icon beside Dad—Cell. It rang once, and Olivia sucked in a stuttered breath. Twice. She exhaled harshly. Pick up. Three times. She held her breath.

Hey, you’ve reached Gary Grant. Sorry, I’m not available to take your call at the moment. Leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Thanks!

“No answer?” Margot asked when Olivia lowered her phone, ending the call before the line could start recording.

She shook her head and stared at Dad’s contact page. “I’m going to call one more time.”

Margot leaned over the edge of the bed and plucked her shirt off the floor. She slipped it on, flipping the ends of her hair over her shoulders, and leaned back against the headboard. She snagged her phone off the nightstand, fingers swiping against the screen.

Olivia hit call and held her breath.

One ring.

Two rings.

Her stomach sank.

Three rings.

Hey, you’ve . . .

She shut her eyes and huffed. Damn it, Dad. Of all times for him not to answer, when she needed to talk to him.

She waited for Dad’s voicemail message to finish and stayed on the line this time, waiting to leave a message. Even though she was expecting it, the shrill beep made her pulse leap. “Hey, Dad. Call me when you get this.” She wet her lips, weighing out whether to give her reason for calling. “Just—call me. Please. Love you.”

Margot’s hand wrapped around Olivia’s thigh, thumb sweeping against the inside of her knee. When Olivia opened her eyes, Margot offered a smile that didn’t reach the corners of her eyes. “I’m sure he’ll call you back when he has the chance.”

Maybe he would, but . . . “I still don’t understand why he’s selling the house. And why he didn’t tell me. He loves that house. I grew up in that house. He and Mom—” She swallowed hard over the lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away, if anything swelling further. “He and Mom bought that house when they first got married. I don’t—I don’t understand. He’s never mentioned selling the house before.”

Dad loved his house. He—God, even the parts of it he didn’t love, like the yellow toile wallpaper in the downstairs half bath, he’d kept unchanged because Mom had picked it out. It didn’t make sense.

“I bet there’s a logical explanation for this, okay?”

“The house has been on the market for two weeks. Do you know how many times we’ve spoken, how many chances he had to mention it? We just spoke yesterday.”

“Hey.” Margot reached out, cradling the side of Olivia’s face gently. Olivia closed her eyes and leaned into Margot’s palm, pressing her lips to the inside of her wrist. “Why is this freaking you out so badly?”

She opened her eyes and sucked in a rasping breath, throat raw. “What else hasn’t he told me?”

How many times had he told her he was fine? That his blood work was good, that his doctors were happy with his progress, that he was taking care of himself, eating better, and working less? Was any of that true or was he placating her, brushing her concerns aside so she wouldn’t worry?

“He’ll call you back,” Margot repeated herself, thumb sweeping against Olivia’s cheek.

When? “He’s going out of town tomorrow, remember?”

Even if he did call, who was to say he wouldn’t do what he always did, blow off her concerns and tell her not to worry before changing the subject?

She wouldn’t be able to sleep until she figured out what was going on. If Dad was truly okay or if . . . if . . .

What if Dad was selling the house because he was sick? What if he wasn’t answering the phone because he couldn’t? What if there was no fishing trip—what if he was back in the hospital and he didn’t want her to know?

Even if she didn’t have his health to worry about, this still would’ve struck her as odd. Unsettling. They talked, often.

But she did have his health to worry about.

God, what she wouldn’t give to press rewind, go back to ten minutes ago when she and Margot had been tangled together in the sheets, the only fluttering in her gut from butterflies, a pleasant sort of squirminess. Not this awful anxious churning, her mind suddenly flitting to all sorts of worst-case scenarios.

Until she got to the bottom of this, her brain would try to fill in the blank that came after if with one terrible option after another. Not only would she not be able to sleep, but tomorrow was Annie and Brendon’s rehearsal. Their wedding was the next day. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, wondering, worrying.





Chapter Twenty




Olivia’s tongue darted out, sweeping against the lip she’d chewed red. She crawled off the bed, swiping her sweater off the floor. “What’s if he’s not okay? What if he’s—”

“Whoa, whoa.” Margot slipped out of bed, wincing when a twinge of pain shot up the side of her foot from putting too much weight on it. Walking was going to be a real bitch. “You need to take a deep breath, okay? Breathe in with me.”