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dark.”
    Coop slunk past me and beelined for his food dish. Whitney tracked him from the corner of her eye.
    Make no mistake—wolfdog and bimbo did not get along.
    Whitney considered Coop a wild animal infesting the property. Coop considered Whitney a meddling interloper disturbing the peace. I backed the wolfdog’s take.
    “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Lost track of time.”
    “Don’t talk to your shoes, sweetheart.” Whitney tsk ed. “A proper lady prides herself on making firm eye contact.”
    I fought an urge to flip her the bird. “Thanks for the tip.”
    Whitney desperately wanted for us to be friends. But her personality and priorities made it all but impossible. I’d tried my hardest to like her. And failed. Repeatedly.
    It is what it is. The woman doesn’t get me, and I can’t fathom her.
    But Kit adored his Barbie girl, so I kept those thoughts to myself. As far as he knew, the bimbo and I were getting along okay.
    Oh, sure. Everything’s just hunky-dory.
    Kit’s an outstanding marine biologist, and a good dad, but he’s not the most perceptive guy on the planet. Or even top half. A fact I’d used to my advantage more than once.
    You’re probably wondering about that.
    I’d been living with Christopher “Kit” Howard for over a year, ever since my mother was killed in car accident. Broadside. Drunk driver. Mom never stood a chance.
    The pain still surfaces unexpectedly. I’ll hear a Rolling Stones song, or see a ratty yellow futon, and boom, it all comes rushing back. A raw wound that never quite heals.
    I try to hide the eruptions, but the guys can always tell. They do their best to support me even though it makes them uncomfortable. It’s very sweet, but teenage boys make lousy grief counselors. Same with Kit, though he’s getting better at it.
    I’m working things out on my own. Seems easier that way.
    If the accident hadn’t happened, I’d likely never have met my father.
    A sad thought.
    Kit and I got off to a rocky start. He’d had zero idea how to deal with the shattered, weepy teenage girl who’d dropped into his life like an H-bomb. But slowly, we’d learned to trust each other. To peacefully coexist, and even enjoy each other’s company.
    We’ll never have a “normal” father-daughter relationship—I call him Kit, and decided to keep my last name—but we weren’t strangers anymore. Real progress had been made since those first awkward weeks.
    Until he’d added the ditz to our household, anyway.
    And Whitney’s dreadful presence wasn’t the only change.
    As if making up for prior negligence, Kit now watched me like a hawk. That’ll happen when your teenage daughter manages to get stalked, attacked, shot at, or arrested every few months.
    What can I say? Being Viral is like golfing in a thunderstorm.
    Trouble seems to find me.
    “That you, sport?” Kit emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron that said “Hail to the Chef.” The mind weeps. “Good walk?”
    “Yes.” I swept past Whitney. “It’s getting really nice outside.”
    Kit knew my friends and I had a secret clubhouse, but he didn’t pry. Which was fortunate. The bunker’s true scope would blow his mind.
    Tossing my bag onto one of the awful chairs, I flopped on the living room couch, the lone piece of furniture to survive Extreme Makeover: Whitney Edition.
    I pretended not to notice as Whitney retrieved my bag and hung it by the door.
    Grrrrr.
    Whitney was a compulsive straightener. I don’t know why it bugged me, but it did.
    Whitney walked over and kissed Kit’s cheek. “I was just telling Tory how it’s not wise to walk alone after nightfall.”
    “I learned a lot.” Straight-faced.
    “Okay, who’s hungry?” Kit forced a smile. “Tory, set the table. Now, please.”
    Sometimes I pitied my dad—he often walked on eggshells around the two women in his life.
    You brought her here, pal. We were doing just fine before.
    I laid out the flatware and took my usual seat. Whitney began distributing