Page 71 of Ugly Duckling
Parker’s father had killed Gunner’s mom and sister, and the only one to survive the whole tragic event had been Gunner.
Gunner had been raised by his grandfather for the most part until Gunner was an almost adult.
However, Gunner hadn’t thrived under his care.
It wasn’t until he’d emancipated himself and had relied more on Parker, that he’d really started to be happy.
At least, that was everything that I’d gotten from Kayla over the years as she talked and talked—and talked—about her favorite nephew.
Though, Gunner’s grandfather had the potential to fix all of this just by being a better father to his children. It wasn’t until he’d fucked up his own kids that he’d decided to start over with Gunner.
The only problem was, Gunner didn’t approve of how his grandfather, Ben, had treated his beloved uncle. He also didn’t approve of Ben’s lifestyle—a polygamist household where all wives were not treated the same.
Eventually, he’d just wanted out.
And he’d dropped his last name once he got out.
“Sorry, Gun,” I murmured. “Slip of the tongue.”
He touched the top of my head before saying, “I know. I just don’t want to ever be associated with that bastard ever again.”
“If it makes you feel better, everyone gives him a wide berth every time he’s seen in town.” I paused. “You know that he just had his thirteenth child, right?”
Gunner made a gagging noise. “Parker also told me that his newest ‘wife’ is barely over the age of eighteen.”
That was true, too.
The last I’d checked, Ben was on his seventh wife.
“I don’t know what to say to that,” I admitted.
“Nothing to say.” He shrugged and offered me his hand.
I took it, and he pulled me to my feet with very little effort.
His eyes connected with mine and he kept pulling me until we were pressed chest to knee.
“What are we doing, Gunner?” I asked carefully.
His eyes danced as he said, “We’re gonna race.”
Race we did.
Gunner beat me every single time.
The one time I had a chance was when Lottie darted out in front of Gunner and swung at his legs with her baseball glove. He vaulted her like a hurdle and kept running, still managing to beat me even though his daughter tried to take him out.
By the time we were done, both of us panting on the turf with pieces of black track on our sweating bodies, Gunner said, “Maybe now that we’re done racing, we can go eat the cold food in the truck at my place. After that, we’ll put Lottie to bed, and then you can rub down my sore muscles.”
I turned my head to look at him. “If anyone should be doing a rubdown of sore muscles, it should be you doing that for me. You barely even had to try today.”
“I tried,” he argued as he rolled over until he was hovering over me.
“Daddy, catch!”
I saw the ball heading right toward my face—my nose to be specific—but Gunner proved that his baseball skills were still very sharp because he caught the ball before it could make contact with my nose.
I gasped in a shocked breath. “Your daughter’s trying to make me need a new nose job.”
