Nick raised a hand to her face and kissed her more intently. “Four more days.”

She leaned her forehead against his. “Mmm. Five more days until beach and sun.”

“Can’t wait. Let me know what’s up with your dad.”

“I will.”

“Be careful out there today, Samantha.”

“Always am.”

Sam walked to her father’s house with a growing sense of dread. Since he was shot more than two years ago, Skip had done such an amazing job of staying upbeat and positive despite having every reason to not be either. His attitude had gone a long way toward helping those who loved him to accept his new reality.

She had feared the day might come when he just couldn’t stay positive anymore. And like Nick had said it was amazing it hadn’t happened sooner. “Not this week, Skippy,” she whispered as she took the ramp to her father’s front door. “Please not this week.”

Inside, she found Celia waiting for her in the living room and gave her stepmother a quick hug.

“Look,” Celia whispered, gesturing to the kitchen where Skip sat in his chair with the Washington Post loaded into his reading device—just like every other morning. However, rather than peruse the paper the way he normally did, Skip stared out the window. “He’s been like that for a couple of days now. No interest in anything.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks, Sam. If anyone can snap him out of it, you can.”

Sam swallowed hard. No pressure or anything. “I’ll do my best.” She patted Celia’s arm and went to the kitchen.

“Hey, Skippy.” She dropped a kiss on his freshly shaven cheek. “How goes it?”

“Oh, hey. Where’d you come from?”

“Three doors down the street.”

That earned her a weak smile. “How are things at wedding central?”

“Not too bad.” Sam helped herself to a bottle of water from the fridge and cracked it open. “Shelby is doing a good job of keeping the madness far, far away from us.”

“Earning her keep anyway.”

Sam sat at the table. “For what Nick is paying her, it’s the least she can do.” She studied him for a moment and noticed he looked tired and wan. A stab of fear caught her off guard. While she’d always known it would’ve been so much better for him in many ways if the bullet had killed him, she was eternally grateful that it hadn’t. “How are you?”

“Good.”

“Anything new or exciting?”

He glanced at her, suspicious. “What’s with the small talk?”

She shrugged. “Just checking on my dear old dad. Any objection to that?”

“If you’ve got something on your mind, Sam, spill it.”