Page 10 of I'll Keep Her Safe

He nods, reaching for my stuff again. “She did.”

“It won’t be for long,” I add, this time picking up a box despite his frown, and following him up the stairs. I force my gaze on the steps and not on Mr. Mathers’s ass in front of me. Only a pervert would check out the ass of her friend’s father.

Mr. Mathers turns at the top of the stairs, leading me along the landing to the bedroom facing out over the street. Despite Bailey never having lived here full-time, I expect to see the room decorated with touches of her as a teenager. Maybe some posters or stickers, a desk with a corkboard above it, a frilly comforter.

But the room is devoid of personality. There’s a double bed with a plain white comforter, a wooden dresser and desk—without the trace of a single sticker—and an empty bookshelf. A brown leather armchair sits beside the window, capturing a little of the afternoon sun, with a perfect view out over the street below. There’s even a small fireplace, surrounded by a white wooden mantel.

Wow. No disrespect to Dean, but this is twice the size of my room in his apartment, and it isadorable. Dean’s place is a new build, so it doesn’t have the character and charm of an old place like this. I can see myself sitting by the fire with a book, a steaming mug of homemade cocoa in my hand.

Don’t get too comfortable, I remind myself.

While I’ve been absorbing the details of my new room, Mr. Mathers has brought the rest of my stuff upstairs, and now stands in the doorway watching me. I turn to look at him.

“Isn’t this Bailey’s room?”

He nods, his brow pulled low.

“Then why…” I motion to the simple space around me, a blank canvas, and his expression softens.

“She spent last night getting it ready. Wanted you to feel like you could make it your own.”

My eyes fill, and I have to glance away so he doesn’t see. Even when she has enough of her own stuff to worry about, Bailey looks after me. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve her as a friend. Fuck, I’ll miss her.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, his jaw tight.

“No, it’s…” I breathe out, composing myself. “It’s perfect, Mr. Mathers. Thank you again. I couldn’t be more grateful.”

He hesitates, as if debating whether to say what’s on his mind. “Call me Wyatt,” he mumbles at last.

Wyatt.

I study the man in front of me; his guarded expression, those tattooed arms folded across his broad chest, eyes regarding me cautiously. He has the kind of long eyelashes that are wasted on a man. His hair, messy and unstyled, is longer than I remember; short on the sides, but long enough on top to fall across his forehead.

Long enough to run my hands through.

I swallow. Calling himWyattfeels far too… personal.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” I mumble, turning to unzip my bag and unpack.

He doesn’t acknowledge my bizarre response. Instead, he says, “I’ll leave you to unpack. Bathroom is at the top of the stairs. Come down whenever you like.”

“Thanks,” I call over my shoulder without glancing back. I’m delighted by this beautiful room, and the fact that Bailey went to such great lengths to make it work for me, but I’m not sure I’ll go downstairs to hang with Mr. Mathers anytime soon. Being around him is causing me to have weird and inappropriate thoughts.

Which is certainly going to make staying here challenging.

I spent so much time during the past couple days worrying about how embarrassing it was to move in with my friend’s dad that it didn’t occur to me I might find it awkward because I have an ill-advised crush on the man. So that’s a fun new development.

I shake the thought off and take my toiletries to the bathroom. It’s a modest space: white subway tiles, the usual amenities, and a view over the yard below. I notice it has two doorways: the one I entered through from the hall, and another which I assume must go into Mr. Mathers’s room.

As I unpack my deodorant and makeup onto the shelf he’s obviously cleared for me in the medicine cabinet, it occurs to me what an intimate thing it is sharing a bathroom with someone. I mean, my tampons areright there. And his cologne… I lean in and lift the bottle to my nose, sneaking a lungful of his scent. It’s earthy and rich, with notes of sage. My eyes close as I imagine him spraying it on himself, fresh out of the shower, skin still moist. Do the tattoos cover his chest and back too? Or are they—

A sound outside the bathroom snaps me out of my thoughts. I shove the cologne back on the shelf and fling the medicine cabinet door closed, my heart racing.

What the hell is wrong with me? Mr. Mathers is the father of my best friend. Yes, he’s hot, but he’s also now my roommate. Or he is my landlord? Both?

Whatever he is, I need to pull it together.

And I willnotbe calling him Wyatt.

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