Page 57 of Delicate Storm

Dad chuckles while simultaneously rolling his eyes at my overexaggerated response. A response that would make more sense to him if he knew I’d been fucking his star wide receiver.Past tense, of course.

“I want you to come and work with me,” he repeats. “On a charity event with the team.” He tries to explain further but it doesn’t sound any more appealing the second time I hear it, especially now that he’s added more detail.

I can’t help but frown and he laughs again. “Do you need me to write it down?”

“Very funny. Who are you and what have you done with my ‘I want you to stay away from the players’ father?”

“Now who’s being funny? I’m still me. I’m asking you to spend time with the guys in a professional capacity, not jump into bed with one.”

I burst out laughing, sounding just as guilty as I feel, and Dad notices.

“I can trust you, right?”

“Yes.” I roll my eyes again because it’s what we do when the other is acting crazy. Not that he is, but it’s best if I make the idea appear insane. “I have no plans to ‘jump into bed’ with anyone on your team. That’s not my thing.” I smile as a fine layer of guilt seeps into my chest. While it’s not exactly a lie—Easton and I usually get creative with other surfaces—it’s still a huge misrepresentation of the truth. But really, how am I supposed to answer that?

Dad smiles and I’m relieved to see it’s genuine. “Good,” he says as he pats my hand. “Then this couldn’t be more perfect. After the controversy surrounding the TV show, the event I have in mind will bank us some goodwill and positive vibes,plusit will keep you busy.”

“Why do you think I need to be kept busy?”

“Because, Paige, I’m your father. And despite the fact that we haven’t been that close since the divorce, I know you.”

“That may be true, but I haven’t exactly been curled up on my couch with nothing to do. I’ve been working. I’ve already had two photo shoots since I arrived and—”

“Please don’t remind me of your photo shoots.” He groans, making me laugh. “You know I’d never hold you back from anything, but there are some things a dad should never see.”

“Right back at you, Daddio. Or are you forgetting I saw you half-naked on the cover of that sports magazine.”

“I was twenty and your mom showed it to you. You didn’t come across it while out shopping for food.”

“A chest is a chest.”

“Okay. You win. What was the other thing you were going to say?”

“Oh. I’ve offered to help out the California office of the charity I was working with in New York. We’re planning a ball to raise money for youth services.”

Dad’s eyes widen. “You are going to be busy.”

“Told you. There really isn’t time for me to—”

“Please.”

“Ugh.” I throw my head back and fake a groan. At least, I make Dad believe that it’s fake when in reality, it’s as real as they get. How am I supposed to work with the players and not make it obvious that I’m imagining Easton’s face between my legs? “Okay. If you really need my help, I’ll do it. But don’t blame me if some of the guys try to get in my pants. It’s your fault I’m attractive; I got my genes from you.”

Dad half laughs, half coughs, and I consider that a win. “You may get your looks from me, but you definitely get your confidence from your mother.”

“I know. Remind me to thank her.” Especially considering it was that confidence that led me to strip naked for a stranger and look at what that got me—incredible sex with a football star. Thanks, Mom.

“I’ve set up a board meeting to introduce the D’Angelo Foundation to the team this week,” Dad continues, bringing me back to the conversation. “I want you there to pitch some ideas for the event.”

“This week? Nothing like throwing me into the deep end before I can swim.”

“What are you talking about? You do this all the time. Reuse your old ideas if you have to. They’ve been done in New York but not here.”

“I’m sure everything has been done here,” I mumble under my breath. I’ve worked with lots of different charities, and celebrities for that matter, but I’ve never worked with sports stars. I tend to stick with companies that align with my personalinterests. Although, one could argue that I now have an interest in football.

“Thanks again.” Dad ignores my comment and moves on, telling me more about the drama at his New York office, and when his phone rings sometime later, he cringes. “Shit, I lost track of time. I have to go. Are you free for dinner Tuesday night?”

Now this is the dad I remember. Having to leave midconversation. Although, I’ve got to admit, he’s doing it a lot less these days, and this was a last-minute thing. It’s not like he walked out on a dinner. “Tuesday? Sure. It’s a date.”

---