Page 2 of A Father's Bliss

From here, I can make out the slight stubble on his strong jaw, the jet black hair cut higher on top, and the deep dimple in his right cheek when he begins chewing on his bottom lip. He’s handsome. Like breathtaking, need a second to realize this is a regular guy and not Jensen Ackles filming a new movie type handsome. And of course, as if he can hear my thoughts, his eyes flicker from the book to me and my breath really does stop.

Dark eyes piece into my soul, pinning me in place before I have a second to escape. And he holds me there—which really can’t be more than a few seconds—his gaze scanning over my face, then down my frame before sliding back up in a way that gives my entire body the chills. But then he does something that damn near makes my knees give out.

He smiles.

It’s soft and subtle and changes his face in a way that screams all the ways he’s not really the gentleman he appears.

Holy shittttttt.

I clear my throat and painfully rip my eyes away from the stranger who goes back to his book like he didn’t just have me by my throat. “And who is that?”

My father’s responding grunt says it should be obvious. “Marcus Debois.”

Ah. The sworn enemy he’s been going on about for years. They are the two sole literary agents in the small company, and they have a going bid on who gets the most successful books published. While I’ve always assumed it was in good fun, the narrowed gaze of my father is enough to display how real it is. At least for him. The man over his shoulder looks like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

“Yeah, and he has a son almost your age who’s even worse.” He grimaces as though recalling a distasteful fact. “Stay away from him too.”

Present Day Commentary: This definitely should have been my first red flag about Harrison, but because my father’s own judge of character is very skewed, I didn’t pay attention. Hindsight and all.

My brows furrow. “Wait. How old is he?”

My father sucks in a deep breath. “The son or?—”

“Mr. Debois.” I allow my gaze to flash to him again. He can’t be over thirty.

“Uh, thirty-six, I think.”

“And his son?”

“Just turned eighteen.”

“Dad, he’s a fucking kid. No thanks.” I drop my suitcase on the empty desk and the echo it makes causes my surroundings to suddenly come into focus. I whirl around, my stomach doing cartwheels as I take in the intimate space. One long window in the corner, a weathered desk in the center, an even older looking office chair behind it.

This is my office. My office at a publishing house. I did it.

Holy fuck, I did it.

“This is mine?”

My father smiles and embraces me in another bear hug. “It is.”

My heart explodes, butterflies doing their song and dance throughout my stomach and escaping into my limbs as I squeeze my arms around my father. And while I know this day and these feelings will be ingrained as one of the best in all my core memories, so will the look Marcus Debois gives me when our eyes connect again.

Four Years Later (aka Now)

A few years passed until I met that son. He came to the office to have lunch with Mr. Debois to celebrate his twenty-first birthday, but offered for myself and Troy to come out that evening. Against my better judgement, I let Troy talk me into going because I was, and I quote, ‘working too hard, and fucking too little’ and needed to get out.

Was this true? Absolutely. But what Ididn’tneed to fuck was the barely legal-to-drink son of my hot coworker. A coworker who I’d harbored a crush on that only seemed to grow more substantial over the last four years.

Needless to say, I think I was only three shots of tequila in when Harrison’s hair took on that dark hue of his father’s, and his eyes less chocolate and more coal. Four shots when he grew the six inches needed to match Daddy Debois’ height, and a fifth before those dainty hands of his felt good against my skin.

It was my fault that I ended up sleeping with him and even more so when I jumped into a year long relationship after. No one seemed happy about it—me included honestly—and it ended horribly, with me learning he was nothing, and I meannothing, like his father.

Maybe that relationship and the way we ended it is why my father’s face is currently an unhealthy shade of fuchsia ashe paces Mr. Debois’ office, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure about what they’re discussing, which means I’m well aware of what’s going to happen if I’m right.

But even knowing so, having a full understanding of how it could go all wrong and explode right in my face, there’s no way I’m saying anything other than yes.

For fifteen minutes I try to avoid the commotion my father is making in Marcus’s office. My eyes keep flashing back to the book reviews on the computer screen in front of me and I read the same line about Malachi Hughes before I actually process what I’m reading. Rockstar, golden retriever, black cat mechanic who fixes his bike. Looks like it’s the start of a four book series and already has plenty of praise.

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