Page 15 of Her Father's Best Friend

"Stay with me," he murmurs into my hair, his voice rough with something that might be vulnerability. "Not just tonight. Stay."

I lift my head to look at him, finding his blue eyes serious in the dim lamplight. "Are you asking me to move in with you?"

He nods slowly. "I know it's fast. I know your dad will lose his mind. But I sleep better with you here. Everything's better with you here."

My heart swells almost painfully in my chest. This is faster than I expected, more than I dared hope for when I first came home with the intention of seducing him. But there's no hesitation in my answer.

"Yes," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll stay."

His arms tighten around me, and I feel his exhale of relief against my hair. "We'll tell your dad together," he promises. "I won't make you face that alone."

I nod against his chest, too overcome with emotion to speak. As sleep begins to claim me, I register two things: the storm outside has finally begun to abate, and for the first time since I was a little girl, I'm not afraid of the thunder anymore.

six

Mitch

Three weeks.It's been three weeks since Delilah walked into my house during that storm and didn't leave. Three weeks of waking up to red hair spread across my pillow, of her toothbrush beside mine, of her laughter filling spaces in my home I never realized were empty. It should feel too fast, too much. Instead, it feels like finally exhaling after holding my breath for years. Today, I'm taking her on a real date—not just takeout on my couch where no one can see us together, but somewhere out in the open. Somewhere I can hold her hand and not look over my shoulder every five seconds. It's time to stop hiding, even if that means facing Bill and whatever comes after.

I check the picnic basket one more time: bottle of wine, cheese, strawberries, sandwiches from that place in town she mentioned liking. A blanket folded neatly beside it. I even bought actual wine glasses, not the mismatched coffee mugs we've been drinking from at home.

Home. That's what my house has become with her in it. Every morning she pads around the kitchen in one of my shirts, her legs bare, hair tousled from sleep and my hands. Every night she curls against me, fitting perfectly in the space between my arms like she was designed to be there.

Bill thinks she's staying with a college friend, looking at apartments in town. The lie twists in my gut every time he mentions it, every time he calls me to grab a beer or help him with some home project. Fifteen years of friendship, and I'm betraying him daily. But losing Delilah isn't an option anymore.

My phone buzzes with a text from her:

Still at dad's. Be ready in 20. Can't wait to see what you have planned.

I smile at the heart emoji. For all her boldness, Delilah can be surprisingly sweet, surprisingly tender. It's those moments that undo me most—when she brings me coffee just the way I like it, when she falls asleep on my shoulder during a movie, when she absentmindedly kisses my cheek as she passes by. The domesticity of it all is more intoxicating than I ever could have imagined.

I load the basket and blanket into my truck and drive to Bill's house, parking down the street where he won't spot my vehicle if he happens to come home early. We've been careful—almost paranoid—about not getting caught. But after today, after our talk, that's going to change. My palms sweat at the thought.

When Delilah opens the door, she's wearing a sundress that makes my mouth go dry. It's simple, pale blue with tiny straps that show off her shoulders, the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her hair falls in loose waves around her face, and there's that cherry gloss on her lips that drives me crazy.

"Hi," she says, smiling up at me. Her eyes are bright with excitement. "Where are we going?"

I tug her outside, unable to resist pulling her into my arms for a kiss. She melts against me, her hands coming up to frame my face, her body soft and yielding.

"It's a surprise," I murmur against her lips. "You look beautiful."

She beams, twirling once to make the dress flare around her thighs. "Got it yesterday. Thought you might like it."

"I'd like you in a potato sack," I tell her honestly. "But yes, the dress is perfect."

I take her hand, leading her to my truck parked down the street. Once inside, I bring her knuckles to my lips, pressing a kiss to each one. "Ready for a real date, Delilah Carter?"

She leans across the console to kiss my cheek. "More than ready."

We drive with the windows down, the summer air warm against our skin. Delilah's hand rests on my thigh, her thumb idly stroking back and forth in a way that makes concentrating on the road increasingly difficult. Her other hand holds her hair back from the wind, and she sings along softly to the radio, her voice sweet and slightly off-key in a way I find endearing.

"The lake?" she asks, her voice lifting with pleasure as I turn onto the familiar road that winds through the forest toward the water.

I nod. "Thought we could have a picnic. It's pretty secluded at the north end this time of year."

Her smile turns knowing. "Secluded sounds perfect."

Twenty minutes later, we're set up on a small, sandy beach hidden from the main recreation area by a curve of shoreline and a stand of pines. The lake stretches before us, sunlight dancing on its surface. I spread the blanket while Delilah explores, picking up stones and skipping them across the water.

---