Page 23 of Her Father's Best Friend

Mitch nods, watching me carefully. "I think it's his way of reaching out. He knows I need the work."

A complicated tangle of emotions knots in my throat—hope, bitterness, longing. "Did he ask about me?"

Mitch's expression softens. "No, baby. But he didn't hang up when I mentioned you'd been organizing my tool shed."

It's a small thing, but I cling to it. A hairline crack in Dad's wall of silence. An opening, maybe, for reconciliation someday.

"He'll come around," Mitch says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Give him time."

"I miss him," I admit, the words burning my throat. "But I don't regret us. Not for a second."

Mitch cups my face in his palms, making me look at him. "He's your father, Delilah. You're allowed to miss him. Doesn't mean you made the wrong choice."

I turn my face to press a kiss to his palm, rough with callouses. "When did you get so wise?"

His mouth quirks in that half-smile that still makes my heart stutter. "Something about this bossy redhead in my bed every night has knocked some sense into me."

The casual reference to our shared bed sends a different kind of warmth spreading through me. Each night, I fall asleep curled against him, his large body enveloping mine, his breath in my hair. Each morning, I wake to his hands on me, gentle or demanding depending on his mood, always knowing exactly what I need.

I never realized that safety could be so intoxicating. That being completely known, completely accepted, could make me feel not just loved but powerful.

"Come on," Mitch says, releasing me to pick up his coffee. "I promised to finish your reading nook today."

The reading nook. Another example of how he's making space for me. The small alcove in the living room that was once cluttered with tools and boxes has been transformed. He built the windowseat himself, installed bookshelves on either side, even found an antique lamp at the flea market because I mentioned once that I liked reading by warm light.

"You don't have to do that today," I say, though I'm excited to see it completed. "You worked all week."

"Want to," he says simply, carrying his mug to the sink. "Been looking forward to it."

And that's Mitch—a man of few words but considerable action. He shows love through what he does, not what he says. Every shelf he builds, every repair he makes, every space he clears is a declaration more eloquent than any flowery speech.

I follow him to the alcove, watching as he measures and marks, his movements precise and confident. I sit cross-legged on the floor nearby, sipping my coffee and thinking about how differently this summer has unfolded than I expected.

When I came home, I had a plan—seduce Mitch, have my hot summer fling, scratch the itch that had been plaguing me for years. I never planned on falling so deeply, on wanting forever. I never imagined I'd choose him over my father's approval, over the easy path. I never thought I'd be setting up house, building a life.

"What?" Mitch asks, glancing up from the cushion he's cutting to size for the windowseat. He always seems to sense when my thoughts turn inward.

"Just thinking about how much better reality is than fantasy," I say, setting my empty mug aside. "All those years writing about you in my journal, and nothing I imagined comes close to this."

His hands still on the fabric. "You know, you've never shown me that journal."

Heat blooms in my cheeks. "It's embarrassing."

"I doubt that." His voice drops lower, taking on that edge that never fails to make my skin tingle. "I'd like to read it sometime. See what you've been thinking about all these years."

The thought of Mitch reading my most private fantasies, my detailed descriptions of what I wanted him to do to me, makes my mouth go dry. "Maybe someday," I hedge. "When I'm feeling particularly brave."

He gives me a look that says he knows exactly what effect his request had on me, then returns to his work. I watch his hands—those big, capable hands that can build a house or take me apart with equal skill—and feel a surge of gratitude so intense it's almost painful.

"Thank you," I say suddenly.

He looks up, eyebrows raised in question.

"For making room for me," I explain. "Not just in your house, but in your life. I know it wasn't easy. I know what it cost you."

Mitch sets his tools aside and moves to sit beside me on the floor, his back against the wall, shoulder pressing against mine.

"Delilah," he says, my name sounding like a prayer in his deep voice. "The only thing that would have cost me is losing you. Everything else is just noise."

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