Page 3 of Her Father's Best Friend

"Noon work? Dell's excited about being home. Keeps talking about seeing old friends." There's a pause. "Good to have another girl's opinion on the house projects. She's already got ideas for fixing up the place."

I close my eyes. "I bet she does."

After we hang up, I sit in the dark for a long time, nursing my beer and hating myself for the anticipation coiling in my gut.

* * *

Bill's already gone when I pull up to the house the next day. His note on the door says he got called into work for an emergency and that Delilah's inside. My palms sweat as I knock.

The door swings open, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Delilah stands there in tiny cotton shorts and a cropped top that shows a strip of soft belly. Her red hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils curling around her face. Those big green eyes of hers light up when she sees me.

"Right on time," she says, stepping back to let me in. Her bare feet make soft padding sounds on the hardwood. There's a silver ring on her second toe.

"Your dad said something about a washing machine?" I keep my eyes fixed on the wall behind her head.

"And a leak in the basement." She turns, leading the way toward the kitchen. "Dad had to go deal with some crisis at the site. He said you'd know what to do."

I follow her, my gaze traitorously dropping to the sway of her hips. The shorts barely cover the curve of her ass. Each cheek peeks out with every step, taunting me. My hands clench at my sides.

"Coffee?" she asks, reaching up to grab mugs from a high shelf. The movement makes her top ride up, exposing more skin.

"No," I say quickly. Then, trying to soften my tone: "Thanks. I should take a look at that machine."

The laundry room is a small alcove off the kitchen. I crouch in front of the washing machine, pulling it away from the wall to access the back panel. I can feel her watching me, standing too close in the cramped space.

"You always were good with your hands," she says, her voice dropping lower.

I focus on unscrewing the panel. "Known for fixing things, yeah."

"I remember watching you work in the backyard when I was in high school." There's a smile in her voice. "You never wore a shirt when it was hot."

The screwdriver slips, nearly gouging my palm. "Wasn't appropriate."

"What wasn't?"

"You. Watching me." I glance up at her, immediately regretting it. From this angle, looking up from my crouched position, I can see straight down her top. The curve of her breasts is fuller than I'd imagined. Not that I should be imagining anything.

She leans against the dryer, bringing her face closer to mine. "I had the biggest crush on you."

The confession hangs in the air between us. I force myself to look back at the washing machine. "You were a kid."

"I'm not anymore." Her foot nudges my thigh. "In case you hadn't noticed."

My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. "I noticed."

She makes a pleased sound, and I feel her shift closer. "The leak's in the basement. Want to see?"

I reattach the panel and shove the washing machine back into place with more force than necessary. "Lead the way."

The basement stairs are narrow and dim. Delilah goes first, and I stay a few steps behind, giving myself room to breathe. The space below is unfinished—concrete floors, exposed beams, a few hanging bulbs for light. It smells like damp earth and old wood.

"Dad said it's over here somewhere." She walks to the far corner where a dark patch stains the concrete. "Happens whenever the neighbors water their lawn too much."

I crouch down to examine the wall. There's a small crack in the foundation, barely visible without the flashlight I pull from my tool belt. I trace it with my finger, following it up to where it disappears behind an old shelving unit.

"Need to move this," I mutter, standing to grab the heavy wooden shelf.

"Let me help." Delilah steps in close, her chest brushing my arm as she positions herself on the other side of the shelf.

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