Page 4 of Her Father's Best Friend

"I've got it," I say, but she's already bending down, giving me a view straight down her shirt again. I look away, focusing on a water stain on the ceiling.

"On three," she says. "One, two?—"

We lift together, and I take most of the weight, moving it easily to the side. When I turn back, she's watching me with those big green eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"You make that look so easy," she says. She reaches out, her fingers brushing my forearm, tracing a vein that runs up to my elbow. "You're stronger than you used to be."

I step back, putting the shelf between us. "Foundation's cracked. Needs to be sealed."

"Is that something you can fix?" She follows me, not letting me create distance.

"Yeah." I turn to my toolbox, pulling out a tube of hydraulic cement. Anything to keep my hands busy and my eyes off her.

Delilah leans against the wall, watching me work. "Do you remember my eighteenth birthday party?"

My hand stills. Of course I remember. She'd worn a blue dress that brought out the green in her eyes, and I'd forced myself to leave early because I couldn't stop looking at her.

"Your dad threw you a barbecue," I say neutrally.

"You gave me that silver necklace. The one with the little star." Her fingers touch her throat, though she's not wearing it now. "I still have it."

"It was nothing fancy." My voice comes out rough.

"You left early." She pushes off the wall, coming closer. "I always wondered why."

Because I wanted to kiss you, I think but don't say. Because eighteen was still too young and you were still Bill's little girl and I was still thirteen years older than you.

"Had an early job the next day," I lie.

She's close enough now that I can smell her shampoo—something sweet and floral. "You're a terrible liar, Mitch Lawson."

I focus on mixing the cement, my hands steady despite the chaos in my chest. "Need to let this set for twenty-four hours after application."

"You're avoiding the conversation." Her voice holds a hint of frustration.

"Nothing to talk about."

She makes an impatient sound, then deliberately moves into my line of sight, crouching down beside me. "Look at me."

Against my better judgment, I do. Her face is flushed, eyes bright with determination.

"I'm twenty-two now," she says, each word deliberate. "I have a degree. I'm an adult who knows what she wants." She leans in, her breath warm against my jaw. "And I want you, Mitch. I always have."

The mixing stick snaps in my hand. "Delilah?—"

"Don't tell me you don't feel it too." Her hand lands on my thigh, just above my knee. The heat of her palm burns through my jeans.

For a second—just one dangerous second—I let myself imagine it. Taking her face in my hands. Tasting those glossy lips. Backing her up against the wall and lifting her, feeling those thick thighs wrap around my waist.

But Bill's face flashes in my mind, and I stand so quickly that the cement mixture sloshes over the edge of the container.

"You should go upstairs," I say, my voice a low warning. "Now."

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't look afraid. She looks intrigued. Like she's discovered something valuable.

"Why?" she challenges, standing to face me. "What happens if I stay?"

"Delilah." Her name comes out like a growl. "I'm trying to do the right thing here."

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