Page 5 of Her Father's Best Friend

"Maybe the right thing isn't what you think it is." She steps closer, tilting her head back to maintain eye contact. "Maybe the right thing is being honest about what we both want."

I take a deliberate step back. "Your dad is my best friend."

"And I'm not asking you to stop being his friend." Her green eyes flash. "I'm asking you to see me. Not as Bill's daughter, but as a woman who knows her own mind."

"It's not that simple."

"It could be." She bites her lip again, and I have to look away from the sight of her teeth pressing into soft flesh. "Think about it, Mitch."

She turns and walks to the stairs, her hips swaying with each step. At the bottom, she glances back over her shoulder. "I'll be upstairs when you're ready to admit what you really want."

Then she's gone, and I'm left alone in the dim basement, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

I finish sealing the crack methodically, focusing on the work instead of the echo of her words in my head. But the damage is done. The image of her—soft and curved and wanting—is burned into my brain.

I pack up my tools slowly, giving myself time to regain control. Time to remember all the reasons I need to keep my distance. Time to ignore the way my body aches for her.

But when I climb those stairs, when I see her waiting in the kitchen with a gleam in her eye that says she knows exactly what she's doing to me, I know with bone-deep certainty that I'm in trouble.

Bill's daughter is a flame, and I'm nothing but dry tinder in her presence. It's only a matter of time before I burn.

three

Delilah

Three daysof playing it cool, and I'm going out of my mind. The look on Mitch's face when I cornered him in the basement haunts me—desire warring with restraint, his big body so tense I thought he might snap in half. I know he wants me. His eyes give him away every time I catch him looking. But Mitch Lawson is nothing if not stubbornly principled, and that means I need to fight dirty. Which is why I've spent the morning convincing Dad that we absolutely need Mitch's help with the basement storage shelves today—and why I'm wearing a thin white t-shirt with no bra underneath.

"You sure you don't want me to stick around and help?" Dad asks, keys already in hand. He's heading to Uncle Ray's to watch some baseball game that I pretended to have zero interest in.

"I'm good," I say, waving him off. "Mitch and I can handle a few shelves. Besides, Uncle Ray's expecting you."

Dad hesitates in the doorway. "Mitch should be here any minute. You'll tell him I said thanks, right? Feels like I'm always asking him for favors."

"I'll make sure he feels very appreciated," I say, fighting to keep my expression innocent.

Once Dad's truck disappears down the street, I dash upstairs to make final preparations. I wet my lips with cherry gloss, the kind I've noticed makes Mitch stare at my mouth. I check my reflection in the mirror—the white t-shirt is thin enough that my nipples are visible if I'm cold... or aroused. The cutoff shorts are the same ones that made his jaw clench last time. My hair is loose today, falling in waves down my back the way I've described in my most explicit journal entries.

The doorbell rings, and my heart leaps into my throat. Game time.

I take the stairs two at a time but pause at the bottom to catch my breath. Can't look too eager. When I open the door, Mitch fills the frame like he always does, a mountain of a man with those piercing blue eyes that see too much.

"Hey," I say, stepping back to let him in. "Dad got dragged to Uncle Ray's for the game. It's just us today."

Something flickers across his face—wariness, desire, resignation. He steps inside, careful to maintain distance between us.

"Bill mentioned shelves?" His eyes flick over me, catching briefly on my chest before he forces his gaze to my face.

"In the basement." I close the door behind him, deliberately brushing against his arm as I move past. "I'll show you."

I lead him downstairs, feeling his eyes on my back, my hips, my legs. The basement is cooler than upstairs, and I suppress a shiver as we reach the bottom of the stairs. The air conditioning does exactly what I hoped it would—my nipples harden visibly beneath the thin cotton of my shirt.

"Dad wants to organize all this junk," I say, gesturing to the cluttered space. "Thought shelves along this wall would help."

Mitch nods, all business as he surveys the area. He's wearing a faded blue t-shirt today, stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. His forearms are exposed, thick with muscle and dusted with dark hair. I want to feel those arms wrapped around me, pinning me down.

"Should be straightforward," he says, kneeling to examine the wall. "Need to make sure we avoid the water pipes."

"What pipes?" I ask, crouching next to him, closer than necessary.

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