Page 8 of Her Father's Best Friend

"Alright, I'm heading out again! Got my wallet!" The front door closes, and we both exhale.

For a long moment, we just stare at each other. My lips feel swollen from his kisses, my skin tender where his beard scratched me. I'm soaked, disheveled, and more turned on than I've ever been in my life.

"That," I say finally, a smile spreading across my face, "was worth getting wet for."

Mitch runs a hand over his face, conflict written in every line of his body. But when his eyes meet mine again, I see the resignation there. The dam has broken, and there's no rebuilding it.

"This is a mistake," he says, but there's no conviction in his voice.

I step toward him, placing a hand on his chest. "No. This is inevitable."

His hand covers mine, warm and rough and so much larger. "You don't know what you're getting into, Delilah."

I rise up on my tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Then I guess you'll have to show me."

The war in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. He's mine now. He just doesn't fully realize it yet.

four

Mitch

Four daysof self-imposed exile hasn't done a damn thing to get her out of my system. I've thrown myself into work, taken on extra projects, exhausted my body until I should be too tired to think. But every night, I close my eyes and feel her—soft skin under my palms, her little gasps against my mouth, nipples hardening under my touch. The guilt eats at me from the inside out. Bill trusted me with his daughter, and I betrayed that trust the moment I put my hands on her. But the hunger is stronger than the guilt now. It's a living thing inside me, growing teeth and claws, shredding what's left of my better judgment.

My phone lights up for the twelfth time today. Another text from Delilah.

I know you're avoiding me.

I set the phone screen-down on my workbench without responding. The garage is my sanctuary—tools in their proper places, the familiar smell of sawdust and motor oil, projects I can control with my hands. Unlike the chaos she's created in my head.

I focus on the cabinet doors I'm refinishing for Mrs. Peterson down the street. Sand, stain, seal. Simple, repetitive work that should occupy my mind. But all I see is red hair, wet and dripping down pale skin. All I feel are soft curves pressed against me.

"Fuck." I set down the sanding block and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm.

Three decades of living by a code. Do honest work. Keep your word. Respect the people who've been good to you. And I'm ready to throw it all away for Bill's daughter.

No. Not just Bill's daughter. Delilah. A woman grown, with her own mind and her own wants. A woman who looks at me like I'm everything she's ever desired.

The rational part of my brain—the part that's kept me out of trouble for fifteen years—knows I should end this before it goes any further. Call Bill. Confess. Take whatever consequences come.

My phone buzzes again.

I miss your hands.

Heat floods my body, pooling low in my gut. I should delete the message. Block her number. Do the right thing.

Instead, I pick up the sanding block and attack the wood with renewed vigor, as if I can scrape away my desire along with the old varnish.

Two hours later, I'm in the shower, washing away sawdust and sweat, still battling the same war in my head. The water runs cold before I'm ready to get out, but maybe that's what I need—something to shock my system back to sanity.

I'm toweling off when I hear it—a knock at the front door. Probably UPS with those parts I ordered for the Johnson kitchen remodel. I wrap the towel around my waist and head through the house, water still dripping from my hair down my chest.

I pull open the door without checking the peephole—a mistake I realize immediately when I find myself face to face with Delilah Carter.

"Hi." She smiles up at me, those green eyes taking in my near-nakedness with obvious appreciation.

My grip tightens on the towel. "What are you doing here?"

"You weren't answering my texts." She shrugs one shoulder, the movement drawing my attention to her outfit—a tank top that clings to every curve and those cutoff shorts that make my mouth dry. In her hand is a half-eaten cherry popsicle, the kind that stains lips red.

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