Page 3 of Daddy's Girl

His t-shirt is damp as I twist the cotton in my grip, pulling it down his chest, my knuckles brushing against skin hot enough to steam in the cold air. The way he holds me—one arm under my thighs, the other supporting my back—makes me feel more secure than I have since my dad died.

My breath catches as his eyes lock on mine, searching, assessing. That ice-blue gaze makes my heart stutter. His face is rugged—weathered in a way that speaks of sun and wind and years lived hard, but not unkind. Up close, I can see that his thick, dark beard is peppered with just a little salt, and there’s a faint scar near his temple, half-hidden by the mess of damp hair. He’s older, in that not quite silver fox sort of way but not far and it’s hotter than it should be.

He stomps through the torrent of the river, water getting out of his way like it’s afraid.

“Gonna come down here one day and find a goddamn dead body. Why can’t nobody read the damn signs?” His voice rumbles down inside me as my feet meet the ground on the river bank, water squishing between my toes.

“Look at me.” He orders as I let my eyes track upward, taking in the drenched flannel, the dusting of dark hair on the plains and valleys of skin, before settling not on his eyes, but on his lips.

God made those lips. But there’s nothing holy about them. They were made for sin.

His hands are everywhere, rough thumbs run down my cheeks, then he’s covering my neck on both sides like a brace—checking for injuries, brushing wet hair from my face, with an intoxicating mixture of annoyance and concern knitting together the right angles of his features.

Hanging above the river was cold, but even with the heat he’s circulating around me, my muscles start to twist and spasm, teeth involuntarily chattering.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his voice perfectly matching his rugged features. "You're fucking freezing."

He wraps me against him, my ear pressing to his chest.

Thump, thump, thump. The beat is solid but accelerating, and I can feel every hard line of his body. My pulse ticks up as I quiver, my backpack tugging at my shoulders while I squeeze my thighs together and finally let the obvious dawn on me.

ThisisJack Boone.

I found what I was looking for.

WhoI was looking for, I mean.

Or do I? Maybe it’s both.

"What were you thinking?" he growls. "Taking a goddamn rope swing alone? Over spring runoff? Do you have a fucking death wish?"

I stare upward, trying to decipher the twist in his features.

Anger? Meh, maybe. Curiosity? Could be.

Veiled horror? Also plausible, knowing this is not my finest hour when it comes to pageant readiness. Drenched hair, smudged mascara, blue lips… and then—like that damn light bulb pops on again, I remember why I came and blurt out an answer through chattering teeth.

"M-mm-my dad... He s-s-ssaid you... You'd helpppp me."

"Your dad?"

"I’m Delaney," I whisper, my lips numb, teeth clicking slowly. "Delaney Hart."

His face lowers, hovering over the top of my head as fingers come to roost under my jaw, holding, squeezing enough for me to breathe but have to think about it. He inhales, long, slow and deep, like a hunter on a scent trail.

The base of his thumb pushes against my pulse point as his lips rest on the part of my hair for a split second—so briefly I might have imagined it—before he growls, "Delaney Hart, you don’t come near this river again unless I’m with you. You hear me?"

He shifts upward, looming, breaking the sun’s rays, but something shifts in his expression—recognition, shock, and something darker, more possessive. His entire body tenses, the hand at my throat a signal of some kind of control as everything in the forest stills, even the river.

For a second, it’s like the whole world is waiting for permission from Jack Boone to breathe.

Then, the air between us changes, charging with a buzzing energy. Butterflies flap their wings in my belly, my organs doing little somersaults, rearranging themselves knowing everything is changing right now.

The way his gaze travels over me—no longer just assessing for injuries, butseeingme. All of me.

The hand on my throat loosens, inching upward to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing over my lower lip in a touch so intimate it steals my breath.

"You’re on my land now. You’ll do as I say," he tells me, voice dropped to a dangerous growl.

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