Page 8 of Daddy's Girl

His eyes flick in that direction, then back to me. "Those are wet. You’ll wear my clothes, now go before I follow you in there and make sure you get warm and clean."

Thatmakes me clench. But, he’s right, I’m still freezing, and the wet clothes are making my skin wrinkle.

The promise of hot water is too tempting. The promise of being surrounded by his scent is even more tempting.

"Thank you," I manage. "For the river. For this."

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Don't thank me yet, Delaney Hart. You don't know what saving you is going to cost."

The words should frighten me. Instead, they send a bolt of liquid heat straight between my legs that has nothing to do with my wet clothes.

The shower is blissfully hot, steam filling the small bathroom until I can barely see. I scrub river silt from my hair, inspect bruises blooming along my ribs, try not to think about the mountain man waiting beyond the door. Fail miserably.

His bathroom tells its own story—unscented soap, straight razor beside the sink which from the beard he’s sporting isn’t used often, a single toothbrush. No evidence of women. No softness. Just functionality and raw masculinity.

In his bedroom, I face the same stark simplicity. King bed with navy sheets pulled military-tight. Dresser with nothing atop it but a folded American flag in a triangular case. A single framed photo—him in fatigues with three other men in civilian clothes who share enough of his features to be brothers.

On the nightstand sits another Rubik's cube, all the colors perfectly aligned in stripes.

I borrow a flannel shirt that hangs to my thighs and a pair of blue boxers I have to roll at the waist multiple times. When I emerge, he's waiting with a mug of something steaming, his eyes darkening as they rake over my body, lingering where his shirt barely covers my thighs.

"Coffee. Bourbon's in it. That’s all I have besides water and beer." He presses it into my hands, his fingers brushing mine, sending sparks up my arm. "Drink it all, baby girl. Need to warm you from the inside out."

I do, if only to see the approval in his eyes as the wordsbaby girlswirl around and around in my head. The liquor burns a path to my stomach, igniting embers of warmth that spread outward.

"So you're some kind of speed-cubing champion hiding out in the woods?" I ask, surprised to find a smile tugging at my lips despite everything.

His expression flickers, that hint of color returning to his face. He reaches for a cube on the side table, his large fingers deftly turning the sections with surprising grace. Three moves in, he fumbles, the cube slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. It bounces, coming to rest between us.

We both stare at it. Then at each other.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Not at him—at the absurdity of the moment. Near-death experience, mountain man rescuer with the body of a god and the puzzle obsession of a math prodigy, and here we are, staring at a dropped toy.

He clears his throat, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Then, with deliberate slowness, he bends to retrieve it, movements precise as he sets it back on the table. When he straightens, all traces of embarrassment are gone, replaced by that intense, consuming focus.

"My father said you'd help me." I hold the warm mug between my palms. "He didn't mention you'd save my life first."

His eyes darken to midnight. Something primitive moves behind them, like storm clouds gathering before a violent downpour.

"Hart knew what he was doing when he sent you to me." His voice drops lower, a rumbling growl that vibrates through my entire body. "He just didn't know all of it."

"All of what?"

He doesn't answer. Just looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness and my thighs clench together. "Rest. We'll talk after."

He strides to the door, shoulders bunched with tension, muscles rippling beneath his shirt. He pauses with his hand on the knob.

"You're safe here." The words seem torn from him, raw and honest. He turns on his boot, mumbling words I barely catch as he goes: "From everything but me."

Then door closes firmly behind him, leaving me alone with whiskey warmth in my belly and a dangerous certainty forming in my mind.

Jack Boone is right. My father knew exactly what he was doing when he sent me here.

I’m just not sure he knew what was going to happen once I got here.

Four

Delaney

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