Page 39 of Off-Limits Daddy
He pushed off the door and wandered over, gaze dropping to the paperwork in front of me, then lifting again. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain banner-painting, cinnamon-bun-thieving artist, would it?”
Trust that someone had seen Ari stealing a bite of my cinnamon bun and came back with the news hot off the press.
I didn’t answer and didn’t have to.
Griff was one of the only people alive who could see right through me, and worse—he never used it against me. Just stood there, steady as ever, watching me unravel like it was his job to keep me stitched together.
“He’s not a kid anymore, Reid,” Griff said, voice low but not sharp. Just factual. “You know that.”
Didn’t stop my gut from twisting. “That’s not the point.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been staring at that paper for the last ten minutes like it insulted your honor.”
I raked my fingers through my hair, already regretting how many times I’d touched Ari today. Not because I didn’t want it—God, Iwanted—but because I knew better. I’d always known better. Even when Ari was nineteen, before any of this started twisting into something complicated, I’d known where the lines were drawn. And now those same lines felt like threads about to snap.
Griff watched me like he was waiting for the truth to come out whether I liked it or not.
“It’s not just want,” I said finally, quiet enough to barely hear myself. “It’s... more.”
Griff nodded, like he understood more than he let on. Maybe he did. “More’s what makes it dangerous.”
Ari was probably still painting. Still smirking. Still being him.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket before I could stop myself. Held it tight like it might shock some sense into me.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Maybe I should send a message? It would be an excuse to hear from him. A reason to stay connected.
Because the few minutes we got today? They weren’t enough.
I could still feel him—his laughter in my ears, his hand brushing mine, that look in his eyes like heknewhow I really felt.
But I wanted him. God help me, Iwanted.
The kind of want that curled sharp and deep, that made logic feel like a flimsy excuse to stay away from him.
I knew every reason why the boy and I were a bad idea. Why I should keep my distance.
I’d rehearsed them all in my head.
Still, I sat there like a fool, phone burning in my hand, heart wanting things my head had already shut down.
I gripped the phone harder, like that could crush the need right out of me.
But wanting the boy wasn’t the problem.
It was that I didn’t know how to stop.
I stared at the screen for another heartbeat. Then shoved the phone back deep in my pocket—like that would keep me from reaching for it again.
FOURTEEN
ARI
Cicadas buzzed high in the trees behind the fence, a high-pitched, pulsing whine that crawled under my skin. Pale blue paint clung to my thumb from earlier—one of those brushstrokes I hadn’t meant to stop in the middle of. I’d walked out of my bedroom before it dried. Never went back.
The swing creaked beneath me, suspended from the beams of the back patio. Chain links shifted with every small motion. The cushion underneath had that sticky feel plastic got in the heat. This thing had been here longer than I’d been alive. Probably longer than my mom had lived in this house. It didn’t even try to look comfortable anymore, just hung there out of habit. Kind of like me.
Fitting, maybe. Worn things hanging on because they didn’t know how to stop.
