Page 12 of Her Father's Best Friend
"You okay?" His voice is tight with concern. "Power's out all over town."
"Yeah, just me and some candles having a party." I try for lightness, but another thunderclap betrays me, making me gasp involuntarily.
"You're scared," he says immediately. It's not a question.
I close my eyes, leaning against the counter. "I don't like storms."
There's a pause, and I can almost hear him thinking. Then: "Get in your car and come to my place."
"What?"
"I have a generator," he says, as if that explains everything. "And the roads are only going to get worse. Your dad home?"
"No, he's at Uncle Ray's. Probably staying the night."
"Then there's no reason for you to be alone and scared. Come here, Delilah."
The command in his voice sends a different kind of shiver through me. "Okay," I agree softly. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
I throw together an overnight bag quickly—toothbrush, change of clothes, the lacy underwear I know drives him crazy—and dash to my car through the downpour. By the time I slide behind the wheel, I'm soaked, my thin t-shirt clinging to my skin, hair plastered to my face.
The drive to Mitch's house feels longer than it should, rain hammering the windshield faster than the wipers can clear it, visibility reduced to just a few feet ahead. By the time I pull into his driveway, my knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel.
He's waiting at the door before I even kill the engine, a large black umbrella in hand. He jogs to my car, opening my door and holding the umbrella over me as I step out.
"You're drenched," he observes, his free arm wrapping around my waist to guide me quickly toward the house. "Should have waited for the rain to ease up."
"Didn't want to be alone," I admit, pressed against his side.
Inside, his house is an oasis of warmth and light. Lamps glow in the living room, the refrigerator hums its steady rhythm, and the sound of rain against the roof feels cozy rather than threatening in here.
Mitch sets the umbrella aside and turns to me, his hands coming up to frame my face. "You're shivering."
"Cold." It's only half the reason. Being near him still makes me tremble, even after everything we've shared.
"Let's get you dry." He leads me to the bathroom, flipping on the light and reaching for a towel. "Take those wet clothes off."
There's nothing sexual in the command, just pure caretaking, but heat flickers low in my belly anyway. I peel off my sodden shirt and jeans, standing before him in just my bra and panties, both transparent from the rain.
His eyes darken as he takes me in, but he simply wraps the towel around my shoulders, rubbing gently to warm me. "I'll get you something to wear," he says, voice rougher than before.
When he returns, he's carrying one of his flannels and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist. "These will swallow you whole, but they're warm."
I let the towel drop to dry myself more thoroughly, aware of his gaze tracking my movements. When I reach behind to unhook my wet bra, his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard.
"Need help?" he asks, stepping closer.
I shake my head, smiling. "If you help, I'll never get into those dry clothes."
A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. "Fair point." He turns to give me privacy, a gentlemanly gesture that's almost funny considering he knows every inch of my body by now.
I pull on his clothes, rolling the sweatpants at the waist several times and letting the flannel hang to mid-thigh. Everything smells like him—sawdust and soap and that indefinable Mitch-scent that makes me feel safe.
"Done," I say, and he turns back, his expression softening at the sight of me in his clothes.
"Come here." He extends a hand, and I take it, letting him pull me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, solid and secure. "Still scared of the storm?"
As if on cue, thunder booms overhead, and I press closer to him, nodding against his shirt. "Since I was little. Dad says it's because Mom and I were in a car accident during a thunderstorm when I was three. I don't remember it, but..." I shrug.
