Page 13 of Her Father's Best Friend
His hand strokes my damp hair, gentle and soothing. "You're safe here."
The simple statement, delivered in his deep, certain voice, makes something in my chest unravel. This powerful, steady man who could snap a two-by-four with his bare hands will let nothing hurt me—not a storm, not anything.
"I know," I whisper.
He leads me to the kitchen, his hand engulfing mine. "Hungry? I was about to make dinner when the storm hit."
I nod, settling onto a barstool at his kitchen island while he moves around the space with easy familiarity, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.
"You ever going to tell your dad about us?" I ask, the question that's been hovering between us for days finally escaping my lips.
Mitch's hands pause briefly over the cutting board where he's dicing an onion. "Been thinking about it," he admits. "Just trying to figure out how to do it without him putting a bullet in me."
"He wouldn't—" I start, then stop myself. Dad might not actually shoot Mitch, but he's going to be furious. "He'll get over it eventually."
"Maybe." Mitch doesn't sound convinced. "He trusted me with you, Delilah. Being with you feels like betraying that trust."
"You're not corrupting an innocent," I point out. "I pursued you, remember?"
A smile tugs at his lips. "Hard to forget." He resumes chopping, the knife a blur in his capable hands. "Still. A man has a certain understanding with his friends about their daughters."
"That understanding assumes the daughter has no agency," I argue, leaning forward on my elbows. "I'm a grown woman who made a choice. You're the one I want. Dad will have to accept that."
Mitch sets down the knife, turning to face me fully. "You sound very sure about this. About us."
There's vulnerability in his eyes that I've never seen before—uncertainty beneath the strength. It hits me then that despite his size, his age, his apparent confidence, Mitch Lawson is as new to this as I am. Maybe not to sex, but to this—to caring about someone enough that losing them would matter.
"I am sure," I say softly. "I've been sure since I was sixteen."
He comes around the island, pulling me to my feet and into his arms. His kiss is different this time—not demanding or desperate, but searching, like he's trying to taste the truth of my words on my tongue.
When he pulls back, his eyes are serious. "This isn't just physical for me, Delilah. You understand that, right?"
My heart stutters. "It's not just physical for me either."
The admission hangs between us, neither of us quite ready to name the feeling more specifically, but both acknowledging its presence.
Another crack of thunder makes me jump, breaking the moment. Mitch chuckles, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
"Let me finish dinner before the power decides to follow the rest of the town."
We eat at his small dining table, spaghetti with a rich tomato sauce that he admits he learned to make from my father years ago. The irony isn't lost on either of us. The storm continues to rage outside, but in here, with food and warmth and Mitch's steady presence, my fear recedes to a distant concern.
After dinner, we curl together on his couch, a blanket thrown over our legs, some action movie playing on his TV that neither of us is really watching. I'm too aware of his body pressed against mine, of his hand absently stroking my hip through the borrowed flannel.
When a particularly violent burst of thunder shakes the house, rattling the windows in their frames, I bury my face against his chest. His arms tighten around me, protective and secure.
"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair. "Always going to keep you safe, Delilah."
I lift my head to look at him, finding his eyes dark and intent on my face. "Promise?"
"Promise." He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch so gentle it makes my heart ache. "For as long as you want me."
"That might be a very long time," I warn him, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, rough with evening stubble.
He turns his head, pressing a kiss to my palm. "I'm counting on it."
When the movie ends, Mitch yawns and stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of hard abdomen. "Getting late. You must be tired after that drive."
