Page 2 of Her Father's Best Friend
"Hey, Dad," I say, pulling back. "I see you've got Mitch working hard as usual."
"Best builder in the county," my dad says proudly, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Been helping me fix this place up while you've been gone. Staying for dinner, Mitch?"
Mitch's eyes meet mine for a brief, electric moment. "Not tonight, Bill. Got some things to take care of at home." His gaze lingers on me a second too long. "Good to see you, Delilah."
The way he says my name makes heat pool in my belly. "You too, Mitch. I'm sure I'll be seeing a lot more of you."
He nods stiffly, gathers his tools, and heads for his truck parked on the street. I watch him walk away, admiring the broad expanse of his back, the way his jeans cup his ass.
Dad and I catch up over pizza that night. He tells me that Mitch has been over nearly every weekend, helping with various projects around the house. "He's like the son I never had," Dad says between bites. "Known him for what, fifteen years now? Since he started working for my crew. He was just a kid then, barely twenty."
Which would make Mitch about thirty-five now. The thirteen-year age gap makes my insides clench with excitement.
"He's not seeing anyone?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
Dad gives me a curious look. "Mitch? Nah. Married to his work, that one. Why?"
I shrug, hiding my smile behind my pizza slice. "Just wondering."
Later, in my childhood bedroom, I pull out my old journal from under the loose floorboard where I'd hidden it before leaving for college. The pages are filled with fantasies—detailed descriptions of what I imagined Mitch would do to me, how his calloused hands would feel against my skin, how his beard would scratch between my thighs.
Tonight, I add a new entry:
He looked at me today. Really looked at me. Like he was seeing me for the first time. I'm not going to stop until those big hands are gripping my hips and he's whispering my name like a prayer. I've waited too long for this. Mitch Lawson won't know what hit him.
I close the journal and trace my fingers over the cover. The girl who wrote those early fantasies was just a dreamer. But I'm not that girl anymore. I'm a woman who knows what she wants.
And I want Mitch Lawson to lose his goddamn mind over me.
two
Mitch
The shower doesn't washher away. I stand under the spray until the water runs cold, but I still smell her cherry lip gloss, still see the curve of her hip pressed against that doorframe. Delilah Carter isn't a kid anymore. That fact hammers in my skull like a physical pain. I press my forehead against the tile and curse my own weakness. Bill trusts me. He's treated me like family for fifteen years. And here I am, getting hard at the thought of his daughter's nipples pressing against thin white cotton.
"Fucking get it together," I mutter, turning off the shower with a violent twist.
My house feels too empty tonight. Just me and the echo of my footsteps on hardwood. I've never minded the solitude before. Preferred it, even. But tonight, the silence gives my mind too much space to fill with images of Delilah.
The first time I met her, she was a gangly ten-year-old with knobby knees and a gap-toothed smile, hiding behind Bill's legs while I fixed their roof after a storm. I was twenty-three then, hired onto Bill's construction crew straight out of a rough patch when I needed the work. He took a chance on me when nobody else would. Gave me legitimate work when my other options weren't so legitimate.
Over the years, I watched Delilah grow up in fragments—school vacations, summer breaks, holidays when Bill would invite me over because he knew I had no family of my own. I'd help her with math homework. Taught her to change a tire when she got her first car. Built her a bookshelf for her sixteenth birthday.
Something shifted when she turned eighteen. The way she looked at me changed. Started lingering. I noticed, but I pushed it down. Ignored it. She was still a kid to me. Bill's kid.
But the woman who showed up today? There was nothing childlike about her.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto my couch, flipping on a baseball game I have no interest in watching. The condensation from the bottle drips onto my bare chest. I don't bother wiping it away.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Bill's name on the screen makes my gut twist with guilt.
"Yeah?" I answer, voice rougher than intended.
"Mitch! Got another favor to ask, if you're free tomorrow." Bill's voice comes through cheerful and oblivious. "The washing machine's making that sound again, and there's a leak in the basement I can't track down. Could use your expertise."
My first instinct is to refuse. Make up some excuse. But fifteen years of loyalty doesn't disappear overnight.
"Sure," I say, hating myself. "What time?"
