Chapter 2
two
Mitch
The shower doesn't wash her 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?"
"Noon work? Dell's excited about being home. Keeps talking about seeing old friends." There's a pause. "Good to have another girl's opinion on the house projects. She's already got ideas for fixing up the place."
I close my eyes. "I bet she does."
After we hang up, I sit in the dark for a long time, nursing my beer and hating myself for the anticipation coiling in my gut.
* * *
Bill's already gone when I pull up to the house the next day. His note on the door says he got called into work for an emergency and that Delilah's inside. My palms sweat as I knock.
The door swings open, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Delilah stands there in tiny cotton shorts and a cropped top that shows a strip of soft belly. Her red hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils curling around her face. Those big green eyes of hers light up when she sees me.
"Right on time," she says, stepping back to let me in. Her bare feet make soft padding sounds on the hardwood. There's a silver ring on her second toe.
"Your dad said something about a washing machine?" I keep my eyes fixed on the wall behind her head.
"And a leak in the basement." She turns, leading the way toward the kitchen. "Dad had to go deal with some crisis at the site. He said you'd know what to do."
I follow her, my gaze traitorously dropping to the sway of her hips. The shorts barely cover the curve of her ass. Each cheek peeks out with every step, taunting me. My hands clench at my sides.
"Coffee?" she asks, reaching up to grab mugs from a high shelf. The movement makes her top ride up, exposing more skin.
"No," I say quickly. Then, trying to soften my tone: "Thanks. I should take a look at that machine."
The laundry room is a small alcove off the kitchen. I crouch in front of the washing machine, pulling it away from the wall to access the back panel. I can feel her watching me, standing too close in the cramped space.
"You always were good with your hands," she says, her voice dropping lower.
I focus on unscrewing the panel. "Known for fixing things, yeah."
"I remember watching you work in the backyard when I was in high school." There's a smile in her voice. "You never wore a shirt when it was hot."
The screwdriver slips, nearly gouging my palm. "Wasn't appropriate."
"What wasn't?"
"You. Watching me." I glance up at her, immediately regretting it. From this angle, looking up from my crouched position, I can see straight down her top. The curve of her breasts is fuller than I'd imagined. Not that I should be imagining anything.
She leans against the dryer, bringing her face closer to mine. "I had the biggest crush on you."
The confession hangs in the air between us. I force myself to look back at the washing machine. "You were a kid."
"I'm not anymore." Her foot nudges my thigh. "In case you hadn't noticed."
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. "I noticed."
She makes a pleased sound, and I feel her shift closer. "The leak's in the basement. Want to see?"
I reattach the panel and shove the washing machine back into place with more force than necessary. "Lead the way."
The basement stairs are narrow and dim. Delilah goes first, and I stay a few steps behind, giving myself room to breathe. The space below is unfinished—concrete floors, exposed beams, a few hanging bulbs for light. It smells like damp earth and old wood.
"Dad said it's over here somewhere." She walks to the far corner where a dark patch stains the concrete. "Happens whenever the neighbors water their lawn too much."
I crouch down to examine the wall. There's a small crack in the foundation, barely visible without the flashlight I pull from my tool belt. I trace it with my finger, following it up to where it disappears behind an old shelving unit.
"Need to move this," I mutter, standing to grab the heavy wooden shelf.
"Let me help." Delilah steps in close, her chest brushing my arm as she positions herself on the other side of the shelf.
"I've got it," I say, but she's already bending down, giving me a view straight down her shirt again. I look away, focusing on a water stain on the ceiling.
"On three," she says. "One, two?—"
We lift together, and I take most of the weight, moving it easily to the side. When I turn back, she's watching me with those big green eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
"You make that look so easy," she says. She reaches out, her fingers brushing my forearm, tracing a vein that runs up to my elbow. "You're stronger than you used to be."
I step back, putting the shelf between us. "Foundation's cracked. Needs to be sealed."
"Is that something you can fix?" She follows me, not letting me create distance.
"Yeah." I turn to my toolbox, pulling out a tube of hydraulic cement. Anything to keep my hands busy and my eyes off her.
Delilah leans against the wall, watching me work. "Do you remember my eighteenth birthday party?"
My hand stills. Of course I remember. She'd worn a blue dress that brought out the green in her eyes, and I'd forced myself to leave early because I couldn't stop looking at her.
"Your dad threw you a barbecue," I say neutrally.
"You gave me that silver necklace. The one with the little star." Her fingers touch her throat, though she's not wearing it now. "I still have it."
"It was nothing fancy." My voice comes out rough.
"You left early." She pushes off the wall, coming closer. "I always wondered why."
Because I wanted to kiss you, I think but don't say. Because eighteen was still too young and you were still Bill's little girl and I was still thirteen years older than you.
"Had an early job the next day," I lie.
She's close enough now that I can smell her shampoo—something sweet and floral. "You're a terrible liar, Mitch Lawson."
I focus on mixing the cement, my hands steady despite the chaos in my chest. "Need to let this set for twenty-four hours after application."
"You're avoiding the conversation." Her voice holds a hint of frustration.
"Nothing to talk about."
She makes an impatient sound, then deliberately moves into my line of sight, crouching down beside me. "Look at me."
Against my better judgment, I do. Her face is flushed, eyes bright with determination.
"I'm twenty-two now," she says, each word deliberate. "I have a degree. I'm an adult who knows what she wants." She leans in, her breath warm against my jaw. "And I want you, Mitch. I always have."
The mixing stick snaps in my hand. "Delilah?—"
"Don't tell me you don't feel it too." Her hand lands on my thigh, just above my knee. The heat of her palm burns through my jeans.
For a second—just one dangerous second—I let myself imagine it. Taking her face in my hands. Tasting those glossy lips. Backing her up against the wall and lifting her, feeling those thick thighs wrap around my waist.
But Bill's face flashes in my mind, and I stand so quickly that the cement mixture sloshes over the edge of the container.
"You should go upstairs," I say, my voice a low warning. "Now."
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't look afraid. She looks intrigued. Like she's discovered something valuable.
"Why?" she challenges, standing to face me. "What happens if I stay?"
"Delilah." Her name comes out like a growl. "I'm trying to do the right thing here."
"Maybe the right thing isn't what you think it is." She steps closer, tilting her head back to maintain eye contact. "Maybe the right thing is being honest about what we both want."
I take a deliberate step back. "Your dad is my best friend."
"And I'm not asking you to stop being his friend." Her green eyes flash. "I'm asking you to see me. Not as Bill's daughter, but as a woman who knows her own mind."
"It's not that simple."
"It could be." She bites her lip again, and I have to look away from the sight of her teeth pressing into soft flesh. "Think about it, Mitch."
She turns and walks to the stairs, her hips swaying with each step. At the bottom, she glances back over her shoulder. "I'll be upstairs when you're ready to admit what you really want."
Then she's gone, and I'm left alone in the dim basement, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
I finish sealing the crack methodically, focusing on the work instead of the echo of her words in my head. But the damage is done. The image of her—soft and curved and wanting—is burned into my brain.
I pack up my tools slowly, giving myself time to regain control. Time to remember all the reasons I need to keep my distance. Time to ignore the way my body aches for her.
But when I climb those stairs, when I see her waiting in the kitchen with a gleam in her eye that says she knows exactly what she's doing to me, I know with bone-deep certainty that I'm in trouble.
Bill's daughter is a flame, and I'm nothing but dry tinder in her presence. It's only a matter of time before I burn.