12. Ari
TWELVE
ARI
Group texts were exhausting on a good day. Add one near-drowning and suddenly everyone in town wanted to be your best friend.
My thumb hovered over the latest message from some guy I barely remembered from high school—something about prayers, something about how God must’ve had a plan —and I nearly dropped the phone in favor of rolling my eyes straight out of my head.
I was debating whether I could fake being asleep when a knock sounded at the door.
Not Mom’s knock. Hers was always rushed, like she was running late to check on me.
This one was slower. Intentional.
But when the door eased open, it wasn’t Mom.
It was him.
Daddy stood there, jeans low on his hips, fresh T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. Clean. Sharp. Too much. Too much and not enough, all at once.
And he was holding a package.
“Brought you something,” he said, voice low.
“Is it another near-death experience? Because I’m kind of booked on those this week.”
That earned me a twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile. Dangerous thing, that.
He stepped inside, quiet on bare feet. A bag hung from his fingers as he moved closer.
When he reached the side of the bed, he hooked the handle of the bag on one finger, holding it out between us.
“Figured you could use something to do that doesn’t involve dodging texts from kids who used to cheat off your homework. ”
I pushed up onto my elbows. “You’ve been spying on my phone now?”
His mouth curved at the corner, making the man look infuriatingly sexy. “Spying? Nah. This place runs on routine—and gossip.”
Okay. Fair.
When I reached for the bag, his hand shifted, knuckles brushing mine. Stupid, how much that did to me. Just that one soft drag of skin, and suddenly I was hot under the collar, like my nerves had been waiting for this exact excuse to act out.
I curled my fingers around the handle, breaking the touch before I embarrassed myself. Inside were sketchbooks, pencils, a tin of charcoal with a sleek metal lid. Better than anything I usually bought for myself. Thoughtful in a way that made it harder to breathe.
“How did you kn?—?”
His gaze held mine for a second... and then, gently, he pried the bag from my hand. “I pay attention.”
Not fair. The man didn’t just have the body of someone I shouldn’t be thinking about with my mom two rooms away—he had a good heart, too. Beautiful in the ways that mattered most. Dangerous in all the ways that made it hard to stay still.
As he crossed to my desk, I pushed up higher, using the movement to cover the way my dick was beginning to harden. Pressed my back to the headboard, legs stretched out beneath the covers, arms loose at my sides like I wasn’t coming apart inside.
“You really didn’t have to,” I said, trying for casual. “You already do the good deed rounds. The Santanas have you on retainer.”
That earned me one of those half-smiles—the ones that made me forget how to use common sense. The kind that made me want to lean in even when I knew better. “They pay me in banana bread. You couldn’t afford me.”
He set the bag down on my desk, but he didn’t walk away.
“Besides,” he added, voice low, “you’re not a good deed.”
I forced myself to meet his gaze, even though every inch of me felt like it was unraveling. Because that line— you’re not a good deed —wasn’t just kindness. It was a choice. A truth. One I didn’t know what to do with.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Nothing I said would land right, not with my chest caving in like that.
So I looked away first. Not long—just long enough to catch my breath without giving everything away.
Smartass. Gorgeous, impossible smartass.
He hovered near the desk for a beat, like he was debating something, then came back over. Slow. He stood by the bed, close enough that I could see the faint line of stubble along his jaw, and smell the clean scent of soap clinging to him.
“You good?” His voice was low—not teasing now, but searching. “You’re paler than I like.”
That’s when his hand lifted. No rush. No warning. Just his fingers curling lightly around my wrist, like he was checking something. My pulse. Logical. Sensible. Except the way his thumb brushed across the inside of my wrist wasn’t sensible at all.
My breath snagged. My heart tripped like it forgot how to behave entirely.
“I’m fine,” I said, but it didn’t sound convincing, mostly because the feel of him touching me sent heat curling everywhere it shouldn’t.
“Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”
He said it too easily, like it wasn’t about anything at all. Like I wasn’t two seconds from embarrassing myself under the covers.
“Gonna make that a full-time job?” My voice stayed steady. My pulse didn’t.
Daddy’s expression barely shifted, just a flicker—amusement, maybe something sharper underneath. “Careful,” he said, voice dropping too. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
Maybe I didn’t know what I was really asking for, but it wouldn’t stop me from wanting to ask again. Just to see what trouble I could get myself in. Because with him, any kind of trouble would be the good kind.
The way his fingers stayed there wrapped around my wrist—comforting, warm, intentional—sent a shiver sliding down my spine. It wasn’t just a touch; it was a hold . A promise of how solid he could be if I let him.
And I wanted to let him.
“Uh huh, steady,” he murmured, gaze flicking down to where his hand covered mine.
Heat licked up the back of my neck. Of course he meant my pulse. The steady part. The firefighter in him. The protector in him. But that wasn’t how I heard it—not at all.
Steady.
My throat squeezed tight, stupid and aching, like my whole body was leaning into the words I wanted him to say but knew he wouldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But I wanted it anyway.
Wanted him to see me—not the kid who used to follow him around, not the reckless idiot who couldn’t even stay dry at a lake party—but me . Wanted his voice in that tone again, not careful, not professional, not patient.
Proud.
“You’re good at that,” I said before I could stop myself. “Keeping people steady.”
His eyes flicked up, searching, like he could hear the undercurrent I wasn’t brave enough to say out loud yet. Like he felt it too.
A beat passed, heavier than it should’ve been.
Then—soft, almost too soft, “You make it easy.”
That, God, that hit deeper than I wanted it to. Not just because of what he said, but because I believed him. He could’ve brushed it off, called me stubborn or trouble, said I was a pain in the ass. But no—he gave me that .
You make it easy.
It felt like praise even though it wasn’t supposed to be. Like a hand at the back of my neck, stabilizing, guiding. Something good. Something mine .
I swallowed hard. My fingers twitched under his, itching to curl into the touch, but I didn’t move. I held still, letting him hold that part of me, letting myself want it.
Want him.
The need to hear more crawled up my throat, sharp, hungry. Say it. Call me good. Tell me I’m yours. Something in me wanted to fold into that, make myself small just so he’d have a reason to hold me steady.
But I didn’t say any of that. Not yet.
Daddy’s thumb gave one last pass over my wrist before he eased his hand away, slow like he knew he shouldn’t have done it, but couldn’t help himself.
“You’re doing good,” he said finally, voice low.
I wish I could reach over to get the bottled water on the nightstand, and empty it in one gulp. To cool down the lust raging inside me. But Daddy was holding my wrist and I didn’t want him to let go.
God, I was hopeless.
Good.
Good boy.
The way Daddy said I’m doing good shouldn’t have felt like it did. Shouldn’t have curled heat through my stomach like I’d been waiting for it my whole damn life.
More , I wanted to say.
I bit the inside of my cheek instead and let him go.
His thumb gave one last pass across my wrist before he stepped back, hand dropping. The loss of contact felt like someone yanked the plug out of something electric. Sharp. Empty.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured, softer now. “Get some rest and then get some sketching done later.”
“Thought you liked giving orders.”
That flicker of a smile again—half amusement, half warning. “I do.” His voice curled around the words. “Don’t make me give you one you’re not ready for.”
My throat closed around whatever smart reply I’d been reaching for, heat sparking across my skin like someone struck a match too close to my chest.
Daddy headed for the door. Just before he stepped out, he glanced back over his shoulder. Not casual. Not friendly.
Possessive.
I think.
“Get some rest, Ari.”
Right.
Like I was gonna sleep now.