Chapter Four
Daniel
It takes her a minute to come to the door, and when she does, she only opens it a crack, but it’s enough for me to see that she’s wrapped in a towel. Soft, white cotton tugged around her torso and bare limbs. . .
“Hi.” She’s blushing.
Whatever I was going to say dies on my tongue. “You—”
My cock thickens at the thought of her naked and just a few inches from my hungry grasp.
“I’m going to take a bath,” she says breathlessly.
“Good.”
“Did you need something?” She eases the door open another few inches, and now I can see her bare legs and the curve of her shoulder.
I need to plant my palm on the door, spread my fingers wide, and push it open. I need her on the bed, legs spread wide so I can taste her tight little pussy.
Instead, I brace my hands on the doorframe—which I probably can’t push in—and ask the damn question. “Just wanted to double-check what time the food tasting is at.”
“Seven.”
“Lots of time, then.” This was a mistake, having her in my suite. Pretending I can make small talk with her.
“I won’t be long in the bath.”
I exhale roughly. “Take all the time you want.”
She searches my face, her expression uncertain. On top of all the depraved thoughts spiraling through my mind, what I want most of all is to gather her in my arms and reassure her I won’t do anything she doesn’t like.
I only want to do what she wants. Whatever will make her moan and sigh and swoon.
I push off the doorframe and step back.
The corner of her mouth quirks up. “This is a little weird, right?”
I laugh. “Maybe a little. I wasn’t expecting a guest.”
“I can go to the other—”
“No,” I bark out. An order. “I’m happy you’re here. It’s good to have some company. I promise. Have a good bath. Relax. Come find me when you’re done.”
“This place is massive; that might be hard.” She says it straight, but there’s a teasing look in her eye.
I like it. “We can play Marco Polo.”
She giggles, and fuck, that takes my cock from hard to throbbing.
After she closes the door, I palm myself and groan, then drag myself to my end of the suite.
I wrench open my pants and roughly fist my cock. It takes three strokes and a very clear mental image of her soft thighs rubbing together for me to come harder than any time in recent memory.
After I clean myself up and pour a stiff drink, I log in to my virtual workspace and check my messages.
I run a construction firm back home in Conception Ridge, and we break ground next week on the new town hall.
It’s our biggest project for the spring and over the summer, but we also have an ongoing housing development project that is multi-year in scope and some individual renovation projects happening in our residential division.
This is the longest vacation I’ll have ever taken from the firm, but I won’t let some downtime stop me from checking in.
My best friend and co-owner must have noticed that my profile shows me as active because he opens a message thread.
Heath: It’s a quiet Wednesday at the office, nothing to worry about.
Daniel: I’m not worried.
Heath: Why aren’t you out on the town?
Daniel: I’m waiting for my dinner date to be ready.
As soon as I type it out, I second guess the words—even though they feel disturbingly accurate. But Heath doesn’t know who my dinner date is, and strictly speaking, that’s who Rosie is tonight. We’re going to share a meal. I get to take her to a restaurant.
Heath: Fuck off. Are pigs flying?
Daniel: Cool your jets. It’s just dinner.
Heath: Go wild, man. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
Daniel: That is not my experience.
Heath: Fuck, I walked right into that one.
Daniel: Maybe less swearing on the company intranet?
Heath: You’re no fucking fun.
Daniel: You tell me that daily.
Heath: And I’m always right. Oh, gotta go, something’s on fire.
Daniel: Now you’re the one who can fuck off.
He leaves a string of laughing emojis before his icon goes gray. He’s off-line, the fucker.
It’s true. I am the more straight-laced of the two of us. But we’re both rough construction workers at heart. I just learned to clean up my language because I had a little girl to raise all by myself.
If Heath knew the filthy fucking language that streamed through my head when I thought of taking Rosie on the floor, hunched over her like a rabid beast. . . well, he wouldn’t believe me.
I don’t believe myself. And yet here I am, with another hard-on. I try to push away that dark, delicious image, only for it to be replaced with a picture of Rosie in the bathtub, her towel pooled on the tile floor beside her.
I don’t even need to picture her body. Just the soft lean of her head against the back of the tub, wet tendrils of hair plastered against her skin. A soapy hand, a splash of water. . .
What is about this girl? She’s nothing like the women I’ve tried to date since Melanie left home. Is it that I’ve been alone for so long I’d rather focus my fantasies on someone totally off-limits? Am I more attracted to her innocence and youth than I should be?
I shake my head and try to think of literally anyone else. Another friend of Melanie’s, or the summer students we hire from the college.
Nope. Gross. Fuck, I want to punch myself in the face for even trying.
Barking a laugh, I push away from my computer. The universe has some twisted sense of humor, waking my libido up in this very specific-to-one-girl kind of way.
I thought my reaction to her at The Roadhouse a few months ago had been an aberration. I’ve avoided the bar ever since, thinking it was too jarring to see little Rosie Johnson in such a grown-up setting.
I didn’t think twice about seeing her at the wedding.
Of course, she would be Mel’s maid of honor.
They were thick as thieves when they were little, and I was working all the time.
Rosie’s parents have four other kids, all younger than Rosie, so they were happy to have my daughter spend time with them after school until I got home from work.
How many weekend nights did the two girls babysit Rosie’s siblings, with me just next door, so her parents could go out for date nights?
I’ve known Rosie almost her whole life and never thought about her like this. . . before now.
Today, it slammed into me like a freight train. Mine.
I hear her door open from across the suite, and I cross to my own bedroom door.
She doesn’t see me at first, glancing around the living room, then goes to the floor-to-ceiling window and presses her nose against the glass.
I lean against the door frame and inhale at the vision in front of me. Curvy, bare legs disappearing underneath a red dress. Her hair is still damp and pinned up into a twist, revealing a deep V-cut down the back of the dress. All I can see is smooth skin.
She’s wearing black heels and turns around as I approach, now closer in height to me than before.
Our gazes collide, and time stands still.
In this moment, she’s a beautiful young woman I’ve just met, and all our history fades away. I want to know everything about her. I want to make her fall in love with me, a man who loves gambling and sailing and paperback thrillers. A man aching to know what she tastes like everywhere.
But then she laughs nervously. “Is this alright? I got it at Target, but the heels make it look more dressed up, right?”
And she’s Rosie from Conception Ridge again. Not for me to touch because my touch will be a violation.
“You look absolutely beautiful,” I say, meaning every word. But the way I say it is a lie. At the last minute, I hear the risk in the words and catch myself, making it sound fatherly. It sounds wrong and dismissive.
She puffs out her cheeks like I just called her a pretty little girl, and she doesn’t like it.
Against my better judgment, I get pulled in. “Not what you wanted to hear?”
“No, I’m glad it works. Thanks. But I was hoping I managed to look like a real grown-up, you know?”
I make a choked, grunting sound, and she covers her face. Fuck, I’m the one who should be embarrassed, not her.
From behind her fingers, she mutters, “Ignore me. I don’t know how to do this whole fancy thing. I literally was in charge of finding strippers, and I’m not even good at that!”
“What the hell?” The words come out sharper than I mean.
She drops her hands and gives me a wide-eyed look of panic. “Nothing.”
“For the bachelorette party?”
“Nope. Nothing to see here, Mr—”
“Stop calling me that.” It makes me want to see her on her knees, batting her eyelashes up at me in mock innocence. Can I lick it, Mr. Burke?
But there’s nothing pretend about Rosie’s innocence. She’s on the cusp of adulthood, and a natural step is to call her best friend’s father by his first name.
I soften my voice. “Call me Daniel. Or Dan, most people call me Dan.”
She searches my face. “Who calls you Daniel?”
I shake my head. “Not many people.”
She tips her head to the side. “Hmm.”
“We’re not skipping over the stripper conversation to focus on what people call me,” I say as neutrally as I can, which isn’t that fucking neutral.
The corners of her lips turn up. “I’m just Rosie. Did you know that? It’s not short for anything. Or, long for Rose, I guess.”
“Did Melanie specifically ask you to find strippers? Because there are other ways to celebrate a bachelorette party.”
She nods a little. “I think I’ll call you Daniel.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
She smiles, and we wordlessly agree to shelve the conversation about the bachelorette party until after dinner.