Chapter 4 Scott
FOUR
SCOTT
This is the last damn situation I want to be in. Tucked away in a secluded cabin, alone, with my best friend’s daughter. Who doesn’t look anything like the girl I used to know.
It’s been a few years since I’ve been able to get away with the Gallows, and now I’m wishing I’d have added a few more to that calendar.
She’s a woman now. Full-grown, stunning, and utterly unaware of what she’s doing to me. My body clocked her the second she lifted that fire poker in my direction, eyes wide and lip trembling. That split-second adrenaline rush of rage, fear, and unyielding power, it hit me somewhere it shouldn’t.
Now, every time those amber eyes meet mine, twisted images play out in my head. Indecent ones I don’t want, but can’t stop. I’m too old for this shit. Too old to be having graphic fantasies like these about the daughter of the man who’s trusted me since college.
I brace both hands on the snow-covered hood of my Jeep and breathe deep, the frigid air burning my lungs. I’m hoping the cold shocks the wrongness out of me and leaves it out here in the wild.
I should’ve canceled. The roads alone were enough of a reason. But I made a promise to Stephen that I’d be here for him when he told the family the big announcement. Except there is no family here, just me and Ava.
I exhale, feeling the condensation cling to the beard I’ve grown since quitting the firm.
The last time I saw her, I was clean-shaven, slick, and well-suited.
Maybe that’s why she swung at me. She didn’t recognize this unkept version, who looks like he’s never seen the sharp end of a razor.
Hell, I barely recognize myself these days.
Out of the city, out of the game of deals and one overs, I stopped pretending to enjoy polished shoes and morning meetings months ago.
Lifting the small haul of groceries higher in my hold, I crunch back through the snow to the cabin.
The light glows warmly through the frosted windows.
A soft yellow against the bright white carpeting as far as the eye can see.
A Christmas song crackles from behind the closed door, faint and distorted like something from a dream.
When I push it open, she doesn’t seem to hear me. I drop the small cooler on the counter with a resounding thud. That gets her attention. She spins, eyes wild, breath caught, and an oversized cast-iron pan comes flying for my head.
Something happened before I got here, and it’s still holding her hostage.
Instinct kicks in. I catch her wrist, stopping the blow an inch from my temple.
“That’s twice now,” I say, keeping my grip just firm enough to let her know I’m in control. “Still so jumpy.” My voice ticks with a thrill of excitement at the touch of her skin beneath mine. Thankfully, she’s too distracted by whatever’s got her so on edge to notice, and I will the feeling away.
She’s trembling. I should let go, but that’s honestly the last thing I want to do, so I don’t.
Her wrist is smooth beneath my touch. The skin’s warm from the fire, finally roaring behind the grate, and beating the chill from the room.
The small point of contact sends something dark and electric through me, all the way down to my balls, and my dick twitches.
I release her immediately and step back like I’ve been burned.
“We should eat.” My voice scrapes low in my throat.
I clear it, trying to push the tension I’ve created away from us.
But I see the way her gaze lingers on where I touched her.
The rouge that builds on her cheeks as she examines it.
There’s no missing the way her breathing changes, coming shallow and fast, but maybe it’s from her fear, and I’m seeing something that isn’t actually there.
Fuck. This is dangerous.
“Steak okay?” I ask, popping open the small cooler.
“Ye—yeah, that sounds great,” she says, voice a little too bright once she’s able to get the words out.
She pulls out the supplies I’ve brought and starts putting everything away. The package of steaks thuds against the counter in front of me, the butcher paper crinkling as they settle.
She moves across the kitchen and sets the same damn pan she nearly killed me with on the stove. I adjust the burner and wait for the flame to light.
“How about a drink?” she calls out.
I glance her way. She’s holding up a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The cheap stuff. The kind you drink when you don’t care about tomorrow, or you’re underage and happy to have anything you can get your hands on. I walk over and pluck it from her hold without a word.
“This is shit whiskey. You know that, right?”
“I mean, it tastes like it. I’m more of a tequila girl anyway.” She shrugs.
I put the bottle away, high in the cabinet she probably found it in earlier. “Check the bottom of the bin. If you’re dead set on breaking the law, at least do it with something worth your time.”
Her age hits me all over again. Not old enough to drink. Not old enough to be looked at the way I’ve been looking at her. Definitely not old enough to be part of the filthy images I’ve been conjuring since I laid eyes on her tonight.
I close my eyes for a beat, disgusted with myself. Jesus. I went from admiring her as a grown woman to fantasizing about her lying on this counter, naked and wet…
What the hell is wrong with me?
I force my thoughts back in line, grab two lowball glasses, and place them on the counter.
“Two fingers,” I say. “Though, you should probably start with one.”
“I don’t usually,” she mumbles under her breath. I don’t think she intended me to hear. But the “Yes, sir,” she mutters, comes through loud and clear.
My spine goes stiff. I close my eyes again, this time longer, and draw in a steadying breath.
Don’t let that get to you, Scott. It’s the devil dancing in the wings, encouraging sinful deeds. There’s no way she could know what those two little words would mean to you.
She pours, then slides the glass my way. I take it without a word and move back to the stove, dropping the steaks onto the pan. The sizzle is loud in the buzzing silence between us.
Ava throws her drink back like it’s a shot of bottom-shelf tequila at a frat party. Immediately, the choking starts.
I snatch the glass from her hand and fill it with water, handing it back just as she doubles over, coughing. She snatches the offering and drinks it down greedily.
I try not to stare at her throat as it works over gulp after gulp, but the thought is already in my head. That same mouth, wrapped around—
Stop.
“Jesus,” she gasps. “You’re a fucking liar. That was a million times worse than the other stuff.”
“It’s a sipping whiskey,” I reply flatly. “That was your first mistake. Second, this is Macallan 45. It’s better than the bottle you found. Not my fault, you’ve got the palate of a college freshman.”
Her brows shoot up. Her weight shifts, hip cocked out with attitude. “Excuse you. I am not some sorority girl who can’t handle her liquor. Also, I graduate next year, thank you very much. But it’s good to know you’re still a snob under all that flannel and facial hair.”
I can’t help it. The full-body laughter pulls from my throat, deep and so unexpected it startles us both.
Her expression softens, a smile tugging at her bow-shaped lips before her soft laughter joins in too.
I flip the steaks and turn back, giving her my full attention.
“Snobby, huh?” I mutter. That word sticks like a wood sliver under the nail.
I think back to who I used to be, a man obsessed with productivity and appearances.
One who needed to be the best in whatever he did.
Fast cars, faster promotions, and the unattached lifestyle it led me to.
I barely existed outside the firm’s schedule.
Ava’s always been around. She’s Stephen’s only daughter.
But she was never more to me than one of his offspring.
Young, loud, and carefree. I never found the space to be an uncle figure, despite how close I am to her father.
I never tried because kids were never my thing.
Certainly, never wanted any of my own with the women who flipped through my bedroom like a catalog in a waiting room.
Maybe it’s a blessing.
“Grab your gross bottle of whiskey if you aren’t going to appreciate mine and the silverware.
These are done,” I tell her, plating the steaks.
I pick up my glass, circling the counter toward the table where she’s set two spots.
Everything looks… domestic, which feels wrong in so many ways that my brain short-circuits when I try to further the idea.
Clearing my throat and taking a seat, I manage to grumble, “Hope medium works for you.”
“Ew. Seriously? I only eat well-done.”
My silverware clatters against the plate. I give her a slow stare, already deciding I’ll eat both steaks myself and drink the rest of this Macallan in my room with the door locked. But then she smirks.
That sassy little grin grabs my dick’s attention. I shift in my seat, trying to create more space between us, before I do something idiotic, like say “fuck it” and haul her ass over my knee.
“Kidding. Medium’s perfect.”
I sigh, and she finally sits on the other side of the small seating area. The cabin falls quiet again, except for the wind building outside, the faint hiss of the pan cooling down, and my heartbeat still far too loud in my ears.
This is going to be a long night.