CHAPTER 3 – A DANGEROUS FLIRTATION
Eliza
Skipping down the stairs, I flip my golden hair over one shoulder, and it catches the last ray of afternoon sun slanting through the kitchen window.
If Mom sees me, I’ll get the look—the one that says “Is this how I raised you?”—but Nancy’s out at a church potluck, leaving me the run of the place.
And I already know Dad won’t say anything about my hoochie outfit because that’s not how Gerald works.
He still sees me as his little girl, and I’d have to be clad in a garbage bag with horns growing out of my head before he’d notice something out of place.
But game day means snacks, so I set the scene: chips in a blue bowl, salsa in a fake cut-glass dish, and a backup jar of store brand cheese in case Dad wants to test his lactose tolerance.
I angle the bowls on the living room coffee table, fussing with the placement until the colors pop under the overhead light.
Even the napkins are on theme—gold, maroon, the works.
The door opens and in comes the cavalry: Dad first, shoes off at the mat, face already set in the expectant grimace of a man who’s hoping his team will not be humiliated this week.
Right behind him is Jack. The huge man enters with a confident step, taking in the room with that airman’s radar scan.
His black hair is wind-ruffled, and he’s wearing a faded squadron T-shirt and cargo shorts that show off his tanned calves.
There’s the tiniest hint of grey at his temples, but it just makes him look more dangerous, more “I could kill you with a pencil” and less “over the hill.” I catch those piercing blue eyes on me for exactly one second before he deliberately shifts his attention to the snack table.
“Eliza,” he says, voice just a little rough. “Good to see you again. Is work treating you well?”
“Like a queen,” I say, and lean in for the hug he can’t quite refuse.
His body is solid as a rock, arms locked in a holding pattern an inch from my waist. I squeeze playfully, just to let him know I’m not a kid anymore, then step back and grin.
“You know Gibson Grant couldn’t function without their most organized paralegal. ”
Jack nods, surveying the snacks.
“Well, the snacks definitely look pro,” he rumbles before casting a glance my way. “I love the maroon and gold.”
Dad gives me a peck on the cheek and sits in his La-Z-Boy, remote already cocked like a loaded weapon. “You girls want beer?” he calls, even though it’s just me and Jack and the football gods.
I flop onto the couch, angling my knees so that they’re closed and proper. Jack hesitates for half a beat, then lowers himself onto the cushion opposite, leaving exactly two feet of neutral ground between us. I see the way his hands flex on his thighs before he folds them in his lap.
I pop the tab off a soda, take a slow sip, and watch the game warm-up in silence.
The TV’s got the sound at “loud enough to stun livestock” and the announcers are already using words like “gritty” and “high-octane” about teams that haven’t had a winning season in years.
Dad is already red-faced and Jack laughs, but his eyes don’t reflect genuine mirth.
The rest of him is all tension … and I think it’s from being so close to me.
For good reason too, because I start my campaign with small moves.
First, I stretch out on the couch so my bare thigh almost brushes his knee.
Then, when Dad asks for more chips, I stand and lean way, way over the table, arching my back just enough that my top rides up and Jack can see the tender line of skin above my shorts.
I catch the older man watching in the reflection of the TV.
He closes his eyes for a beat, jaw flexing, as if trying to maintain control.
The next time I pass him a beer, my hand “accidentally” grazes his knuckles.
His skin is hot, and the moment lingers longer than it should.
My pulse jumps. I want him to grab me by the wrist, haul me into his lap, and tell me to quit being such a brat, but instead he just clears his throat and says, “Thanks, kiddo.”
The word “kiddo” is so hilariously off-base I almost laugh. If he thinks of me as a child, why does his gaze keep sliding down to my breasts when I’m not looking? He’s watching my every move the way a predator tracks something it wants to eat, and honestly, I like it.
The first quarter goes by in a haze of touchdowns and passive-aggressive snack refills.
I barely watch the game because I’m watching Jack.
Every time he shifts on the cushion, the muscles in his arms bulge under the sleeve.
When he laughs at Dad’s bad jokes, the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkle just so.
Sometimes, I catch him glancing at me, and there’s a flash of hunger before he locks it down again.
I decide to up the ante. When Dad yells “Touchdown!” and pumps his fists, I squeal and bounce on the couch like a college cheerleader, clapping so my boobs jiggle for maximum effect.
Jack looks away fast, but not before a harsh flush appears on those high cheekbones.
His crotch twitches, and I smile to myself.
Oh yes, this man is only too aware of me.
During the commercial break, Dad runs to the bathroom. As soon as the door clicks shut, Jack leans in, voice a low rumble.
“Eliza, I need you to stop.”
I put on an innocent expression. “Stop what, Uncle Jack?”
He gives me the world’s most withering look, but it’s tinged with something else—desperation, maybe. “You know what.”
I lean in, closer. “You mean, being friendly? I’ve always been a friendly girl though.”
He doesn’t answer, but his hand balls into a fist on his knee, and I decide to up the ante.
“I’m not a little girl anymore, Uncle Jack,” I whisper in his ear. “You can treat me like an adult.”
He closes his eyes, lets out a long exhale. “That’s the problem,” he mutters, just as Dad thunders back in.
“Did I miss anything?”
I’m already back on my side of the couch and smile winsomely at Gerald.
“Not at all, Daddy. I was just thinking that the Gophers are really going at it today. Hard.”
Jack throws me a glance as I sit back, triumphant. I’m winning this game, and I know it.
The second quarter is a test of nerves, and I escalate with every play: brushing my leg against Jack’s, tucking my hair behind my ear and letting my fingers trail down my throat, sitting cross-legged so my thigh presses hard against his.
Jack starts drinking more, and faster too.
He says less, but his cheeks are flushed, and the vein in his temple is pulsing like a warning light.
Of course, Dad is oblivious, shouting at the refs and wolfing down Cheetos like it’s a timed event.
I live for this. I love risk, and I love tempting Fate, in all aspects of my life. If Mom walked in now, she’d see nothing but a girl and her “uncle” watching a dumb game, but under the surface there’s a simmering tension between an innocent nymphet and the older man she wants to entrap.
At halftime, Dad stands and stretches, his back popping audibly. “I’m going to grab more beer. Jack, you want one?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jack says, voice gruff.
Dad disappears into the garage where we keep a second refrigerator, and I pivot on the cushion to face Jack, pulling my knees up under me. The handsome man stares at the TV, refusing to look at me, his jaw like granite.
“I saw you watching me,” I say, soft but impossible to ignore.
He swallows before growling, “You’re making this very difficult, Eliza.”
“But I want you to look,” I say. “I want you to see how much I want you.”
He finally meets my eyes. The blue in them is electric, dangerous.
“You shouldn’t want me,” he says. “Your dad—”
“I don’t care about my dad,” I shoot back, my voice trembling with the effort to keep it together. “I want you.”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in, just a fraction. “You have no idea what you’re playing with, little girl.”
I smile, slow and innocent. “Yes, exactly, Uncle Jack. That’s the problem, so why don’t you show me what I’m missing?” I lean in, let my shoulder brush his arm, and pitch my voice just for him. “You know I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Jack’s whole body goes still, and for a second, I think he’s going to bolt. But he just stares ahead, jaw working. “Eliza, your dad is ten feet away. He’ll kill me.”
“Dad’s in the garage,” I murmur, tilting my head so my hair brushes Jack’s bicep. “You know how long it takes him to find anything out there.”
Jack finally looks at me, and for a second, it’s just us. Blue eyes, harsh and masculine, searching my face for any sign I’m joking.
I’m not.
“I’m forty-five,” he rasps. “You’re—what, twenty?”
“Twenty-one,” I say, letting my lips brush the shell of his ear. “Old enough to know what I want.”
He tries to shift away, but the couch is too soft, and my hand is already on his thigh.
I feel the heat of him under the denim, the corded muscle tensing under my touch.
The power is intoxicating, better than any drug, better than the private cam shows where I am untouchable and invisible. Here, I have him trapped.
“Age means nothing to me,” I whisper. “I want you, Jack.”
He closes his eyes, lets his dark head fall back against the cushion. There’s a war going on behind those eyelids, but I know I’m winning.
He tries one last time. “Your dad’s my best friend. If he finds out—”
I cut him off by crawling onto his lap, legs straddling his hips.
For a second he doesn’t move, like his brain is refusing to process the fact of me, warm and heavy, sitting right on top of him.
Then his hands come up, fast, one gripping each side of my waist. I think he means to push me off, but instead he pulls me closer. Our faces are inches apart.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re making me insane, Eliza.”