Chapter 11
Bradford
“That was so fucking rude!” Molly bursts into my office, vibrating with frustration. “I don’t understand why you just had to kick her out like that!”
“You need to go to your mom’s,” I grit out, quickly shutting the open file on my desk. “I need to be on call right now. I don’t have time for this, and your session was basically over. She looked extremely uncomfortable, anyway.”
“You made her feel that way.” Molly folds her arms across her tiny chest, shaking her head. “Why were you so mean to Dr. Williams? What did she do? Breathe wrong? Be pretty? You literally stared her down the entire time, then got pissed and made her leave!”
“I told you,” I try to keep my voice calm, as my phone starts buzzing in my hand all over again. “I really need you to go to your mom’s right now.”
Turner and Cade are running early, and I need to be on call.
“What don’t you like about her?” Molly is blatantly ignoring me, and I realize she’s doing the exact same thing I do to her. I can’t even be mad at her for that. “Is it because she failed my essay? Is it because she’s young and pretty and you’re attracted to her?”
“No.” I swallow hard, the latter reminding me of the way Dr. Williams squirmed under my gaze. “I have work to do, Molly.” I force a sigh. “This isn’t for any other reason. Stop harassing me over your professor.”
“Ha, okay.” She lets out a sharp exhale, her eyes drifting to the window as she shakes her head. “I just don’t understand why your work is so…weird.”
“I run a farm. There’s always shit to do at weird times,” I say quietly, internally abhorring myself for lying to my daughter. I want to tell her the truth.
But I can’t. I can’t drag her into this world. I don’t want to scare her, either.
“Yeah, okay.” Her arms drop to her sides, and then she retreats from my office. “I’m going to Mom’s. Have a good freaking night.” Her voice is distant.
“Love you, Molly.”
“Love ya!” Her tone is sharp and distant, and I wince as she slams the front door behind herself. I let out a heavy breath and close my eyes, grounding myself for a moment.
Back to work.
I lift my phone from my side and see Turner’s number. I tap to redial and then place it to my ear, walking to the office door and closing it. No one else is here, but still, it’s a habit that I stick to. I listen to it ring a few times, and then hit voicemail.
Damnit. I missed the entry.
I wince with that annoyance, and then toss my phone to my desk. I’m going to have to just fucking trust two of the most unstable men around to handle this. I plop down into my desk chair, and flip the client file open again.
Pedophile. I see the picture of the dark-eyed man staring back at me—the one that Cade and Turner are supposed to be handling right now. I don’t know exactly what the guy did, but my client ensured I knew that’s what he was.
And that this needed to be done clean.
The guy has connections everywhere.
“And I missed the phone call to remind them of that,” I mutter to myself, and then flip the manilla folder right back shut. To distract myself, I flip my laptop open and punch in my passcode.
Dr. Williams comes screaming back to mind.
“Fuck,” I shift in the seat, and then pull up the internet browser. I quickly type in Dr. Jenna Williams and wait for it to load.
I stare at the screen, as the results come in—sparser than I expect. My eyes scan the links, and land on an Instagram page.
I click it and squint at the tiny circular profile picture. It’s the same face, but with long, blonde hair, side-parted and falling loose over her shoulders. She’s smiling wide, brighter than I’ve seen her in person, and for a split second, my whole brain shorts out.
I scroll. The account is private.
A ripple of irritation runs through me. Why the fuck am I even looking her up? It’s not like the internet will tell me what her deal is. The compulsion to figure it out—to get ahead of whatever she’s hiding—burns under my skin anyway.
I try another tab, and Google her name with “Texas.” After all, that’s what kind of plates are on her car.
But nothing comes up. No mention of a doctorate anywhere. No social ties, no conference mentions, nothing.
I close the computer, pissed at myself for being distracted by something so fucking trivial. The woman is a mystery with those gray eyes and the unnerved way she looks at me…
But she’s not my problem. She’s clearly just an interim professor.
My problem is two ex-military headcases running point on a job that shouldn’t get messy.
I check the wall clock—barely half past seven.
If they were early, they should be wrapped by now. But the quiet is stretching too long. I just need a status update, a photo of the clean-up, anything. Not radio silence.
My fingers hover over the phone. I text Turner.
Me: Status, please. Don’t fuck this up.
Seconds pass. No response.
I shove the phone in my pocket and stand, my spine crackling under the motion. I stretch, rolling my neck, then move to the window and peer out over the empty driveway. My mind mentally places Dr. Willliams’ SUV back where it was parked, and then places her back at my breakfast table.
Bent over. Ass up. Which I know would be a great fucking view.
My hands fist at my side, the primal, unfiltered part of me angry that I don’t already have her fucking bent that way. I lean my forehead against the cold glass for a second and let the hurt get burned off by the shameful spike of that image.
It could maybe be just sex…That’s all it ever is for some, with women who can’t get close enough to hurt them. But something’s different with me. If it doesn’t mean anything, then it’s not worth the effort.
And that’s why I’ve been alone so goddamn long.
But I still can’t stop thinking about her, and I don’t want to admit it, even in the privacy of my own head. I can’t let myself become one of those pathetic divorced assholes who catches feelings for the first semi-pretty woman to walk into their kitchen.
Though, I’d hardly say she’s semi-pretty. More like a fucking knockout.
I angle my chin up, catch the icy black reflection of myself in the glass—a man with too much mileage, his jaw set like concrete, every line in his face the result of some fight or some sleepless night. I look like a man locked out of his own damn house. Or his own life.
But goddamn, my dick is rock hard anyway. I storm back to my office and shut the door, letting out a heavy breath as I unzip my jeans.
Don’t be a fucking perv, Cal.
But I can’t help it. I can’t stop the image of Jenna from filling my head again, this time, those tight jeans dropped down around her ankles. Precum oozes from my tip, and I wrap my hand around my shaft.
I stroke myself slow at first, thumb circling the head, mind replaying the way her hair slipped from its clip, the way she bit her lip and stared at the table instead of me. Every part of me wants to bend her over my desk and fuck her until she breaks.
And then begs me for more.
I pick up my pace, my hand working up and down, picturing those stormy eyes finally looking up at me, the resistance gone. In my mind, she doesn’t say some smart thing to escape the moment…
She just fucking kneels and opens her mouth, waiting.
I grunt, the sound punched out of me, and then freeze.
My phone blares obnoxiously in my pocket.
“Fuck,” I mumble, dropping my dick like a teenager caught red-handed and reach into my pocket. Turner’s number lights up the screen, and I swipe to answer, while using my free hand to put myself away.
“Uh, so,” Turner starts before I can even say anything, and I can already hear the defeat in his voice. “This got out of hand.”
I run a hand over my face. “How out of hand?”
“I don’t know…” He pauses. “Like really out of hand.”