Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
The silence hangs between us. I should leave early, head back to my apartment in the city, or attempt to sweat Natasha out of my system at the gym. But that would mean missing Sunday dinner with Oliver, and I’m not willing to do that. Besides, Natasha deserves an apology, as well as an explanation.
“Natasha, I just wanted to say… I’m sorry about what happened last night.”
“Which part?” She looks at me.
“All of it.”
She flinches, and the hurt on her face hits like a right hook.
“I moved back here to repair my relationship with my son,” I say. “I didn’t expect to meet someone…like you.”
“Like me?”
“Someone I could really care about.” I fight the urge to reach across the table and take her hand. “It won’t happen again, Natasha. It can’t.”
“No, you’re right. It shouldn’t happen again. It’s not fair to Ollie. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“And you shouldn’t have to.”
“I deserve to be with someone I can be honest about.”
“Absolutely.”
She wraps both hands around her mug. “I think it’s best if we pretend last night never happened.”
“I agree,” I say, like that’s even an option. The smart move would be to stay as far away from Natasha as humanly possible. But the only way to do that is to either stop coming up here or ask her to move out. I’d never dream of making her leave when she hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m the one who screwed up. No, she and Oliver are a package deal. She’s staying. End of story.
I’ll just have to ignore my attraction to Natasha…. Ms. Bellows... Oliver’s friend.
God help me.
My son and his best friend offer to cook me dinner as a thank you for letting them have friends over last night. Actually, it was Natasha who offered; Oliver only agreed to help when she pointed out how generous I’ve been these past few weeks.
“You have to turn all the nobs to high,” I tell him. “Then press the igniter—”
“I’ve got it,” Oliver snaps. “I grilled the burgers last night, didn’t I?”
“I thought Natasha grilled them.”
“We both did,” he grumbles.
I run a hand down my face and stare out at the lake.
Getting closer to my son is proving more difficult than I anticipated. I knew it would take more than a few dinners, but it’s like he’s erected a concrete wall between us that he has no interest in breaking down.
And just when I should be thinking about how I can be a better father to my son, the universe throws me a curveball in the form of a beautiful woman half my age. I’ve spent the morning trying not to think about Natasha’s lips, her breasts, the slice of heaven between her thighs… It’s a vile, filthy thing, to lust after my son’s best friend. I should be ashamed of myself. But hearing her call me Daddy last night felt undeniably right, even when I knew it was wrong.
A warm shiver runs down my spine at the memory. She wanted to be my baby girl.
The affection I feel for Natasha is a completely different beast from the complicated love I feel for my son. But no matter how many times I remind myself that she’s not mine—that she can’t be mine—it doesn’t feel any less real.
I steal a glance at her through the kitchen window, the pink sunset bringing out the auburn streaks in her chestnut-brown hair. Her face glows golden in the early-evening light. I want to run my hands all over her smooth, suntanned skin, up and down those thick thighs until she parts them for me. I want to do a lot of things to her that are decidedly off-limits.
“Damn it,” Oliver hisses, clicking the igniter for the hundredth time. “Why won’t this damn thing light?”
Sighing, I rest my elbows on my knees and turn my attention to Oliver and the grill he’s hopelessly trying to light.
“You’re going to use up all the propane if you keep trying to light it like that,” I say. “Then we won’t be able to cook anything.”
“We won’t be cooking jack shit if I can’t get this stupid thing started.”
“I told you, turn the knobs and then hit the igniter.”
“That’s what I’m doing!”
“Then check that you’ve got the propane line open. You should be able to see them in the air.”
He curses under his breath and tries again. The sound of the igniter clicking for the hundredth time makes a muscle spasm in my neck. I rise and move toward him.
“There’s the problem. You forgot to open the tank.” With quick turns of my wrist, I turn all three knobs and press the igniter. The grill flames to life. “There, see?”
He grumbles something about fathers not teaching him this shit.
Oliver’s words sting—probably because they’re true. However, my pent-up frustration and barely concealed guilt have me on edge today.