Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Or maybe I watch too much porn.
Or listen to Ariel too much. She says she doesn't have a thing for older guys—Chase is only four years older—but she loves to mention how hot both Daisy's and Skye's dad are.
She's not wrong. But she brings it up a lot.
Oliver shakes his head. "No, she thinks I'll get drunk, fuck a stranger, forget I'm supposed to protect her. She knows he won't."
True enough. Their dad is practically a monk. Dude never dates. Even though their mom—
Well, that's a story for another time. An ugly one.
"Where the fuck is Puerto Vallarta?" I ask.
"It's a three-hour flight," he says.
"For her birthday?"
He nods yeah.
"Isn't that next week?"
"Yeah. That's why I need an answer now."
"What are you asking?"
"Will you come? Help me babysit her?"
"You trust me to babysit Daisy?" I need to step up my game. To tease him more about my intentions to show her porn, buy her sex toys, introduce her to bliss.
"You wouldn't fuck her," he says.
"I'm not making that promise."
He chuckles okay, sure. "She likes you, Holden. And not as a friend."
I'm well aware of that. Daisy's had a crush on me forever. But it's just a crush. Because I'm a cute, older guy. Not because she actually likes me. "So?"
"Don't break her heart. Please. If you're my friend, do me that one favor."
"Who said anything about heart break? Just one night of casual sex. To show her what she likes. She is a virgin, isn't she?"
He shrugs off my comments. "You want to come or not?"
"Only if she comes first."
"Seriously?" He rolls his eyes get some new material. "Will you do it? Will you help me babysit her?"
Chapter Three
Holden
Will you help me babysit her?
It should be an easy answer.
Daisy is a good kid. If she needs help, I'm there. If Oliver needs help, I'm there.
Sure, I help in my way. But I get shit done. Just look at Forest and Skye. If it weren't for me, they'd still be dancing around their feelings.
"The trip's on me," he says. "Well, on me and Dad."
"Maybe I should buy her flights. Then she can ditch you." I try to make my voice light, but it doesn't get all the way there.
His expression is too dark. Too concerned.
Yeah, he's over-protective. And completely oblivious to his hypocrisy—the man drinks like a fish and fucks like a dolphin. But he's not usually this worried.
There's something else.
Something in the back of his head.
Fuck, if he wants my help protecting his sister's chastity—
He must be desperate, because he does know better. He knows I'm not going to buy into that retrograde bullshit.
I sure as hell didn't try to stop my sister from getting hers.
Yeah, she's older and a serial monogamist, but still. If she'd wanted to sleep with one of my friends, well, I would have told her she could do better.
But I wouldn't have stopped her.
Sure, there's something about Daisy. The thought of her with another guy makes me sick.
Some asshole who will go too fast, too rough, too hard.
Who won't appreciate her shy smile. Or her wide eyes. Or her sweet laugh.
Fuck.
There's the other problem.
I don't want to hurt Daisy. Which means I can't fuck Daisy. My head is on board with the plan.
My heart too.
My cock?
Not so much.
Removing her clothes from the mix—we're going to a beach town, not Antarctica—isn't going to help matters.
I know Daisy and Oliver. She's happy to hang with her brother for a while. Eventually, she makes an excuse to go off on her own.
He'll send me to go with her.
We'll be alone in some tiny pool.
She'll strip out of her sweet sundress. Blush as the sun hits her skin. As I fail to tear my eyes away from her perky tits.
And then—
Well, I hope I'm sober, because if I've been drinking—
It's a recipe for disaster.
"I'll sleep on it," I say.
His eyes fill with frustration. "If there's anything stopping you—"
"Just trying to figure out how I can help her ditch you completely." I shrug like it's not a big deal.
He doesn't buy it. "Seriously, Holden. It would mean a lot." His gaze shifts to the floor. "She trusts you."
She does.
There's no way I'm betraying that.
All afternoon, I reason with myself. It's a timeless conflict:
Brain versus dick.
For a while, I convince myself I'm above my impulses.
I finish work, do my leg routine at the gym, drive home, shower, fix dinner.
Brown rice, chicken breast, broccoli.
Healthy shit.
I'm not giving into the temptation of the couch. Or the ice cream in the freezer. Or the business card in my pocket.
I've mastered my routine.
Sure, my love of fitness is part vanity—I want to look good—but it's about more too. It's satisfying, getting stronger, bigger, more disciplined.
Most of the time, I follow my instincts. Do what feels right in the moment. Committing to a routine is funny. It pulls me to Earth. In a good way.