Page 40 of My Best Friend's Dad

A long sigh or a gust of wind spills through the barn. I’m not sure which it is. Not being able to see clearly really sucks. Blinking furiously is also not a good remedy for magicallymanifesting my contacts back into place. I should just go and get my glasses, call it a day, and get tea and cookies from two super sweet old people.

Things I shouldn’t be doing?

Standing in place, sucking in dust like a vacuum.

Standing here, not escaping, when I can feel Rowleigh drawing closer like the laws of the universe are pulling us together.

Standing here thinking it was always going to happen because that first time we locked eyes felt like destiny. It felt like a hard, hot want. It felt safe, like home. Even when it was all wrong. And it has only become all wrong two point zero since then.

Rowleigh isn’t just hot. He isn’t all shadows and mystery and dark-eyed, strong-jawed, vein-popping, muscular intensity. He’s a real person with real hurts and a real heart. He’s my bestie’s dad. He’s not my age. I wasn’t even born when he was getting married the first time.

There’s no lounge, no piano, and no burning need to turn the night around with surprisingly good yet bad decisions.

Rowleigh is all wrong for me, but he’s also a guy who dashes out in a storm to save a woman from pelting rain and potentially falling trees. He’s a man who has deep regrets and other emotions and isn’t afraid to speak them. He can genuinely look at himself and see his own faults and failings. He’s the kind of man who would fake marry someone just so they can have their happily ever after with the man of their dreams, even if it makes him borderline miserable. He’s a man who felt so deeply that after being hurt the first time, he pretty much gave up on love.

He has a good heart. A sweet, beautiful heart. He’s guarded it from being alive, and I came along and woke it back up with promises of hated tacos, sort ofmy tacothat first night, music played from my soul straight to his, and the awakening of other lost loves.

This is what we call a lose-lose situation.

I’m going to hurt him if I do this.

But I’m going to hurt him if I don’t.

Even with my blurry vision, I can see the Rowleigh blob getting closer and closer.

Shit. Wait. He’s getting closer because ofme. It’smyfeet that are moving. He’s standing still, shining like the gosh-darned sun himself, and I can’t stop. It’s gravity. It’s science. He’s a map, the road, and the destination.

Walking when you can’t see anything but blobby blobs is a hazard. I’ve learned that the saying,watch where you’re going,should be taken seriously. All of a sudden, my shoe catches on something hard, and I pitch forward. I whisper scream, but before it has time to escalate, strong arms close around me. One of my palms lands on a muscled shoulder, and the other plants against a slightly damp, solid wall that feels like it could be a pec.

“Ahh.” The scream unspools into nothing as his hands fall to my waist, setting me back on my feet and supporting me to make sure I stay there. “I swear I didn’t do that on purpose.”

I can’t see his face properly. At this point, I should probably start rubbing my eyes again to try and coax my contacts forth. They’re gone. They have to be, or they would have crept their way back by now. They’re designed like that. That’s real science.

His hands are still on my waist, and I tilt my face up. “I…you…this is…terrifying.”

He just gives a blurry nod and mumbles, “Yeah.”

“The wrongness of this is terrifying because it doesn’t feel so wrong. Well, it is, and the world would certainly say it is. We’d be labeled kinky and perverts and clichés, but I’ve been garbage at best when it comes to caring about what people say. I want to do less of that.”And more of you. I very much want to do more of you.

I angle into him, finding his chin with a questing hand, and then I close my eyes and roll them in their sockets. I know it’s weird, but I hope it’s also effective.

I stop thinking about that when his hand mirrors mine, tilting my face up. He steps closer, angling his body against mine. We’re not pressed together. It’s only our hands that are touching, but it’s enough to wash away the world and everything in it.

I want him.

I want this man who is a sweetheart and has a sweet heart. I want his body. I want his laughter. I want his smiles, his kisses, his self-discovery, his running through the rain, his hating on tacos, and his rapture when I play for him. I want the very few things I know and all the things I have yet to discover. A whole lot of things.

I want his body too. His hands. His mouth.

“I need to tell you something,” I rasp right as he angles closer and brushes his lips over mine.

Hesitant. Tentative. An invitation.

I lose my mind, curl my hands around his broad shoulders, tracing them up to a neck more muscular than any neck has a right to be, and slam myself up against him with enough force to wind myself. I accept his invitation withallof me and one-up him with an invitation right back in the form of my hips bumping against his groin.

He’s instantly hard, his erection jammed up against his jeans and my stomach. It’s a beast, but right now, my lady bits are in full-on werewolf mode themselves.

Rowleigh doesn’t kiss me like a beast. He kisses me perfectly and slowly, taking his time and savoring my mouth like I’m a fine, rare delicacy. I appreciate his care and attention. It’s hot as heck. But I want to devour him the way I would have devouredthose life-changing tacos. And I’d like him to change his stance on tacos so he can devour mine.