by Katee Robert
My Dad’s Best Friend
A Touch of Taboo Novel
Katee Robert
Trinkets and Tales LLC
Copyright © 2020 by Katee Robert
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Katee Robert
Print ISBN: 978-1-951329-27-3
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Also by Katee Robert
A Touch of Taboo
Your Dad Will Do
Gifting Me To His Best Friend
My Dad’s Best Friend
Sabine Valley
Abel
Broderick
Cohen
Wicked Villains
Desperate Measures
Learn My Lesson
A Worthy Opponent
The Beast
The Sea Witch
Queen Takes Rose
Twisted Hearts
Theirs for the Night
Forever Theirs
Theirs Ever After
His Forbidden Desire
Her Rival’s Touch
His Tormented Heart
Her Vengeful Embrace
The Kings Series
The Last King
The Fearless King
The Hidden Sins Series
The Devil’s Daughter
The Hunting Grounds
The Surviving Girls
The Make Me Series
Make Me Want
Make Me Crave
Make Me Yours
Make Me Need
The O’Malley Series
The Marriage Contract
The Wedding Pact
An Indecent Proposal
Forbidden Promises
Undercover Attraction
The Bastard’s Bargain
The Hot in Hollywood Series
Ties that Bind
Animal Attraction
Come Undone Series
Wrong Bed, Right Guy
Chasing Mrs. Right
Two Wrongs, One Right
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
1
All my life, I’ve done the safe thing. I’ve stayed on the path set out for me, and colored within the lines. I’ve been the obedient daughter, the excellent student, the driven employee. If I haven’t flourished, well, at least I haven’t floundered.
Taking the safe option might be an asset in a daughter and employee, but it isn’t for the owner of a company. It’s a hard lesson I’ve learned in the last six months, and if I don’t change my ways, the company my father built from the ground up will fall to pieces under my watch.
Which is why I’m standing in the pouring rain, dredging up what few scraps of courage I can muster, staring at the house of a man who’s made an art of avoiding me. I’ve tried email. I’ve tried calling. Jonas Barnett has ignored me, growled at me, and hung up on me. It couldn’t be clearer that he wants nothing to do with me. The safe choice would be to move on to another architect, to convince my client that there is someone else who can fill the need for their dream home.
I’m done being safe.
I need Jonas for this project. No one else. I just have to find the right words to convince him, something I won’t be able to do while I stand here and get soaked. I really should have packed an umbrella, but in the adrenaline-rushed decision to fly up to Washington, book a rental car, take a ferry to Orca Island and drive all the way around the upside-down U-shape that was this island, I forgot.
Surely I have enough adrenaline left over to knock on the door?
I drag in a breath and march up the stone steps to the charming house. It looks nothing like the style Jonas became known for when he first started working with my father. It’s not streamlined or modern or heavy in steel and concrete. Instead, it’s positively cozy. Like a house where a reclusive artist or author would live, which makes it fit in seamlessly with the rest of Orca Island that I’ve seen.
I’m stalling. I know I’m stalling.
I take a deep breath, irritated at myself, and knock on the door. Silence. A frisson of worry spears me. I didn’t call to tell him I was coming—for obvious reasons—but he just hung up on me yesterday. Surely he hasn’t decided to jaunt off somewhere? I give a grim smile. That would be in line with my luck since taking over my father’s business. Nothing’s gone right. It doesn’t matter that I worked closely with my father for four years before he decided to retire. He’s no longer in the office and suddenly every time I turn around, there’s another fire to put out with my bare hands.
I need a win. Just one win to get me back on track.
The Henderson account will do it, but to pull off the Henderson account, I need Jonas.
I knock again, harder this time. When there’s still no answer, I curse and poke the doorbell three times in rapid succession. I’m losing it, but I’ve come too far to go back now. I hit the doorbell one more time for good measure, and that’s when I hear stomping coming from inside the house.
Finally.
The door jerks open and there he is. Jonas Barnett. We’ve only met in person a handful of times, but that first encounter has been tattooed on my brain for the last six years. Somehow, he looks even better than he did the last time I saw him. His blond hair is now threaded with silver, and I’m irritated to realize it looks good on him. So do the laugh lines on his face. So does the lean body shown off by a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans. My gaze catches on his bare feet. “You’re not wearing shoes.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Blake?”
Ah, right. Focus. I need to focus. Getting sidelined by how frustratingly sexy he is will just lead me down the path to the memory of how the night the Christmas party ended. This man has rejected me enough for several lifetimes, and if I didn’t need him for this project, I would tell him to go kick dirt. Except I wouldn’t because I’d have no reason to call him up in the first place. “If you’d stop hanging up on me like a child, I wouldn’t be standing on your doorstep.”
He leans against the door frame and gives me a once-over. I started this trip looking like a put-together business woman in a slim button-down white blouse, a pencil skirt, and reasonably low heels. I even stopped to freshen up twice—at the rental car place and on the ferry before we arrived at this island. For all the good it did me. No doubt I look like a drowned rat now.
Jonas’s gaze lingers on my breasts before he jerks his eyes to mine. “I don’t suppose you’ll get in your car and go home if I slam the door in your face?”
I could threaten to call my father, but that’s like giving up. It
doesn’t matter how close he and Jonas are, how often they talk on the phone, how many golfing trips they take throughout the year. That’s between my father and him. This is business.
I lift my chin. “It’d be a shame if I made a scene and irritated all your neighbors.” There are only a house or two within sight, and none are close, but it’s the best threat I can come up with.
He narrows his blue eyes. “I seem to remember you being a lot sweeter the last time we had a conversation.”
I really, really hope the chill of the rain is hiding my blush. Sweeter. That’s one way to describe the fact that the few minutes we were alone I’d stared up at him like a rabbit facing down a tiger. Except a rabbit shouldn’t want to be devoured by the tiger. I’d all but thrown myself at him, at least as much as I was capable of at the time with my flickering courage, and he’d carefully, politely, coldly rejected me.
A lot’s changed in six years. I really hope that I’ve changed, too. “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”
“The answer is no.”
“You haven’t heard the pitch.”
Jonas curses and steps back. “Just stay there for a second. I don’t want you dripping all over my floors.”
“Your care and kindness are noted,” I say drily.
As he moves out of the way, a blast of warm air hits me and I shiver. I hadn’t realized how cold it is out here until now, and it’s like once my body has registered the feeling, it cascades over me all at once. I glance overhead at the ominous dark clouds. It rains all the time in the Pacific Northwest. That’s what everyone says. Surely this storm isn’t as worrisome as it seems? I have a flight to catch tonight, and I have absolutely no desire to be stuck in Seattle.
Jonas returns with a large towel and hands it to me. “Here. Now get in here and give me your pitch so you can leave.”
Stepping into the house is like being enveloped in a warm hug. The cozy vibe the outside gives is exponentially stronger in here. I study the room, trying to pinpoint exactly what he’s done to create this intense feeling. It might be the large leather couches carefully arranged around the fireplace, its chimney the focal point of the room as it stretches from floor to ceiling, made entirely of river rock. Or maybe it’s the vaulted ceilings overhead and the thick rug covering the hard wood floors.
“Take off your shoes.”
I step out of them automatically, but I’m starting to register just how soaked I am. My stockings rub against my skin in a way that sets my teeth on edge and my skirt and top are sodden. Damn it, this isn’t how I wanted to have this conversation.
This isn’t even the conversation I wanted to have, but my personal feelings don’t matter right now. Neither does that holiday party six years ago or the sting of rejection I can still feel. The company is my priority, and it’s more important than my pride. I’m done being safe, which means it’s time to put everything on the table and hope it’s enough to convince Jonas to change his mind.
2
I follow Jonas around the corner, bypassing a staircase to the second floor, and into his kitchen. It’s just as cozy as the rest of the house. White cabinets, dark marble countertops, a few key pops of color to keep it from feeling cold. I frown at the gray subway tile backsplash. “Did you design this place?”
“Yeah.” He puts an old fashioned tea kettle on the gas stove and turns it on. “Too much of a control freak to do otherwise.”
Just more evidence of how adaptable he is as both architect and designer. He obviously wanted a sanctuary away from the world and he’s created a flawless one. I have to squash the desire to explore and categorize the decisions he’s made. I bet the backyard is a treasure trove for design choices. My fingers practically itch for my notepad so I can write down my thoughts.
“Blake.” The tone of his voice suggests this isn’t the first time he’s said my name.
“Sorry. Admiring the room.” I pull the towel more firmly around my shoulders, but it’s really not doing much to either warm me or prevent me from dripping on the floors. My clothes are too saturated. I glance down at my feet and cringe at the puddle I’m creating. “I think I need another towel.”
Jonas curses. “This way.”
I’m far too eager to see more of his house, but even if I wasn’t, the command in those two little words would be enough to have me following him up the stairs and…into his room.
I stop short and stare at the bed. It’s a very nice bed. King-sized and with a reasonable number of pillows—four—and a bed frame made of iron bands welded into a design that gives the impression of a tree—either oak or maple. It’s exactly the kind of thing I would have chosen for the master bedroom in a house like this. It looks like a destination for more than sleep, like a great place to curl up and read or cuddle or do any number of explicit things that I most definitely should not be associating with a man who’s already rejected me.
Jonas reappears in the closet doorway and tosses a piece of clothing on the bed. “Change into this.” He glances at my clothes and makes a face. “Don’t suppose you can put your clothes in the dryer.”
I jerk back. “Only if I want to ruin them.” It’s not that they’re particularly expensive or hard to replace, but I didn’t pack an extra set of clothes because I didn’t realize I’d be caught in a rain storm.
“Thought as much.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the second doorway behind him. “Hang them up in the bathroom. Shouldn’t take too long to dry.”
There’s no point in arguing. I’m soaked and shivering and dripping on his floors. Letting my clothes dry so I can get the hell out of here is a good plan. “Okay.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” He pauses, blue eyes somewhere between exasperated and annoyed. “Try to resist wasting both our time by getting distracted with the tile work.”
“No promises.” I grab the clothing off the bed and duck into the bathroom. Despite my best efforts, I can’t help a low murmur of approval at the shower. The upstairs isn’t particularly large, but it’s like he carved off a big chunk of what normally would have been the master bedroom and devoted it to bathroom space instead. I like it. Who needs a sitting room in their master? I’d much rather have a tiled walk-in shower that…
I crouch down and run my fingers over the stylized design on the floor of it that looks like a creek. Following the winding path leads to the back of the shower with several shower heads that I suspect, when turned on, will give the impression of a waterfall. Damn, that’s cool.
Focus, Blake.
It’s not until I’m peeling out of my wet clothes that I realize how fucked I really am. When I pictured this confrontation in my head—because pitching this project to Jonas after he dodged me for weeks will be a confrontation—I was dressed to impress and unflustered and powerful in my arguments.
Instead, I’m going to be delivering my pitch barefoot and wearing Jonas’s shirt.
I hang my shirt and skirt and stockings over the tile divider and hesitate. My bra and panties are equally soaked. If I put the shirt on over them, I’m going to be walking around with some unsightly wet spots.
The alternative is being naked except for the shirt.
I’m not sure which is preferable, because they both seem like terrible options. I worry my bottom lip and hold the shirt up to my front. It’s long enough to hit me mid-thigh and large enough that it shouldn’t cling too much… I hope.
Though, for real, would it have killed him to give me a pair of pants, too? Or shorts? Or something?
That irritation has me unhooking my bra and sliding out of my panties. I pick up the shirt again and it strikes me that I’m naked in Jonas’s house and… Yeah, I’m not going to think about that too hard. I hastily yank the shirt over my head and try to dry my hair a little more with the towel.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks nothing like the confident business owner that I wanted to project when I arrived. My hair is wet, I’m wearing Jonas’s shirt and it somehow makes my legs look
even longer, and there’s no denying the way my nipples press against the thin fabric.
Cold. It’s because I’m cold.
I cross my arms over my chest, but that just makes it worse because it pulls the fabric tighter against my body. That’s it, I’m going to ask him for shorts right now. Maybe a giant sweatshirt or something, too.
I jerk open the bathroom door and nearly run into Jonas. He catches my shoulders. “Whoa.”
The sight of him is so unexpected, it completely derails my thoughts. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my house.” He still hasn’t let go of my shoulders. “And it’s been ten minutes. You were ogling the tile work, weren’t you?”
My face goes hot. “It’s very nice tile work.”
“Uh huh.” He seems to realize he’s still touching me and withdraws his hands. Jonas looks away and I get the strange feeling that he’s trying very hard not to look at me. “The tea’s ready.”
I follow him back downstairs, this situation starting to feel more and more unreal. I’m achingly aware of the fact that I’m naked under his shirt and really regretting the decision to leave my panties hanging to dry. Surely a little discomfort is worth the extra layer?
Back in the kitchen, Jonas pushes a mug in my direction. I lift it and inhale. It smells like chai and something else, and I cautiously take a sip. “Oh wow, this is really good.”
“A local lady makes it.” He leans against the counter across from me and lifts his mug in my direction. “Okay, out with it. What’s the pitch?”