My Father's Best Friend

by Ali Parker

  “Nice. I like how this sounds. At least he’s well-off.”

  “I don’t care about money.” Pulling into my spot in the teachers’ parking lot, I killed the engine and took in a long breath. “I’m here. I should go.”

  “Okay. See you tonight.”

  “Bye.”

  The time had come. Dropping my phone in my purse, I hauled my butt out of the car and into the school.

  The bad thing about getting to work early was there wasn’t enough to do. Over and over, I flitted around the room, rearranging the few objects I’d brought in. There were only so many places you could move an aloe plant and a glass jar of mints, though.

  At five till, with my heart ready to jump out of my mouth, I sat in my chair, hands and ankles crossed.

  I can do this. Just present the issues, remember to list the positives. I am a strong, assertive adult.

  A knock on the door interrupted the mental pep talk. Springing to my feet, I bounded across the room in a few steps to open the door.

  And almost fell over.

  “Miss Jacobs?” the towering, hunky, dark-haired man with a chiseled jaw and thick brows asked.

  “Um.”

  Good god, help me.

  “Y-yes,” I sputtered. “Come right in. Mr. Marx, I assume?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have a seat.”

  He walked over to the chairs opposite my desk, tight shoulders and sculpted rear-end moving with controlled precision. Realizing I was staring, I quickly took my own seat.

  If I’d hoped meeting Mr. Marx face-to-face would help ease my anxiety, I was sorely wrong. The man sitting across from me was perfection, in possession of the kind of face that could give any professional male model a run for their money.

  Now, not only was I worried about how well I would perform during the meeting, I was once again worrying about how I looked. Was my makeup still holding up? How was my hair doing? I resisted the urge to touch it and see.

  Remember the steps. One at a time.

  Placing my palms on the desk, I smiled. “Thank you for coming to meet with me. I know you’re well aware of Raven’s recent, um, acts.”

  I checked a cringe. This wasn’t the speech I’d prepared at all.

  Mr. Marx’s face darkened, and a long moment passed. “Yes,” he finally said in a clipped tone. “And I am very sorry for her behavior. I expect a lot more out of my daughter.”

  “Please don’t feel you have to apologize. I called you here hoping we could get down to the root of Raven’s behavior.”

  I kept my focus on his face while surreptitiously checking the rest of him out. Tailored suit. Silk tie with a clip that shone like real gold. Thick, silver watch.

  I knew next to nothing about men’s fashion, but even an amateur like me could tell Mr. Marx’s wardrobe probably cost more than a month of my pay.

  But it didn’t matter how much he was worth. Money had no tie to how Raven was acting, especially not if her father was down to earth enough to put her in a public school.

  “The root?” he asked, jerking me back to the issue at hand.

  “Yes. Um.” I cleared my throat, searching desperately for the next thing to say. What the heck was wrong with me?

  I smiled weakly, noticing the slight cleft in Mr. Marx’s chin for the first time. The muscles between my thighs tightened, and I shifted my weight, attempting to ease the ache there.

  His lips twitched, but whether it was a frown or a smile hiding there, it wasn’t clear. The only thing I knew was that I was making a fool of myself.

  Months without sex, telling myself I’m doing fine, and then a hot man walks into my office, and I nearly explode.

  How old was he? Forty? I’d dated a couple of older men, but no one more than four years my senior. What kind of experience came with that age?

  “Miss Jacobs?”

  “Yes.” I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. “So, I saw in the files that you met with the former counselor here.”

  He didn’t skip a beat. “She said Raven was spoiled.”

  “Ah.”

  Mr. Marx ran a thumb along his lower lip, his dark eyes asking if I dared challenge him.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why did the last counselor assume Raven was just spoiled?”

  “She’s an only child. She has a nice house. I have a good job.” Mr. Marx spread his palms. “Is that enough for a teenager to turn rebellious?”

  “No,” I carefully said.

  “I didn’t think so either, but maybe,” He blinked, and his face relaxed, “maybe it is.”

  “No,” I fiercely said.

  His eyes snapped back to mine, and fire immediately ignited in my core. I swallowed hard, my mind spinning again. How could I be expected to focus with him looking at me like that?

  “Then what makes a child spoiled, Miss Jacobs?” he slowly asked.

  The way he said my name, it dripped with intention. Intention for what, I didn’t know, but there was a focus in Mr. Marx’s words that most people didn’t have.

  What I wouldn’t have given to have him call me by my first name.

  I swallowed the tightness in my throat, but it just joined the tightness in my nether regions, making me more uncomfortable.

  “Getting everything they want,” I weakly explained. “Or almost everything. So far, I don’t get the impression that it’s Raven’s experience.”

  He rolled his head back and looked out the window. “She started a fight the other day?”

  “Yes. And according to her file, she’s threatened students before with violence.”

  His lips pursed, accentuating the dimple in his chin.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about home life, Mr. Marx. They’re very standard ones, just to make sure Raven’s needs are being met.”

  He barked out a short laugh. “You think I’m not feeding her?”

  “There are more needs than the basic physical ones.”

  I let that hang there, and he seemed to soak it in. The defensive attitude had been expected. Both grade school and kindergarten had taught me that some parents could be guarded to the point of near insanity.

  Or, like is often the case, sometimes people’s buttons get pushed in meetings, and they lash out. Wherever Mr. Marx’s Achilles’ heel was, I was close.

  His eyes came to my face, and he studied me in an almost gentle way, gaze raking down my cheeks and across my eyes. Under the desk, I gripped the edge of my seat. The burning down below had only gotten worse, and now a pounding heart and sweaty palms could be added to the list.

  I tried to inhale but found it difficult. Those eyes, the way they searched me, made it a challenge to concentrate.

  With that, what was supposed to be a normal parent-teacher conference became anything but.

  Chapter 8

  Andrew

  Those curves.

  Not the ones of her hips or breasts. I’d hardly gotten a look at the school counselor’s figure, but she seemed pretty thin beneath the sweater and jeans. No, it was the curves of her lips. They were the perfect Cupid’s bow, slanting down in a delicious, inviting way.

  Who got to kiss those lips at night?

  Without warning, jealousy seared through me. Damn the man I’d never even met. Or woman. Maybe Miss Jacobs was gay. How the hell could I know?

  But at least she wasn’t married. I’d already clocked the bare wedding band finger.

  Damn, though, the things those lips could do. I could tell just from looking that she was a great kisser. More than that, probably. It was always the reserved, prim women who were the most passionate in bed.

  “Mr. Marx, who lives at the home?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, unable to shake the annoyance. Did we have to talk? I would have been fine with staring at the woman all day. She was that breathtaking.

  “The two of us.”

  Karen, though she didn’t live in the house, might as well have. In addition to being the housekeeper, she also cooked m
ost of the meals and kept an eye on Raven. She was on call most days, an act I paid her handsomely for.

  But I wasn’t going to tell Miss Jacobs that we had full-time help. The former counselor had known that, and it was one of the things that had led her to assume Raven was merely coddled.

  Despite Karen being around, Raven still had chores. Her room was her own to keep clean and the dishes her job as well. Not that she’d been adhering to those responsibilities lately.

  Miss Jacobs looked up from the notepad she’d jotted something down on. “Is there any close family nearby?”

  “No. I’m from the east coast, and so was Raven’s mother.”

  “And she no longer lives in Seattle?”

  “She died ten years ago.”

  The words came out stiff like they always did. There was a reason I didn’t talk about Danica much.

  “Oh.” Miss Jacobs’ face fell. “I’m very sorry.”

  She meant it too. The softness in her eyes showed that.

  Unexpectedly, my throat became thick. “Thank you.”

  She nodded, swallowing constantly and adjusting the sleeves of her sweater while staring at her notepad. All signs pointed to her being extremely uncomfortable.

  But about what? Was she just nervous, seeing as this was a new job? Or could it be she was as turned on as me?

  My cock twitched at the thought. I suppressed a groan and adjusted my suit.

  Keep it together, Marx. She’s just another woman.

  But she wasn’t. I saw dozens of new women every day. None of them were like the one in front of me, delicate, yet sensual.

  “Does Raven ever talk about her mother?” Her big, brown eyes blinked.

  I felt my shoulders stiffen. “No. As I said, it was ten years ago. A car accident.”

  She nodded. “So Raven was seven years old. I imagine she still remembers her fairly well.”

  I thought about the picture of Danica that Raven kept on her bedside. It had been at least a few years since we’d talked about her, but the last time we had, Raven had mentioned a school field trip her mom went with her on.

  “I don’t think she wants to talk about her mom,” I answered. “She can if she wants to. I’ve never shot the idea down.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t feel like she can.”

  I huffed out an exhale. This conversation was already loaded with more information than I had expected.

  “I’ll mention it to her,” I promised. “By the way, I’ve already been in touch with a therapist. I have no problem sending Raven to see her.”

  Miss Jacobs’ lips twisted—not the reaction I’d hoped for. “Talk therapy is always good, of course, but you may find it’s not necessary after making a few small changes.”

  “Such as?”

  She flipped a page on her notepad and read something. “Mr. Marx, how much time do you spend with Raven on a daily basis?”

  “It’s different each day. I’m very busy.”

  Her head cocked in curiosity. “And what do you do?”

  “I have a business. It eats up a lot of my time.”

  Instead of pressing, she nodded again. “I ask because the kind of aggression Raven is displaying suggests she feels neglected. Perhaps she wishes she had more of your time and attention. It’s not easy for teenagers to ask for it, though. They often, erroneously, yes, feel like their parents should intuitively know what they want and need.”

  The exasperated sigh robbed me of the last of my energy. Not even noon yet, and I already felt like shit.

  “I created an office at home so I can be there more. I spend at least a quarter of my time working there. I did it for her.”

  Her eyes twitched. “Working at home is still working.”

  “I’m there when she needs me.”

  “But only when she needs you, am I right? She can come to you if there’s a problem, but unless she’s in need, there’s not much interaction. So, what began as an honorable move—you working at home—has not bred that much good at all. Teenagers need attention when they’re doing fine as well or else they start to act out. If a kid only gets attention when they have a problem, then they become conditioned to have problems nonstop.”

  She gazed earnestly at me, looking the most confident she had yet. Who was this woman? She couldn’t be more than a hundred and twenty pounds and looked as if she was just out of college. Yet she stared me down and challenged me in a way not even my cockiest employees did.

  “I ...” With nothing coming out, I just shut my mouth.

  Miss Jacobs leaned across the desk, the discomfort she’d displayed earlier seemingly gone. “When was the last time you and Raven took a trip? Just the two of you?”

  “We go away for part of the summers. To our house in Florida.”

  There. So she knew I owned two houses. Fine. Let her think what she would about that.

  “For how long?”

  “About a week.”

  When we’d last been in the Florida Keys, two months before, I’d barely seen Raven the whole time. She was always off at the beach, or wherever it was she liked to run off to. That disappearing act couldn’t be blamed on me.

  “And do you work while you’re there?”

  “Yes.”

  Miss Jacobs nodded, getting what she wanted out of me. As she absentmindedly touched her short hair, feelings of annoyance and lust surged deep in my chest. I ignored them both and focused back on the conversation.

  “What do you suggest I do, Miss Jacobs?”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip. “How about you take a trip together? Is that something you could do? One where you don’t work at all.”

  I made myself not laugh. Going a day not working was like going a day without oxygen. Not gonna happen.

  “Have you ever done that?” she pushed.

  “We went to Disney World once.”

  “When was that?”

  I didn’t want to admit it. “About nine years ago.”

  “Ah.”

  “A year after her mother died. It didn’t go so well. Raven didn’t have much fun, and the day we got home, she got the flu.”

  “Not every trip ends that way.” She smiled in a way that had all my muscles twitching in excitement.

  “No,” I coolly answered. “That’s true.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a big trip. Just spending a little more time together on the weekends could make a difference.”

  She leaned back in her chair, giving me a better view of her body. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help wondering what lay under those layers of clothes. My cock came to life again, begging to be allowed to take charge.

  “What do you like to do?” I asked.

  Her eyebrows went up. “Um.” She cleared her throat. “Me?”

  “Yes. You can’t be that much older than Raven.”

  A soft pink filled her cheeks. “I’m twenty-eight, Mr. Marx.”

  “Ah.”

  She looked so much younger. Well, good. Twenty-eight was still younger than I’d ever pursued, but it wouldn’t make me feel like a cradle robber.

  “Raven likes art,” she said, dodging my previous question. “Not only is she extremely talented, but she also has an interest in art history and others’ works. You could take her to a show. Seattle has a great art scene.”

  “Anything you suggest?” I asked, trying to keep my disappointment hidden. I’d tried to make a move as smoothly as I could, and she’d shot me down immediately. So much for that.

  It looked like I was right about my dating life. It was dead—and this conversation proof that it was time to admit it.

  She did that thing again where she nervously touched her hair. “There is a show this Saturday. It’s a local artist who is pretty popular in the scene. Here. I can give you the info.”

  Grabbing a business card, she jotted a few lines down and handed it over. It wasn’t the address on the back that caught my attention, though. It was the name on the front.

  Lanie Jacobs. It fit her p
erfectly.

  “You know the artist?” I asked.

  Her hands, always moving, rested on the table for a moment before going to her lap. “I do. Yes.”

  “So you’ll be there?”

  Lanie’s dark pupils widened, betraying her true feelings. I’d been right. She was as attracted to me as I was to her.

  Heat filled the room, settling in around us as she took her sweet time answering.

  “Yes,” she thickly said.

  “Good.” I kept my eyes on hers as I pocketed the card. “Then I’ll see you there.”

  Whatever doubt I’d had in my ability to flirt had gone out the window. It didn’t matter that I’d been rusty for years, that my cynical attitude had built a wall between nearly every woman on earth and me. After all this time, I had finally spotted something I wanted, and I intended to get it.

  Chapter 9

  Lanie

  “I knew the second I saw you that you were the one for me,” Andrew Marx breathed, his hot exhale kissing my cheek.

  I closed my eyes, absorbing his scent, anticipating his taste on my tongue. His lips grazed against mine ever so softly, his tongue darting out to nudge my mouth open.

  “Ow!” I shrieked, dropping the knife onto the cutting board. Bright red blood spilled from the cut on the side of my finger.

  “Here.” Erica took my hand and inspected it. “It’s just a little nick. Press this against it, and I’ll get a Band-Aid.”

  I leaned against the counter and wrapped the paper towel around my finger as she rooted through her first aid kit.

  “What had you distracted?” she asked.

  My face grew hot. “Nothing.”

  Luckily, she didn’t look up at me. “Here we go.”

  I tossed the paper towel and carefully wrapped the Band-Aid around my finger.

  “Maybe I should take care of cutting the veggies,” Erica said.

  “Knock yourself out. I’ll take care of drinking the wine.” Plopping down at the table, I dug her corkscrew into the bottle of white.

  “How did that parent-teacher meeting go?” she asked as she continued the work I’d failed so miserably at.

  “Um.” Andrew Marx’s eyes came back to me, dark and full of heat. After he’d left, I’d spent the rest of the day thinking about him. Like, wild, forbidden thoughts. I was probably the horniest person in the whole school that day—which was something, considering there were hundreds of hormonal teenage boys surrounding me.