by Ney, Sara
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve said you like me countless times. You showed up at my place after my dad said those shitty things and after my confrontation with Marlon, and I think she was testing you.”
My chest puffs out like Superman. “I will never understand women.”
But I sure as shit passed the test if the hands around my neck are any indication, if the lips on my mouth are a sign, if the—
The timer on my phone goes off and I gasp. “Shit—I have dinner rolls in the oven!” I must go to them!
“Dinner rolls?” Hollis asks, confused. “When did you have time to make bread? And since when do you bake?”
It’s like she doesn’t even hardly know me.
The thought makes me laugh and as I bend over to pull the baking sheet from the fiery depths—oven mitt on my hand—the towel around my waist loosens. Falls to the floor in a puddle. Leaves me with my ass sticking out and dick dangling.
“Whoops.” I’m not even a little bit sorry standing here in just my t-shirt, oven mitt on one hand, baking sheet suspended above the stove. “My my, looks like something other than dough is rising.”
A laugh escapes her throat and she covers it with her palm, giggling. “I love you and all, but sometimes you are too much.”
The baking sheet slams down onto the hard, granite countertop, and we both startle at the sound.
“What did you just say?”
Describing her eyes as wide as saucers is a vast understatement, a woefully lacking description of the look of shock on her face. It’s as if she can’t believe the words flew out of her mouth—from her diaphragm, up her windpipe, and out her pie hole.
“I…I…don’t know.”
My eyes narrow. “Hollis Westbrooke did we not just say we were being honest with each other?” If she decides this is the time she’s going to start withholding information, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.
I’m painfully aware of the fact that I’m standing here with my cock hanging out, of course, but that’s neither here nor there.
Plus, the dinner rolls are getting cold and they only taste delicious warm with melted butter.
“It’s only been a few weeks,” she murmurs.
“So?”
“So…no one falls in…you know, in only a few weeks.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
“Fuck everyone then.”
Hollis’s cheeks turn crimson, clutching the robe to her throat. “What are you saying Trace?”
“I’m saying what you said.” ‘Cause I’m a pussy and can’t say it either.
“Do we have to do this right now?” She moves to go around me, intending to swipe bread from the cooking sheet—but I stop her.
“For-fucking-get-it. No way. I’m not letting you off that easy.”
She demurs. “I’m shy.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s hilarious. You’re about as shy as I am.” Which is not shy at all.
“For two seconds, can you let me have my dignity? Sheesh.”
She’s going to be stubborn about it? Fine.
I pull out a barstool at the counter for her, one for myself, and we sit, side by side in companionable silence, eating. I envision us doing this night after night, never getting bored of our conversations or banter. Never tiring of seeing her sweet face.
I catch her glancing down at my lap and her brows shooting up.
“You’re not even going to put pants on?”
“Nope.”
“You’re just going to rest your balls right on that chair?”
“Yup.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
We’re halfway through our meal when a knock sounds on my front door—not the doorbell, but a knock, and I wonder who the hell it could be because everyone I know comes barging in like they own the place.
It wouldn’t be Tripp; he’s been long gone for the better part of an hour—not that he’ll stay away for too long. Dude loves free food.
I rise, wrap the bath towel around my waist, excuse myself, and go to see who’s at the front door.
To say I’m shocked to see Thomas Westbrooke standing there is a gross understatement. Gray hair, pressed slacks, ironed shirt, and a Chicago Steam tie, the stuffy son of a bitch must have just come from the stadium. While most people know how to separate work from their personal life, he doesn’t appear to be one of them.
I brace myself in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. “You’re a few hours late—she was at the police station hours ago filling out her report. She’s fine, by the way. No injuries, just a bit shaken up.”
I don’t give a fuck if he’s my boss; he doesn’t own me and I’m under contract. Last I checked, there was no clause regarding not letting him inside my house.
Westbrooke purses his lips. “Is she here?”
I smirk. “Of course she is. I’ve been taking care of her.”
As his nostrils flare at my innuendo, his eyes glance down to the towel wrapped around my waist. “May I come in?”
Mother may I…
“I don’t know. Let me check with the boss—one second.” I close the door, so it’s ajar and pad back into the kitchen. She’s stuffing chicken into her gullet. “Babe, your dad is here.”
“My dad?” Hollis sets down her utensil and wipes her mouth with the napkin on her lap. “Why?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Do you want me to let him in or kick his ass out?” I’m busting skulls today. Don’t stop me now.
Hollis gives me one of her classic eye rolls. “It’s my dad—of course, you should let him in.”
I grunt. “Fine, but I’ll be watching him.” I do a two-prong finger motion between my eyes and hers before proceeding to the door. “She said to let you in.”
Thomas Westbrooke looks unenthused. Entitled, elitist, and unenthused as he skirts past me and into the house.
“So. This is where you live,” he says, glancing around my foyer.
“Yup.”
“Hmm.” He spies a stacked set of first edition paperbacks on a side hutch with a vintage paperweight set on top. “Not what I would have expected.”
No shit. “Where did you think I lived? In a downtown high-rise playboy sex dungeon?”
The lift of his brows tells me that’s exactly where he thought I lived.
“Not my style, Westbrooke. I prefer not to be infected with STDs or father illegitimate children, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He follows me to the kitchen, which his lovely daughter has returned to after quickly running to change back into clothes. She’s wearing black leggings with a gray Steam t-shirt and she looks cute as a damn button.
Even her toes are delectable.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
Thomas falters, gives me side eye, and asks, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Hollis, bless her sweet heart, shakes her head. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Trace.”
23
Hollis
My father isn’t pleased.
I know the look; I’ve seen it hundreds of times before. The pursed lips, the flared nostrils, the upturn of his chin. Dad is spoiled; raised in a wealthy family and given everything he has, he expects those around him to do his bidding.
This is what happens when you’re brought up with servants and waitstaff—it gets ingrained in you.
Which is one of the reasons he tends to treat us like shit.
He’s a snob.
Except…Buzz isn’t putting up with any of that behavior; I heard him out in the foyer, standing his ground. I heard him tell my father he had to check with me before he’d let him in.
The man continues to astound me.
I (blank) him.
He leads Dad and me to his den, taking his place in a burgundy red leather chair, crossing his legs. Yes, in the terrycloth towel. I want to smack my forehead and/or tell him I can almost make out the shadow of his balls, but
that would only fill him with joy.
Dad stares at him for a few long seconds. Clears his throat before turning to me. “I almost didn’t know where to find you. When you weren’t at your house, I had to put in a call to…” He struggles to bring himself to say the name Madison, which makes me wonder about the crazy shit she says to him when I’m not around, simply for shock value. “Madison told me where I’d likely find you.”
“You found me.” I spread my arms wide to indicate my here-ness and sit myself down on the couch in Buzz’s study, knowing how uncomfortable my father is going to feel standing there trying to deliver whatever speech he’s come to deliver.
Another lecture perhaps? A discourse on work ethic?
I wait.
“I spoke to your brother and sister, asked if either of them had gotten a text about your incident, and they had.”
Where is he going with this?
“And both of them agreed that they would have gone to the police station.” He glances at Buzz again and it occurs to me that my father might be self-conscious about discussing a family matter in front of him.
“Okay…” I draw the word out slowly, still confused. “But they didn’t.”
Dad nods. “Right. I asked about that and they both told me the same thing: they didn’t go to see you because they were afraid of the repercussions.”
Ah, now I see. Fiona and Lucian are afraid of our father and were scared he would somehow punish them for leaving the stadium during the game since that is where they work. They were afraid to come see their little sister for fear of the consequences.
I raise my chin. “Work before family—how sad.”
I will never raise my children like that.
Never.
“I’m sorry for that.” His words are quiet and barely audible.
“Sorry, what was that Westbrooke? I couldn’t hear you from over here,” Buzz bellows, man of the manor house and lord of his castle—thoroughly enjoying my father’s obvious discomfort. “Speak up, man.”
I barely stifle a laugh at the expression on my father’s face; I can’t say I’ve ever seen him this irritated before, and his jaw visibly clenches.
“I said I’m sorry we weren’t there when you needed us.”
Things I could say that would not be helpful in this situation:
I wasn’t expecting you to be there.
There is a first time for everything.
I’m being well taken care of by someone else, if you catch my drift.
This is the moment Buzz rises from his spot in the corner, smooths out the terrycloth towel and tightens the knot at his waist. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
He walks the few feet to where I sit, dropping a kiss on the top of my head.
We watch him go.
“I thought he’d never leave.” Dad exhales with relief. “Dear lord, is he always like that?”
I laugh. “Only when he’s not sleeping.”
Thomas Westbrooke quizzically surveys the door where Buzz departed, puzzled. “I wouldn’t have expected this from him.”
No, he wouldn’t have. Neither would anyone else, if I had to guess. People have been stereotyping him his entire life, the same as they’ve been stereotyping me, and I’m tickled I finally gave him a chance.
And now my father is seeing his true colors too. Trace Wallace is a man of integrity—he is not just a pretty face. Not just an incredible athlete. Not just a savvy business mind.
He is the whole package and will make one heck of a romantic partner.
For me.
“So you really like this man.”
“We haven’t known each other long, but yes, I like him a lot. He’s been good for me and his family is incredible.”
Dad nods. “His brother is Tripp Wallace—plays for the Sparks. And his sister is an agent.”
“She is?” I didn’t know that.
“True Wallace, sports agent at MSA.”
My brow furrows. “What did you do, run background checks on everyone?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“I want to know the man who’s dating my daughter.”
“But…didn’t you know all this before, when you recruited him?”
“This is different. This is personal.”
Well.
Well, well, well. I lean back in my chair and study my father anew. Is he turning over a new leaf? Is he morphing into an actual living breathing DAD?
Like one who waits up at night for his daughter to come home to make sure she’s safe? One who has her call when she makes it home after a long date?
Slow your roll, Hollis—baby steps. All he’s doing is background checks on Buzz’s entire family, no big deal.
But it is a big deal, because he’s never done that before. And he’s showing up at Buzz’s house rather than calling—another step in the right direction. Plus, he apologized.
Apologized!
I’ve never in my life heard my father say I’m sorry to anyone, let alone one of his children. Thomas Westbrooke can do no wrong, therefore never has anything to apologize for.
“I appreciate you coming by.” I’m not sure what else to say; showing emotion with my parents feels strange. With others, I’m huggy, affectionate and expressive. With my mother and father? Not so much.
“Coming by—sounds like you’re living here.”
“Ha ha, no. Like I said, we haven’t known each other long, but being here is really nice.” Like home, actually, but perhaps that’s the company I’m keeping.
I feel whole.
Since my father is already standing, he shuffles his feet uneasily, making eyes toward the exit; I stand and put my arms around him for an embrace.
We’re like two strangers forced to touch. So awkward.
Fortunately, it’s over in a flash. “Tell Fi and Luc I say hi and I love them.”
I do—I love my brother and sister, as misguided as they are, ruled by the almighty dollar and our dad. Corporate greed. Fear.
Telling them I love them is easier than saying it to my father in this moment and I know he’s struggling to say it too. It just isn’t natural.
“Well, let me know if there’s anything else you need. I’m going to…” He swallows, searching for his next word. “Try.”
That’s a start. A huge one.
“I know.”
When Buzz meets us back in the foyer, he’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a cutoff bro tank, his toned arms ripped. The whole outfit is an intentional flex on my father and I’m not mad about it.
He’s protective and I’ve not had that before.
God it’s hot.
Such a damn turn on.
We walk Dad to the door.
“Maybe call next time Westbrooke. I’d hate to get caught with my pants around my ankles.”
Why does he say shit like that? I smack him in the stomach.
But.
My father nods his acquiescence. “Will do.”
“Look forward to seeing you at the office.” Buzz har-hars with a chuckle, amused with himself.
It’s all I can do not to bust out laughing; he can be such a showboater when he wants to.
“I’ll have my people come see you about a raise,” Buzz calls out to him when Dad hits the sidewalk, striding toward his luxury sedan. He looks down at me. “I have people, you know.”
“No you will not come see about a raise,” Dad calls over his shoulder, the beep-beep of his unlocking car ringing in the night.
“We should do lunch—on you,” Buzz shouts.
“I’m busy that day,” Dad shouts in reply, clearly enjoying the back and forth.
“We picked names for the Christmas gift exchange last week and I chose you. Send me your list,” Buzz jokes.
“Unsubscribe,” is the last thing my father says before sliding in and shutting the door to his car, roaring the expensive engine to life.
I’m laughing beside Buzz on the porch, waving to my departing parental unit. �
�Was he smiling? I think he was smiling.”
“Oh, he was definitely smiling. It was a cross between constipated and a grin.”
“He’s definitely a bit rusty in the pleasure department.”
“Speaking of pleasure…” He looks down at me wolfishly and I remember that he didn’t come when we were having sex in the bathtub.
“That’s not the kind of pleasure I meant.”
But it’s too late—he’s scooping me up and carrying me into the house, kicking the door closed behind him. Carrying me as if I weigh next to nothing, which we both know isn’t the case.
He doesn’t put me down. Does not stop until we’re back in his bedroom and he’s setting me on the edge of the bed, hands cupping my face, mouth kissing me on the lips.
“Mmm.” It’s only been two hours, but I already missed this. His body pressed against mine, the intense heat he fills me with.
I raise my arms so he can pull my t-shirt off, over my head. Next come the leggings; I lean back on the mattress so he can divest me of them, one leg at a time, his hands slowly gliding up my smooth legs.
I’m only in a thong, having skipped a bra in haste when I threw on clothes to greet my dad.
Buzz is running his hands all over my bare skin, rubbing my shoulders and neck, gently pressing his thumbs into the knots buried there.
I moan. Eyes slide closed.
He is spoiling me rotten with all this affection and attention, and I could get used to it.
And why shouldn’t I after the hell I’ve been through with some of these assholes I’ve dated? Not to mention the emotional abandonment I’ve felt from my family.
Deserve it indeed…
My ass gets pulled to the edge of the bed, legs spread by a pair of large shoulders nudging them open. Buzz, down on his knees, buries his face between my thighs, tongue working its magic on my vagina.
My knees quiver, and without his support, I’d be unable to hold them open. What a not-horrible problem to have.
“Do you like that?” he mutters and I want to push his head back down because no chitchat during oral. Hello, cardinal rule!
Now I’ve morphed into a greedy asshole desperate for his touch. His tongue. His hands and fingers and dick.