The Parent Trap

by Jasinda Wilder

  “That was then. You had just thrown a snake on me, also.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, I suppose that’s relevant.” Another shrug. “But if you’re interested in the framing thing, I can set up a meeting. I know they’d love to have a big account with a reputable builder.”

  “Do it. I think it could be good. Now that I’m in charge, I can make those kinds of decisions.” I can’t help but let out a groaning sigh. “I wish I could be happier about it. But Dad would never have gone for it. And it just makes me miss him all the more, even though I know modernizing the business is necessary and important.”

  “I’ll get ahold of…god, what’s his name?” He frowns. “Marcus? I think his name is Marcus. Anyway, whatever the hell his hipster name is, I’ll call him and have him make us an official pitch.”

  “Sounds good.” I glance at the clock on the oven. “Shoot, it’s getting late. I have to shower and change before I head into the office.”

  He swallows hard and sets his mug down. “Yeah, me too. Can’t wear the same clothes in to work two days in a row.” He smirks. “My boss is a real ballbuster.”

  I laugh, and it makes my stomach feel oddly warm, and kind of…flippy. “I’m not your boss, for one thing. We’re co-owners. And two, I don’t give a shit what you wear.”

  He quirks that eyebrow yet again. “So if I came in wearing board shorts and a tank top, you’d be cool?”

  I shrug. “I mean, it would be unprofessional, not to mention impractical on-site, but…I’m not your boss.” I make a face. “And I’m not a ballbuster. Am I?”

  He laughs. “How should I know? I barely know you, in some ways. And in others, I know you too well to be an objective source.” A thoughtful expression crosses his face, then he shakes his head. “But if you’re asking me, I’d say no, you’re not a ballbuster. You have expectations and standards, and you personally work your ass off, but I’ve never gotten the impression that you expect perfection and go around busting people down if they don’t measure up.”

  I’m oddly relieved, in a way I don’t dare think too closely about. Because this is Thai, and I don’t quite believe that this thoughtful, intelligent, hard-working person in the same Matthais Bristow I so hated, once upon a time.

  He heads for the door, pauses. “Look at us, having civil conversations and shit, right?”

  I laugh. “I guess it is an improvement.”

  “See you at work,” he says, and then he’s gone.

  And it’s weird, when he leaves, how empty my house feels.

  Even weirder is how hard I have to work to not think about Thai in the shower. Or being in the shower with him.

  Gah, what’s wrong with me? I cannot think about Thai Bristow that way. It’s not safe, and not healthy.

  I don’t like him that way.

  I really need to find a date—get my mind off Thai and my stupid fantasy. My stupid, fake, never-going-to-happen, absolutely cannot ever happen again fantasy. About Thai. And how sexy he is. And the things he could do to me, if I didn’t hate, loathe, despise him.

  Maybe I could call Tyler—I don’t do booty calls or friends with benefits, but Tyler is someone I’ve gone out with a few times, and I know the sex is decent.

  So maybe it is a booty call. I just dress it up with dinner and a movie and call it dating.

  But when I bring Tyler up in my text thread, I can’t bring myself to actually suggest we meet tonight.

  I just…can’t.

  And I refuse to examine myself closely enough to figure out why.

  Mainly because if I did, I’d have to admit I don’t actually hate, loathe, despite Thai at all, anymore.

  Ugh.

  This is getting…complicated.

  Chapter Eleven

  Matthais

  Dammit.

  I really wish I hadn’t seen her like that.

  In those fucking shorts.

  In that fucking bra.

  I mean, it was a sports bra, meant to contain and compress. For utility, not the male gaze. But…damn. She wore the fuck out of it.

  And those shorts? Goddamn.

  I knew the woman had a killer ass, but until this morning, I didn’t understand just how killer.

  Fucking…magnificent. In those shorts she may as well have been naked, and the lecherous male in me did not mind at all. The way it moved? Hypnotizing. A little jiggle, but still taut. Round enough to make my dick sit up and take notice.

  If it was anyone else, I’d be thinking about how I want to bend her over my bed and slap that ass till it was pink and she was begging for me.

  But this is Delia.

  My best friend’s sister. I know there’s some kind of taboo about that, but I’ve never gotten it. Maybe because I never thought about Delia that way. Until I came back into town and into her life, that is.

  And realized what a freaking smoke show she is.

  Did I notice, back in the day, that Delia was a fine-looking piece of woman? Yes, I did. Did I ever allow myself to think about her sexually? Not on your life. If my mind so much as tweaked in that direction, I’d do something to hurt her, just to stop myself. Why? God, I don’t fucking know. I’m not sure I want to know. Is that cowardly, of me?

  I strip out of my slept-in clothes and twist the water on. While it’s heating, I brush my teeth and say fuck it to shaving.

  Find myself leaning onto the sink, staring into the mirror—but I’m not seeing myself.

  I’m seeing her.

  Bent over this very sink.

  Her eyes on mine in the mirror.

  Body shaking as I drive into her—

  I twist away with a groan, scrubbing my face as if to scrub away the images.

  I don’t want her.

  I don’t.

  But when I get into the shower, my cock is decidedly singing a very different tune. My cock is thinking about Delia. About what it would be like to peel those shorts off, unzip that bra…feel her skin on mine, taste those luscious tits.

  I have myself in my fist, in a tight, punishing grip. Telling myself not to do it.

  But I can’t fucking help it.

  I picture her naked, reaching for me, saying my name not with vitriol but ecstasy…shaking all over as I make her come a thousand times.

  What makes me come, though? An image that should scare the absolute hell out of me.

  I come while imagining myself on my knees in front of her. Making her come. With my mouth. Making her scream my name until she begs me to stop.

  I explode with a teeth-gritted bellow, and then I watch the shower water rinse it down the drain…

  And feel like a tool.

  There are a million reasons why it’ll never happen, why even thinking about her like that is wrong.

  I’m torturing myself with fantasies that will never happen…

  And shit, it’s not like I actually want them to happen…

  Right?

  The resounding lack of affirmation in my own head at that question definitely worries me.

  I clean off, dress, and head to work. It takes real effort to put her out of my mind.

  All that effort goes to waste when I finally make it to the office, later that afternoon; I’d spent the morning working with Cal, going over the finishing touches on a house that’s just about ready to go up for sale.

  Why does it go to waste?

  Because Delia clearly dressed just to mess with my head.

  Denim miniskirt with knee-high leather boots. Low-cut yellow top that pulls my gaze where it doesn’t belong.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon around the office, doing my damnedest to not stare at her various assets and actually get work done.

  Such as, arrange for Marcus to come in and make a pitch.

  Such as get Albion’s top rep to come make a pitch, rather than whatever undergrad newbie they’ve clearly been sending.

  Also yet another reason why I have to put a stop to thinking about Delia sexually—this is work. She’s my coworker. My partner. It’s no
t like that and can’t be like that and will never be like that, and letting my lust for her curves play games with my head is only going to endanger the work I’ve put in toward getting her to trust me.

  Or, at least, not hate me.

  If I let on that I’m thinking about her sexually, all that will go out the window. I can almost hear her recriminations.

  That’s how you think of me, Matthais Bristow?

  Not if you were the last person on earth, and there aren’t any goats…are there goats?

  Eat shit and die.

  Granted, the last one is more old Delia and less so the newer Delia who can actually have a full conversation without sniping at me.

  But if I let on that I was thinking about her naked, that I’d jacked off thinking about her? She’d blow a gasket.

  I have to put her out of my mind.

  A week later, and the struggle is real. I’ve managed to avoid using Delia as jerk-off imagery, but only barely. It’s required a lot of visual stimulation by way of the internet.

  I know what I need, I’ve just been too busy to do it: a hookup.

  I don’t know that I can bring myself to troll for a hookup locally—anyone my age is almost guaranteed to be someone I know and very likely have already hooked up with. Anyone younger will be the younger sister or cousin of someone I know. Anyone older, the divorced mother of someone I know.

  No, I need to go farther afield to find someone to distract me.

  So, finally, I take a weekend off and head to San Fransisco. Rent a penthouse for the weekend and hit a nearby bar.

  I know some guys in town, so we meet up and play some pool, shoot some shit. Keep an eye for someone to take my mind off of…

  My current problem. Leave it at that.

  Finally, late in the evening on Saturday, in walks Distraction.

  She’s five-seven, bottle-blond hair, with expensive breasts on full display. Little red dress, fuck-me heels. Smoky eye makeup. Little white clutch purse that costs as much as my truck, most likely.

  Not that I drove my truck—oh no. When you’re trolling for a hookup, you go McLaren. Even girls who say they’re not impressed by expensive cars can’t help but be impressed with the McLaren.

  This chick, Distraction, clocked my car out front, and pegged me as the owner within seconds of walking in.

  Beeline for me.

  And that’s the night.

  That easy.

  Ricardo, one of the guys I’m playing pool with, sees all this and just laughs. “Man, you don’t even have to snap your fingers. The girls literally come to you, man. Not even fuckin’ right, bro.”

  “You know, I tried snapping my fingers, once,” I say with a laugh.

  “And? Did it work?”

  “Hell no. She slapped me silly.”

  “Good to know.” Ricardo is being coy, though. The man has more game than I do. Tall, dark, and handsome, plus he’s got the Latin thing going for him.

  “Hey.” Her voice is low, husky. Fake, but it works. “I’m Violet.”

  “Hi there, Violet.” I give her a grin, the one that works every time. “I’m Thai.”

  “I like your name.” She eyes my scotch. “Buy me a drink?”

  “What’ll you have?”

  A shrug. “Something sweet.”

  This is where men with less game would bust out a line like, something sweet like you, huh? I don’t fall for it. I just push off the pool table and weave through the crowded bar, wait for the bartender to see me, and order her a Riesling.

  Once she’s sipping and watching me line up my shot, I try to figure how long before I make the move of asking her if she wants to get out of here. Not long, judging by the way she’s watching me.

  “Is that your car out front, Thai?” She leans a little too close, and she’s wearing a little too much perfume, but she’s intentionally offering me a nice look down her top.

  “Sure is.” I grin at her. “You want a ride?”

  Her grin is hungry. “Hell yeah I want a ride.” A lick of her lips. “I’d also like to ride in your car.”

  Can’t get any more obvious than that.

  Except Ricardo elbows me. “Yo, someone is staring at you over there, man.”

  I play it cool. Don’t look. “Oh yeah? You know her?”

  “Naw, man. But she’s giving you a look, bro.”

  I sink my shot, circle the table as if to line up the next one, and scan the bar.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

  Delia.

  Here.

  In a little black dress and tall heels, with her hair in an elaborate updo. Sapphires drip from her ears, gleam at her throat.

  And she is indeed giving me a look, but one I can’t quite parse.

  Not a glare.

  Just…a look.

  And she’s on the arm of a man.

  Even if I was the type to be threatened, even if she and I had a thing for me to be threatened, I wouldn’t be. The guy is everything I said her type was. On the short side of medium height. Slim and sleek. Slicked-back brown hair. Wearing pleated khakis and a plaid button-down…on a date. Yeesh. Right down to the loafers.

  Nice-looking.

  My dude wouldn’t have a clue what to do with the sexiness that is Delia. He’d waste it—she’d be wasted on him.

  Bet he couldn’t find her G-spot if she drew him a map.

  I stare back, and I sense tension—from her, from myself…from Violet.

  “Is that someone you know?” she asks.

  I turn away from Delia, with effort. Sink my shot. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Do you need to go say hi?” Her tone tells me my shot with her rides on my answer.

  Do I? What’s protocol, here? Do I bring Violet over? Do I give her the chin lift? Ignore her? Leave Violet here and say hello to Delia…and her date?

  I glance at Violet, and somehow I know that there’s no chance in hell I’m going anywhere with her tonight. I can’t. I just can’t. I want to—or at least, part of me does—but…seeing Delia with a date has just…thrown me off.

  I sink my last shot, winning the round with Ricardo. Toss back my drink. Meet Violet’s eyes. “So, something came up, actually.” I gesture at Ricardo. “But I’m going to leave you in Ricardo’s very capable hands. I promise, he won’t let you down. Will you, buddy?”

  Ricardo gives her his most winning grin. “You know it.”

  I shoot her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, really. Just, you know. One of those things.”

  “What, is she an ex?” Violet asks, frowning.

  I laugh. “It’s complicated.”

  And then I walk away, heading for the front door. I tell myself not to do anything stupid.

  But yet, as I near the little table where Delia is sitting with her date—right near the front door—I know I’m about to do something monumentally stupid.

  I spy a sleek, low-slung red BMW parked out front, near my McLaren. And I know I’m about to really piss her off.

  I try to tell myself not to.

  Just say hi.

  That’s it.

  Instead, I lean down close to her, as if embracing her with familiarity. Whisper in her ear: “Is that his BMW out front?”

  She pulls away. “Matthais.” Cold, distant, formal.

  “Oh, it’s Matthais, now, is it?” I laugh as I stand upright. “Well, Cordelia. It was nice to see you.” I extend my hand to her date. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Thai Bristow. Delia and I are…business partners.”

  He shakes my hand, and I can tell he’s puzzled by the whole interaction. “Tyler James Thomas.”

  I only just barely stifle a snicker. “Nice to meet you, Tyler James Thomas.”

  She’s fuming. I can feel it boiling—I always could feel her fuming, bubbling with anger. Back in the day, I made a game out of making her pop, little digs and needles and snipes until she’d just…BOOM.

  Not anymore. I’m a grown-up.

  And I don’t want
her to hate me anymore.

  I wonder if I’m going to regret that decision.

  Probably.

  Next morning, my dumb rabbit brain wakes me up at stupid o’clock in the morning. Oh-dark-thirty. The last time I was awake at this time, it was because I was still awake.

  Why am I up at five thirty?

  Shut up, brain, go back to sleep.

  Nope.

  I grunt in annoyance as I kick the blankets off and wriggle to a semi sitting position. Rub my eyes. Stare through my open bedroom door at the coffee maker which I can see from here, wondering if I’m really, actually awake and going to stagger my bleary ass over there and make coffee.

  Fuck.

  I am.

  Counting scoops of coffee beans is hard. Filling the reservoir is hard.

  God, I am not a morning person.

  I nearly fall asleep standing up waiting for the machine to brew enough in the pot that I can pour myself a cup, and when I have a mug curling steam up into my face, I take it and collapse onto the couch.

  Now, I can drink coffee and try to wake up and figure out why the blistering dawn hell I’m awake at five thirty in the fucking morning.

  It comes to me, halfway through the mug.

  Delia.

  She runs at six.

  If she’s running, chances are she’ll be wearing something I’ll enjoy seeing her in.

  Which means…

  My idiot caveman hinter brain woke me up at five thirty in the thrice-damned morning just so I can go run with Delia…for the sole and express purpose of seeing her in booty shorts and a sports bra.

  I must be cracked.

  It’s been nearly a month since I last got laid which is…three weeks longer than I’ve ever gone since freaking eleventh grade. So yeah, I’m wicked horny.

  But getting laid isn’t even in the offing, here. She won’t even be topless or anything. I could see more skin if I went to the beach.

  Shit, if I’d stuck around at the bar last night, I’d have enjoyed a couple rounds of little miss Violet and her various sexy bits, naked and all to myself.

  But I didn’t.

  Delia walked in, and I promptly forgot all about Violet.

  Why?

  Because my dick and my brain are in disagreement. My dick wants a piece of Delia McKenna, and my brain knows I have a better chance of winning the lottery…twice in a row.