She looks better than good. She looks like I’d like to see her with her sleepy eyes kissed by morning light. She looks like I’d love to see that mischievous grin under me. I want her wrapped up in just that pearl snap shirt and nothing else, sitting on the kitchen counter with messy hair.
She looks like how when she cries, I want to fix it. Like how when she laughs, I want to know what joke put that cackle in the air. Like when she stops herself from saying something, I want to know what the secret is.
Darcy looks like maybe I want her to bemine.
And yet, I can’t say something like that because it’s a tad aggressive, and there’s a little tinge of something sad in what she’s wearing.
She takes a slug on her coffee, raising her eyebrows at me over the brim.
“You do look good,” I say. “A lot of what you’re wearing is my dad’s.”
Darcy gets a wicked grin and shimmies her shoulders. “Is your dad hot? I do love an older man. Little daddy to take care of me.”
My stomach twists for a few reasons. I’m not older than her, so I guess I’m not her type based on age alone.
But I could be a daddy type. Whatever she wants looking the way she does right now, I’m willing to give it to her.
Because for whatever reason, my brain saw her a few weeks ago in a sports bar and said, “Yep, I want that. Stop looking. You found it.”
Stupid brain.
And my brain’s especially stupid right now because instead of telling her how fucking cute she looks, I blurt out the least comfortable response.
“He’s dead.”
“Fuck, dude,” Caleb breathes.
Darcy puts a hand to her chest. “Jesus, Jake. I’m sorry. I would have never?—”
“He didn’t exactly deliver it softly.” Caleb grimaces and turns to me. “But I’m sorry about your dad.”
I run a hand down my face, then try to smile genuinely, but I realize it’s all going to look shitty right now. “It’s alright. Glad to know your type, though, boss.”
She takes the hat off her head, combing her hair behind her ear. “I don’t have to wear a hat. Especially with my wet hair. This is special.”
I stand and walk past her, heading back into my bedroom and motioning for her to follow. “Come on. Let’s pick you one. I got plenty more.”
Darcy stands in my doorway twisting her hands while I examine the hats on my dresser: my beat-up straw hat, my newer one, Dad’s Stetson, an Akubra, and an assortment of ball caps.
After a ragged breath, she says, “Dads aren’t my only type.”
I chuckle, and warmth balloons in my chest again. She’s trying to make me feel better. “I bet they are. That’s why you were looking at me at the bar. You thought I was a dad.”
“No,” she says. “I thought you had nice eyes. And I feltyoulooking atme.”
“And yet, you still didn’t talk to me.”
She snorts. “I’m not exactly looking for romance at the moment.”
“Just hot dads?” I ask, and laugh as she shakes her head at me.
“You’re a pest.”
I turn her shoulders toward me, examining her. She’s somewhat pale and washed out from getting wet, but her cheeks are flushed. I can basically see down her boobs in my undershirt, and the open denim shirt on top gives her a casual look. Her lips look full and pouty, her eyes as big and round as ever.
“How long ago did you lose him?” she asks softly.
“Almost ten years ago. I was seventeen.”
