The second the words leave my mouth, I cringe. I sound like a hostess in a home improvement showroom. But Will doesn’t react. He just pushes the box across the floor like it’s nothing, right into the middle of my living room.
Right into the same spot where I touched myself in front of him.
He whistles a low tune under his breath as he opens the box, kneeling down and pulling out pieces like he’s done this a hundred times.
Unlike last time, I don’t offer to help. I sit on the floor, watching him work, trying not to fidget. But the silence is thick, threaded with everything we’re both pretending didn’t happen. He’s methodical. Calm. Like he’s trying very hard not to mention last night or this morning’s text. Like he’s doing me a favor and not thinking about how my skirt was around my hips on this exact floor.
When he’s nearly done, the doorbell rings.
Will glances up. “More deliveries?”
I snort, standing. “Probably.”
We head downstairs, and sure enough there they are. My table. Chairs. Bookshelf. All stacked like the universe is mocking me for pretending I can do this alone.
Will doesn’t complain. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t say a damn word.
He just picks up the biggest box and starts up the stairs.
And I follow behind him, watching the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt, still unsure if I want to scream or kiss him or thank him or all three. By the time the last piece is inside, my apartment looks more like a place someone lives in and less like a halfway stop between heartbreak and denial.
Will sets the final box down and rolls his shoulder with a grunt. “You’re gonna need a drill.”
I nod slowly, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I can pick one up later.”
“I’ll bring mine after work.”
There’s a pause. A beat suspended in that same thick, unspoken air that’s been hovering between us since last night.
“Thanks for helping,” I say, soft but sincere.
He tips his chin. “Anytime, kiddo.”
I snort, louder than I mean to. “Right. I forgot.”
His brows pull together. “Forgot what?”
“Nothing,” I say with a too-sweet smile, gesturing toward the door like I’m ready to escort him off the premises.
He watches me for a second longer than necessary, like he knows I’m playing at something. Then he turns and heads for the door. He’s almost out when I say it.
“See you later, Daddy.”
Silence. He freezes. Slowly he turns back, one brow arching with lethal precision. The heat in his eyes spikes so fast, I swear the temperature in the room shifts.
“You better be careful with that mouth, Phern.”
My heart skips, but I hold my ground, chin tilted just high enough to match his challenge. “Why? You gonna spank me if I don’t?”
Will stares at me, like he’s deciding whether to laugh or come back in and teach me a very specific lesson. But instead, he smirks. And it’s the kind of smirk that promises this isn’t over.
“When I come over later,” he says, voice low and rough. “Don’t wear anything you’d be afraid to ruin. ‘Cause Daddy’s going to show you just how good it can be.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m left standing in the doorway, heart racing, knees wobbly, and grinning like a woman who’s about to get into a whole lot of trouble.
The day drags by like molasses in January. I check the clock obsessively, like somehow staring at it will make the hands move faster. Every time I glance over, it’s still not two. Still not time.
