“Why is your dad so young?” I whisper in Emma’s ear.
“Young?He’s like forty!”
“Yeah? My dad is fifty-two!”
“I can hear you,” Jason drawls while guiding us down a short hallway, his wide shoulders taking up the entire space. “And I’m only thirty-six, Emma. Your mother and I got ahead of ourselves when we were seventeen, remember?”
“That’s right. They were teen parents.” Emma smirked. “You guys are both so old, sometimes I forget you were ever young.”
“Makes sense,” Jason responds, dryly.
We enter a vast living space where a fire roars in the hearth. Tan, leather couches, rich plums and royal blues make up the color palette. The lighting is discreet and golden. The furniture looks handmade. Enduring.
My goodness, I would never leave this living room.
Somehow, it’s cozy and upscale at the same time.
“Wow,” I breathe, slowing down to drink it all in. “This place belongs on a billionaire’s ranch in Montana. It’s stunning. You need some white accents to brighten this corner…”
I trail off when I realize they’ve both stopped to stare at me.
“Sorry, Dad. Shea redecorates everywhere we go.”
“Guilty.” My face is hot, but the humor kindling in his gaze stops my embarrassment in its tracks. “It’s an annoying impulse I should probably keep to myself.”
“I can relate, Shea. I remodel every room I walk into.”
“I’m not alone, then,” I say breathily, his undivided attention making me feel warm.
For the second time since we arrived, his attention carries downward to the apex of my thighs and the strangest thing happens. I feel that flesh turn kind of swollen…and puffy.
Am I having an allergic reaction to something?
Is it visible through my sleep shorts?
I clasp my hands together in front of the spot, just in case.
Mr. Ruston quickly averts his gaze, coughing into a fist. “Guest room is this way.”
two
Jason
What the fuckis wrong with me?
I’ve finally got my kid to come over. Haven’t seen her since I took her out to breakfast for her birthday earlier this year. This would be an ideal time to reconnect with Emma, find out how she’s doing. How she likes her classes. But I can’t stop staring at her roommate.
Shea.
An eighteen-year-old girl.
Same age as my own daughter.
That alone should be enough to keep me from looking. But hell, Shea is not making it easy. For one, she keeps sneaking glances inmydirection. While my daughter chooses her side of the guest room, Shea appears to be determining the size of my jeans, that curious gaze measuring me up from head to toe. I am not used to that kind of female attention anymore. I’m way out of practice with the opposite sex and I don’t have time for dating. My construction company runs me ragged seven days aweek and only continues to expand, requiring more of my time and effort.
Another reason Shea makes it hard to concentrate…is that body.
She showed up here in a little pair of booty shorts and a tank top. Now, I know that was not her fault. They had to run out of the apartment in whatever they were wearing. But damn, her figure does not match her innocent vibe whatsoever.
