“Not until you tell me what's going on.” She swims around me, circling me like a siren. “One minute we're having a normal conversation, the next you're acting like…”
“Like what?”
“Like you're jealous.”
The word hangs between us like a lit match near gasoline.
“Jealous,” I repeat flatly.
I should laugh it off. Make some joke about being in protective dad mode. Change the subject. Get out of this pool, safely away from temptation.
Instead, I just stare at her, my jaw clenched so hard it aches.
“That's ridiculous,” I lie. “It’s just… you have a lot going on. And dating adds too many complications.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You're being weird, Walker.”
“Yeah, well.” I swim away, needing to not look at her bright eyes and soft pink lips. “It's been a weird night.”
“I'm sorry,” she says. “I shouldn't have told you about... that. It made things awkward.”
Everything in me wants to turn around. To close the distance. To show her exactly how not awkward I think her virginity is.
How fucking delicate and terrifying and completely off-limits it makes her.
“It's fine. We’re good.”
“This doesn't feel good.”
I let out a breath. “What do you want me to say, Sadie?”
“I don't know. The truth, maybe? Why are you acting mad, then?”
The truth. The truth is I want her so badly I can barely think straight. The truth is she's twenty four and works for me and takes care of my son and I'm the worst kind of bastard for even entertaining these thoughts.
The truth is that now I'm going to fantasize about being the first man to ever have her for the rest of my life.
“The truth is you should date,” I force out. “Find some nice guy your own age. Take it slow. Get to know each other. See if… see if he’s the right one. If he deserves you.”
“Right.” She nods slowly. “That makes sense.”
It makes perfect sense.
So why does hearing her agree feel like a sucker punch to the gut?
I swim towards the whiskey bottle waiting for me on the ledge and pour another drink. A stiff one.
“I mean, there are options,” she continues, almost thoughtfully, swimming around me again. “The new foreman working at the Morrison place, for instance. He seems sweet. And interested. Asked if I wanted to grab coffee sometime when I ran into him at the grocery store.”
My hand clenches around the glass as I take a drink. “Morrison's foreman. Is he the one with that ugly mullet?”
“He doesn't have a mullet, Walker.”
“Spiritually speaking, he does.”
She laughs. “You’re impossible.”
I try to be generous in my assessment of this guy I already hate. “I don't know much about him.”
