“We’ve covered a lot of territory being quieter than little mice,” he says. “All over the Malibu house when Chloe was sick.”
“Here that one night she woke up every five seconds.”
He laughs. “We still somehow had sex. I deserve a medal.”
“For what? Endurance? Stealth?”
“All of the above.”
I laugh into his shoulder, and he picks me up and carries me toward the bedroom.
“And then there’s this house,” he says. “Every room except Chloe’s.”
“And the storage closet. That closet hates me.”
“It hates everyone.”
We’re trying so hard not to laugh that it makes everything worse. Our bodies shake with repressed laughter. He lays me on the bed and leans over me, running his fingers down my chest.
“And the Airbnb,” he says softly. “The couch. The shower. The washer…”
I start laughing harder, and he kisses me to shut me up. It works because I instantly melt. Our bodies move together, every touch feeling sharper, every little gasp loud in the quiet. It doesn’t matter whether we cry out with abandon orsuppress every sound so no one hears—every time Dylan and I make love, I feel alive.
We fall asleep afterward, still exhausted from the night before, and when I wake up before him the next morning, I surprise him the way he’s surprised me so many times…with my head between his legs.
Dad’s door is wide open, and he’s sitting behind his desk with a pinched, irritated expression.
“Morning,” I offer lightly as I pass by.
He doesn’t look at me. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just flips a page in a file with unnecessary force.
Okay. Good morning to you too.
I settle at my desk, take a breath, and start pulling up the spreadsheets he asked me for. His mood affects everyone. The office feels thick. Everyone’s speaking in low tones.
By ten o’clock, I can feel my shoulders creeping up toward my ears. Every time I need something from my dad, he answers in clipped tones like I’m exhausting him.
“If you’re confused, then maybe you didn’t look closely enough,” he snaps when I ask for clarification about a form.
One tiny barb at a time.
Around lunchtime, I hear him snap at Nicole for “hovering.” She wasn’t hovering. She was handing him his mail. He slams his office door after she leaves, and the whole room flinches.
She’s lasted longer than most of his assistants, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s on her way out.
Around three, my dad stands in my doorway, muttering under his breath about incompetence and deadlines. The tension in my neck spikes so sharply I almost wince.
“You’re remote the next few days,” he says abruptly, not slowing down.
“Uh—yes,” I answer, blinking. “It’s on the schedule.”
He’s not let up about wanting me in the office more.
He doesn’t respond. Just stalks toward the conference room like he’s on a mission.
The minute the clock hits five, I shut down my computer so fast. I grab my bag and make a quick exit. The air immediately feels lighter when I step outside. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
After picking Chloe up from my mom’s, we drive toward Windy Harbor. We’re staying at the Airbnb for a few days since I don’t have to go into the office. It’ll make things easier on Dylan, who won’t have to drive at the crack of dawn to make his excursion times.
