“What else have you been saying in front of my daughter that you didn’t think she’d understand?” I demand.
“Nothing!” Holly protests, her eyes wide.
“I’ve heard enough,” I say through gritted teeth. “Jane, go upstairs.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” she protests even as she slides out of her seat.
“I know, and I’m sorry you’re the one who’s ultimately being punished.” Then I turn on my heels and follow her behind the bar, down the hall that leads to my office and the door to our apartment upstairs.
When we reach the door to my office, she turns to look up at me with tears glimmering in her eyes. “You’re not being fair, Dad!”
“I’m sorry you see it that way, but I was under the impression you were supposed to be building a computer, not listening to tales about Mikey’s dating app experiences.” The more I think about it, the madder I get, although I’m not entirely sure why, and this isn’t the time to figure it out.
“But Dad!” Jane protests. “He—”
“You and I need to have a talk,” Holly says behind me, and her tone suggests she’s just as pissed as I am.
“Jane, go upstairs,” I say, turning to face Holly.
“But Dad!”
“Go upstairs, Jane,” Holly says, her jaw locked.
“Don’t tell my kid what to do!” I snap. “Just because you taught my daughter some coding skills doesn’t mean you get to parent her.”
Holly raises her hands. “Who the hell said anything about parenting your kid? I don’t know the first thing about parenting!”
“No shit,” I growl, relieved to hear the door behind me shut with more force than necessary. I don’t allow Jane to slam doors, but at least I know she’s not listening to us bicker again. “That’s obvious from the fact you invited my daughter to a happy hour gab session when you were supposed to be upstairs helping her build a computer!”
“We were going to get to that!”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, jutting my head back. “When? Did you ever consider that my daughter has a bedtime routine? Homework? A shower?”
“For God’s sake!” she shouts. “It’s not even six o’clock!”
“Her bedtime is 8:45, Holly. She’s a fucking eight-year-old, not a teenager.”
Some of her outrage fades, but then it returns with a vengeance. “Then why didn’t you just tell me like a fully functioning adult instead of pouting and punishing that innocent girl?”
“You’re the one who forced that damned computer on me!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “I never asked for it!”
“You never ask for anything!” she shouts back, equally loud. “Of course I had to force it on you!”
Then, to my utter surprise, she lunges for me, and before I have time to defend myself against her assault, she shoves me against the wall and kisses me hard on the mouth.
I’m stunned for less than a second before my anger surges into lust. My tongue parts her lips and explores her mouth with a desperation that catches me by surprise. It’s not our first kiss, and while the kiss last year was unbelievably hot, this one is ten times more so. An all-consuming rush of need floods my body.
She kisses me back, just as eagerly, her hands roaming my chest.
Just as I’m about to skim my hand up to the side of her breast, she pulls away, backing up to the opposite wall. It’s not far—we’re in a damned hallway—but it’s far enough that I feel like I’ve been doused with cold water.
She stares at me in confusion, then turns around and bolts to the bar.
What theactualfuck?
She’s kissed me twice now, and both times she left like she’d lowered herself to pond scum level and only realized her mistake after the fact. Hell, last time she’d actually said the words, “This is a mistake.”
After a few days of pouting, I realized she was right.
