Page 308 of Mad Girl

But distraction was never the main goal behind my wandering hands, Casey. I mainly just wanted to get into your pants.

“It’s just a bit weird, you know?” you said, wrinkling your nose. “Going at it while your dad sleeps two floors below us?”

“And yet on Halloween night, you had no problem going at it on the kitchen counter—on the very surface where he eats.”

“Valid point,” you said with a smirk. “But that was before.”

“Before what?”

“He looked me in the eye yesterday morning—from the kitchen island, strangely enough, as he ate his breakfast—and said, ‘Are you sleeping with my daughter?’”

I winced. “He asked you that?”

You nodded. “And I said, ‘Yes. But, for the time being, we’re only sleeping. Do you want me to stop?’ And he said, ‘If I say yes, will you?’ To which I replied, ‘Probably. But then we’d both have to deal with Elliot’s wrath. Is that something you want right now?’ And he sighed and said, ‘Be careful with my daughter, Casey.’” You paused for a moment, gaze narrowed. “Do you suppose he meant that as a threat?”

More like a word of caution, I thought. “Sounds like something any dad would say to the guy who’s crawling into bed with his daughter every night,” I said, reaching out to twist your bracelets.

“Listen,” you said, ducking to meet my gaze, “I’m suggesting we take a TV break because you’ve been quiet lately, and I actually do want to talk. Tell me what’s going on between you and your dad.”

“Actually, can we circle back to the getting off thing?”

“Elliot,” you said—in a deep, no-nonsense way that made my throat squeeze. “Tell me.”

So I sighed, deciding to give you the safest part of the truth. “He wants me to get back with Willoughby.”

You straightened. “You’re joking, right?”

“He thinks you won’t take it well, but I can handle you.”

You should’ve seen yourself, Casey: the firm jaw, the arctic gaze, your tattooed hand curling into a fist. “Yeah? Good luck handling me. Good luck ever getting that tosser through the door again. I dare you.”

“Wow,” I said, mouth going dry. “And I’m the one who’s supposed to have raging jealousy issues.”

“Why would Nic want you to get back with him?” you asked tightly.

“He doesn’t think it’s the right time for us.”

“Why?”

“Because you haven’t told the Harrises who you are yet.”

At this, your shoulders slumped and you sank back into the sofa. A fire roared in the fireplace behind me, causing tiny flames to dance in your eyes as you worried at your bottom lip. Then you said, “I’m not sure I can tell them.”

My stomach dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can’t do that to Michael right now.”

“Do what?”

“He didn’t want Libby to be mayor. He didn’t want that kind of spotlight on their family. He told me so over the summer—said he’d dread the next four years of his life if she won. And she did. And here I am, someone who can put his family in the spotlight for an entirely different reason. One that will make his life substantially more difficult.”

“That’s bullshit. Michael’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”

“Sure. Maybe eventually. Maybe if that’s all there was to it—but then there’s you.”

“What about me?” Like I didn’t know. Like it didn’t always lead here. Right here. Every time. To me. The problem in any given situation.

“He had a go at me the other day because he thinks I’m trying to take you away from him, and he’s right. I am.”