Page 47 of Hard to Hold

“Next time don’t avoid me.”

“Yes, sir,” I say through a laugh. “Bye, Daddy.”

“Hey Lennox?”

“What?”

“If you had told me you ended up in Los Angeles because you needed a break without any mention of recruiting a client, I would have been completely fine with it.”

A lump forms in my throat as I struggle to hold the tears back. Because this man, this incredible yet flawed man, just gave me the words I desperately needed. Our family is far from perfect. Often, we bicker more than we laugh. But right here, right now, my dad showed me why I am who I am.

His love for me and his confidence in me is unconditional.

But I want more. I want his confidence in me to be unshakable.

“Love you, Daddy.”

And when I hang up, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I can’t and won’t screw this up.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LENNOX

I’M OUT OF BREATH, AND decide when I finish my run and enter the house, that I need to do better, be better. I crossed that line—scratched that itch last night.

And what a glorious scratch it was.

But the problem with scratching itches is when you do it too much or for too long, it begins to swell and hurt more than feel like relief. It becomes a sore you try to ignore.

It becomes a permanent scar you can’t get rid of, and I already have enough scars to begin with.

That’s how I look at men, relationships, and sex. It’s okay to start with, but then I need to distance myself soon thereafter.

And after talking to my dad today, I know I need to do just that—take a huge step back. Not only for myself but for the promises I need to fulfill for my family and for myself.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I go in search of Rush. The problem is I find him right away.

He’s sitting at the nook table, gym shorts on, shirt nonexistent, hair all over the place, with a whole feast of takeout food spread over the kitchen counter. A ridiculous plate of pancakes and syrup is sitting in front of him with about a quarter of it gone, and the look of absolute bliss blankets every line etched in his expression.

Last night comes back to me in snapshots. The sex on the kitchen counter. His broken voice calling my name as he climaxed. The silence afterward, as we tried to figure what happens next. The eating of Johnny’s ice cream straight from the container as we sat and watched crappy reruns on the television. Falling asleep on the couch, because I was afraid of saying I was going up to bed and wondering if that meant I was going alone or with him.

Then, waking up alone.

But when I enter the kitchen and see him sitting there, I’m hit with a straight punch of lust. The kind that makes you stagger and stop, questioning the things you’re about to say.

But I know I need to say them.

“This is . . . this is absolute heaven, the dog’s bollocks,” he murmurs when he sees me, glancing up at me from over a forkful. “Pancakes are a culinary wonder.”

“Says the man who probably eats beans on his toast most days.” I grimace.

“That’s beans on toast to you, and nah, too many carbs,” he says around a mouthful, before offering me a wink as I point to his plate laden with carbs with a perplexed expression on my face. “Do you want some? I had a ton of breakfast delivered for us.”

“So I noticed.” I glance at the heaps of food and wonder if he’s expecting an army of people to show up, because there’s no way that the three of us can eat all that.

“On second thought, don’t eat. Save the pancakes for me.” He chuckles as he leans back in his chair, letting his eyes roam up and down the length of my body when I stop short before him, hands on my hips, and resolve deep in my bones.

“We need to talk.”