“Yeah, about that . . .” I start, taking a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  Elle’s voice immediately softens, her anger mostly a cover for worry. “What?”

  “About Daniel,” I start, getting up to grab a dish towel to keep myself distracted. “And me.”

  “You and my dad?” Elle asks as I start blotting at the tea on the rug. Luckily, it was herbal and doesn’t seem to want to leave behind a stain.

  “Yeah, uhm, you know.”

  Of course, Elle knows. “You’ve been talking about him for years. When you didn’t do anything after I moved to England, I figured that you were just trying to irk me. Was I wrong?” She already sounds more inquisitive and, dare I dream, supportive?

  “No, it’s real. Very real.” I gulp and finish blotting up my spilled tea. The irony isn’t lost on me. “At least, I want it to be.”

  Elle hums thoughtfully. “I guess I always pictured him with someone elegant and refined.”

  “I’m gonna pretend I’m not offended by that because I know you mean older,” I comment dryly. “If it’d help, I can dye my hair gray? That’s a thing now.”

  “Oh, God, please don’t,” Elle says, sighing, but she admits, “Yeah, I mean older.” There’s a long pause, my gut clenching as I await her verdict. “So, you really like him?”

  I can picture the wrinkle in her forehead as she imagines it. I think to her, Daniel is an old man, the father who grounded her and made her do the dishes, but to me, he’s something else entirely.

  “Have you seen him? He’s walking sex with a brain to back it up.”

  “Blech. Don’t talk about my dad and sex in the same sentence.”

  “Seriously?” I gasp, rolling my eyes. “You talked about Colton in outrageous detail when you were dating. Hell, even now, I get to hear all the sordid ways you have to hide in the pantry for a quickie so Neve doesn’t find you. I don’t need to know how he puts his clotted cream in your crumpets.”

  “Point taken. And puh-leeze do not ever utter the words ‘clotted cream’ again. I’m going to start gagging at tea tomorrow and have to explain why. Besides, this is different.”

  I don’t quite see how, so I shift tactics. “So you don’t want to hear about Daniel’s dick poking me in the cheek?”

  She makes a gurgling sound of shock before loudly shouting, “No!”

  Distantly, I hear Colton calling out, “You okay?” and Elle shushes him before turning her attention back to me. I should get him on speaker. He’ll take my side, I think.

  “How did that happen?” Elle demands. But an instant later, she shouts, “Wait! Which cheek—ass or face? Do I want to know?”

  I let her off the hook, at least a little, after I’ve made my point. “It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds,” I admit. “I drunkenly fell asleep on the couch, and he stayed up to keep an eye on me. I woke up with my head in his lap. But it’s good to know that everything’s still in working order. And bigger than I’d ever dreamed.”

  Okay, so that last little bit was extra filthy for Elle’s benefit.

  “No, no, no. La-la-la-la,” she sings in horror. “I’m hanging up now and losing your number.”

  I laugh, as if I don’t have her husband’s cell phone and office number and the old-school landline number to their house already. “Fine, I’ll stop. For now. He’s . . .” I search for some way to describe what Daniel represents to me. What he’s always represented. He’s the bar I compare every other man to, and they always come up lacking compared to him. “Everything. Daniel is what every man should be, but only he is.”

  That gets through to Elle, and she takes a big breath. “Wow. That’s . . . wow. I understand how hard it is to find that special someone, and I wouldn’t dream of standing in the way, for you or him. If you think you stand a chance, go for it. But Tiff . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t hurt him.”

  That’s reasonable, and I smile in relief. This could have gone about a thousand percent worse. “I won’t.”

  “No, I can hear you smiling, but I mean it. He’s not going to know what to do with someone like you—bold, strong, and willing to chase what you want. He’s gonna freak. About dating, about our being friends, and probably about your age,” Elle says, zeroing in on the major issues a lot faster than I did. “But I know you, and you won’t let any of that stop you. So, not that you need it, but you have my permission as long as you really mean it. Just don’t hurt him.”

  “I won’t,” I repeat again, letting Elle know I understand her concerns and take them seriously. “I promise.”

  “One other thing, honey. Also don’t let him hurt you,” Elle says quietly. “He’s my dad, but he’s got some damage from what my mom did to him. He’s built up the walls around his heart thick and high and doesn’t let anyone inside. It’s gonna take a bulldozer to get through to him, but . . . and I mean this in the nicest way possible, you’re kinda the best bulldozer I know.”

  Usually, when you compare a woman to a bulldozer, it’s a bad thing, but I understand what she means. “Uhm, thanks, I think?”

  “A cute bulldozer,” she assures me. “Just don’t let him make you pay for his past experiences because you don’t deserve that either.”

  I’m touched. This has got to be a strange conversation from Elle’s point of view, and her allegiances must be torn between her dad and her best friend. But even in the awkwardness, she’s watching out for us both. In return, I give her the best kindness I can think of . . . a way out of the touchy-feely and potential dick discussion.

  “So, should we discuss what you’re going to call me when I’m your stepmother? I’m partial to Mummy Tiffy myself. A little nod to your English side with a touch of the familiarity a nickname offers. What do you think? Oh, and I must insist that Neve not be allowed to call me Granny, or Grandma, or Gammy or any of that.”

  Elle growls. “Ugh! If I could, I’d reach through this phone and throttle you. That’s what I think.”

  There’s a heartbeat of silence, and then we both break out into laughter. “Mummy Tiffy it is, then!”

  “I hate you, you know that, right?”

  “Love you too, babe,” I answer, knowing the truth behind her words. “Deep in the gut loves.”

  “I do love you.” She sighs. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but go get him, tiger!”

  That’s what I needed to hear. “Thanks.”

  We chat a little longer, just catching up on general life shit, but the big issue’s handled. After I hang up with Elle, I feel better about the whole situation.

  The truth is, I’ve had a crush on Daniel for years. But Elle’s right, it was always a fantasy, sort of like how you might have a crush on a Hemsworth brother.

  But like those fantasies, I never would’ve acted on my thoughts for Daniel if the opportunity hadn’t presented itself this weekend.

  And now, with Elle on board, I’m ready to really go all-out in pursuing him. He thought my showing up on his doorstep to clean and inviting myself along on a run was forward?

  Shit, I’m going to blow his mind, and hopefully something more, when he sees what I’m going to do next.

  There’s only one thing to figure out.

  What should I do next?

  Chapter 9

  Daniel

  I must be going crazy.

  That’s the only explanation for my hearing voices.

  And not just any voices.

  No, I keep hearing Tiffany’s voice outside my door talking to my assistant, Vanessa. And it’s not just coming by to gossip, either. Apparently, Tiffany has managed to sweet-talk her into mentoring a few of the newer staff on a spreadsheet thing Vanessa created.

  I didn’t even know she’d done that, but apparently, it’s a big enough deal that other people want to learn it, and organizing the sessions has required an entire morning’s worth of conversations. There’ve been little breaks, of course, someone grabbing coffee, the others going to the ladies’ room . . . but if anything, that’s made the conversations even more intrusive in my head because when they stop, I find myself listening intently with bated breath for them to start again so I can hear Tiffany once more.

  Why this couldn’t have been done over email, I don’t know, but I’m fucking grumpy as hell about it.

  Not because it’s distracting Vanessa. She never, ever drops a single ball I toss to her. In fact, it’s usually the opposite. Like every executive who isn’t full of shit is willing to admit, I couldn’t do anything without her. She’s efficient as hell at getting everything done not only on time, but early.

  No, it’s nothing to do with that. What’s driving me batshit is that every time I hear Tiffany so much as speak, my cock gets fucking rock hard.

  And that pisses me off because it’s wrong. Thinking of Tiffany in a tight skirt, maybe a sexy hint of panty line showing me exactly where her ass curve begins, or the outline of her breasts against her blouse . . . those breasts with their delicious looking pink nipples, and . . .

  Goddammit, this is not just wrong, it’s very, very wrong.

  She’s my daughter’s best friend.

  She’s a coworker, and nothing more, I remind myself for the dozenth time.

  But no matter how many times I tell myself that, somewhere deep down, in a part of me I don’t want to admit exists, I don’t care. What I do care about is wondering what color her panties are and if she’s wearing pantyhose, stockings, or is deliciously bare-legged today . . . and if maybe that bare skin goes all the way to her waist.

  I care about how she smells, and I don’t mean her perfume.

  So instead of working like I usually do, with my nose to the grindstone, I’m taking illicit pleasure from eavesdropping on Tiffany through the door and smiling stupidly when she laughs at something Vanessa said.

  When another voice, this one deeper, joins them, a shock of suspicion shoots through me. I strain to hear the lower timbre of the newcomer but can’t make out the words.

  But Tiffany’s voice is perfectly understandable. “You’re worse than a horndog on Viagra!”

  I’m halfway to the door, and able to hear more clearly, when Billy answers, “You know you like it. Feel how hard it is.”

  It’s Billy, my own flesh and blood, and I should be able to get back on the rails, but I rip the door open, fury rushing through my bloodstream like lava. So I look even more like a fucking crazy idiot when I find Billy grinning widely as he flexes his bicep and Tiffany delicately squeezing the muscle.

  “What is going on here?” I demand sharply. Four sets of wide eyes swivel to me as one.

  “Mr. Stryker,” Vanessa starts, but her words falter and she falls silent.

  Ricky coughs indelicately, not quite covering it up as he grunts, “Told you so.”

  I don’t know who or what he told. All I can see is Tiffany’s fingers touching Billy’s tattooed skin. And I don’t like it one fucking bit.

  I seem to have reverted to my Neanderthal stage, and dimly, I see the look on Tiffany’s face. She somehow anticipated this.

  “Hey, I was just telling Tiff about my new routine at the gym. Really seeing the gains,” Billy explains, flexing again as he stares admiringly at his own arm, but I don’t acknowledge that he’s even spoken. “We really should chat about your routine and—”

  “Miss Young, can I see you in my office, please?” It’s a question, polite and professional, but gritted through clenched teeth that belie any semblance of proper civility.

  No, my words might be measured, but I am balancing on a sharp edge of restraint, leaning into an unfettered release of whatever this fire inside me consists of. I want to explode, I want to rage. I want to . . . I don’t know.

  I expect her to cower the way most people in this building do when I look at them crossly. Hell, I’ve had people almost flee the room in terror when I’ve just had bad gas.

  But not her.

  Not Tiffany Young. She’s adamantium, she’s steel, she’s stronger than I gave her credit for.

  In fact, she doesn’t flinch in the slightest.

  If anything, her little sweet smile grows a fraction of an inch, almost amused by my interruption and outburst.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Her left brow raises slightly, letting me see that dark glint that has suddenly been driving me wild late at night when my conscious control is relaxed and she sneaks in to haunt my dreams.

  She struts toward me as if she hasn’t a care in the world, or more importantly, as if she isn’t walking into the lion’s den. And right as she gets in front of me, she pauses to straighten my already precisely tied tie. Damn it all, I can see the faintest outline of her lacy bra pressing against her blouse as she does it, and my brain starts running away into flights of fancy again.

  Then, with a pat of approval, she passes into my office, leaving behind a light floral scent to tickle my nostrils. I feel like a schoolboy with an overly horned up mind as I rush to inhale again for another hit, but she’s gone past too quickly. No matter, though. I’ll have another opportunity before I let her out of my office.

  I give Ricky and Billy a cold-eyed glare, but they both look back at me stone-faced. They won’t say a word around the office. My look softens slightly when I glance to Vanessa, and I know she’s the same way. As reassured as I can be, I close the door.

  Tiffany is standing in front of my desk, her hands clasped behind her back. I take the opportunity to look her up and down, and she’s even sexier than what my fantasy created.

  She’s wearing a navy blue skirt that hugs her hips and skims down her thighs to just above her knees. Below that, her calves are shapely and bare, answering one question, and stretch down to a sexy pair of leopard heels. Her top is white, a basic, almost falsely innocent color that says she’s a good girl . . . except I swear there was one more button done when she walked past me a moment ago. With the added openness, I’m drawn to the hint of fullness I can almost see. But I force my eyes up past the edge of collarbone to her intelligent eyes and then to the dark curls framing her face and cascading down her back.

  Curls that would look amazing spread out on my desk, that navy skirt hiked up around her waist.

  Yeah, right.

  Perhaps she’d be better off with Billy. He’s certainly closer to her age, and he’s a good man. I should know. I helped raise him. He’ll make her laugh, even if it’s usually low brow humor. He’ll be good to her.

  He can satisfy all her needs.

  But the thought only serves to piss me off again.

  Slowly, I stalk toward Tiffany. She doesn’t move, and I’m not sure who’s the predator and who’s the prey here, but her head is held high, her eyes focused on the window across the room.

  “Do you think that behavior is appropriate?” I demand in a low voice, close enough for my breath to tickle her ear. I could take a single step to the side and be pressed against her, but instead I’m right beside her. Even with this distance, I can feel her aura and what she’s doing to me.

  “What behavior? Billy asking me to touch him, or me doing it?” she says crisply, her voice just as low as she cuts her eyes to me. Damn it all, she’s amused by all of this. I can see the humor sparkling in her dark eyes.

  “Is this a joke to you?” I rasp.

  I know the heat of my breath fans across her cheek because she blinks in response before she levels me with her gaze. “I’m not laughing.”

  She holds my gaze boldly for another few seconds, neither of us willing to give in. But eventually, she blinks again. I watch as her eyes fall, and for a moment, I think I’ve won, broken her into submission.

  But like the strong-willed creature I’m learning she is, she hasn’t given in to anything. She’s choosing where to focus her attention, and in this moment, she’s selected my lips.

  Her tongue comes out to the corner of her mouth, and I want nothing more than to kiss her, to lose myself in something I haven’t felt in a long time, something I think I forgot even exists. I want to taste her lips, explore her mouth, wrap her in my arms, and feel her body against mine.

  But lust is short-lived and dangerous, especially for someone of my standing.

  Still, our breath mingles through the scant inches between us, the smallest surrender I can offer and still look at myself in the mirror later without utter disappointment.

  I sense more than see her lean forward the tiniest bit, and it breaks the spell I’m under. I step back, putting a foot of space between us, but it’s not enough, so I walk around the desk and sit in my chair.

  I lean back, forcing my hand to relax on the armrest as I let my eyes trace down Tiffany’s body and then slowly return to meet her defiant stare. She plants her hands on my desk, leaning over like she’s the one with power here. And maybe she has . . . a little bit.

  But I have more. I feel in control here, powerful and experienced, unlike a moment ago when I would’ve chucked it all to have a tiny taste of this woman I shouldn’t want and can’t have.

  She’s gorgeous, dangerously so.

  But more dangerous than her good looks might be her cunning mind.

  For a moment, I consider if perhaps she set me up for the flash of jealousy, but what motive would that serve? That’s something I need to think about.

  “You need to go back to the front desk, Miss Young,” I tell her with as much dismissiveness as I can muster, “and limit your coordination with Vanessa to email, please.”

  She looks disappointed, as though she was enjoying whatever this was. But as quickly as that expression flitters across her face, it’s replaced with another.

  This one I recognize from seeing it in the mirror . . . determination. She’s not giving up that easily, and instead I’ve just poked the proverbial bear.

  Instead of retreating, she leans forward more, planting her elbows on my desk with zero regard for the stack of papers I’ve been working on.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else?” she purrs, rolling her shoulders and making her breasts move in her blouse.