“Sings.”

  Tiffany nods. “On the one hand, she’s better than half the contestants on American Idol. On the other, she only knows one song. Ahwoooo!”

  “That’s quite the audition. For Daisy and you,” I joke.

  She shoots me a wry look. “Think you can do better? Let’s hear it.”

  “Uh, what?” I don’t sing. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, as they say. But the challenge in Tiffany’s eyes and the sure set of her lips that I won’t do it makes me want to. Even if I know how bad it’s going to be. “I can’t. I’m an awful singer,” I confess, shaking my head.

  “Sure, you can. And did you hear what I sounded like? Pretty sure there are dogs barking for blocks around.”

  She looks at me expectantly. Not for me to be good. Hell, she anticipates that I’ll be bad, but she still wants me to do it. That’s it. Just do it.

  I go for it, embracing my off-pitch nature. “Ahwooooo!”

  “You’re going to Hollywood.” She cheers, flapping a paper towel around. “Come get your golden ticket.”

  Frankie leans out his window. “You calling me, Daniel?” I blush, something I haven’t done in actual decades. Frankie grins and says, “Your burgers are ready, man.”

  I take the escape and go grab our food, setting the tray of burger baskets and drinks on our table when I come back.

  We dig in, and Tiffany moans in delight with her first bite. It’s a sound of pure pleasure, and I’m ashamed to say that my cock responds to it. I shouldn’t have that type of reaction to her. She’s Elle’s best friend. But she’s also a woman, something I was unexpectedly reminded of last night.

  I force my mind away from that, focusing on the easy conversation as Tiffany shares more funny observations about the dogs that she dealt with today.

  “Oh, her owner says it’s a thyroid thing, but unless a dog’s thyroid makes cheese, I know what the problem is,” she says as she talks about an overweight Dalmatian she cared for today. “That dog needs long walks and less cheddar.”

  “I thought we all wanted more cheddar?” I ask, rubbing my thumb and fingers together. Tiffany laughs at my ironic twist, and it feels good. I haven’t made a woman laugh easily in a long time, not naturally, at least.

  At the office, people will laugh if I make a joke during a speech or if I laugh first, because then they know it’s ‘okay’ to laugh along with the boss. But most of the time, people’s jokes are safely bland and corporate or just nonexistent.

  Tiffany’s laugh, though, is genuine and real. And when she makes me laugh, I feel energized, alive in a way I haven’t been in a long time.

  It’s about halfway through our burgers that I have to admit, at least to myself, that I’m learning her various smiles, admiring the sparkling light in her eyes, and enjoying the way she sets up her little jokes with just the right amount of anticipation before ending with a sharp zinger or a subtle twist. If it were anyone else, I’d say this is the best date I’ve ever been on.

  But it’s not a date. It’s Tiffany, Elle’s best friend, an employee at Fox, and a woman twenty years my junior.

  She’s probably taking pity on the old man who was sitting all alone at the office and will later tell Elle that at least she got me out for a bit and made sure I ate. Like I’m some old invalid, not a vibrant man who ran five miles today, not only keeping up with Ricky but pushing the pace.

  “Okay, so I’ve talked about dogs for like, a half-hour solid,” Tiffany says as she dips a sweet potato fry into her herbed garlic mayonnaise. “So . . . your turn. Why were you at work tonight?”

  “When am I not at work?” I ask, trying to sound as playful as Tiffany and failing spectacularly, judging by the concern in her eyes. “Truth is, I’ve got very little to fill my hours besides work, which has always been my constant. I’m not going to pretend to have a fake hobby so people will think I’m interesting. Nobody really wants to talk about golf swings or birdwatching, anyway. They only do it to be polite.”

  “I’m sure there are other, more exciting things than golf and birdwatching that you could do.” Tiffany narrows her eyes, looking at me as she grins. “I’m picturing you in those plaid shorts, knee socks, and a pompom hat on the green, or a khaki vest with all the pockets and binoculars, and I can’t see either of them. You’re right, I don’t think those are it for you.”

  “Well, I don’t know what is.”

  “I’m sure you’ve got a social life!” Tiffany exclaims, and I shake my head. “Really?”

  “Really,” I confirm. “Other than sharing a pastrami on rye with Mac a few weeks ago, this dinner is the only time I’ve been out in months, which I’m aware is ridiculously pitiful.”

  It does sound pitiful, the more I think about it. But Tiffany doesn’t tease me or make fun. Instead, she bows her head solemnly. “I’m honored.”

  I chuckle, sure that she must be joking. “I should be the one thanking you. You’re a much better storyteller than Mac. Most of his stories end like an episode of Law & Order. Besides, I’m sure you have better options than some boring old man to have dinner with.”

  “I don’t think you’re boring. Or old . . .” she says seriously, and her eyes meet mine. I blink, stupefied by what looks like genuine interest in her eyes. I mean, it’s been a while since someone has flirted with me, but I truly think that’s what she’s doing. Her head is tilted slightly, her lips parted, her eyes locked on mine, and she’s leaning forward, cutting the distance between us.

  But . . . how? Why? Tiffany is young, vivacious, and gorgeous.

  Me? I’m no ugly duckling, but I check my balls each morning for lumps and have an annual colonoscopy. Not exactly the sex god most young woman want.

  But the way she’s looking at me, I think about my balls for all sorts of different reasons. Mostly about draining them as I come inside her, filling her with such a huge load that it spills out, leaking over the pretty pussy I got the tiniest look at yesterday before I politely slammed my eyes shut.

  Fuck, Daniel. Quit being a dirty, old, lecherous man.

  I clear my throat after a minute, praying silently that she didn’t read my mind. The last thing I need is this beautiful woman to take pity on me because I started looking at her with my dick and not my brain. She’s my daughter’s best friend, and we’re having a nice dinner. I don’t want to ruin that.

  “Well, thank you for saying that. I probably needed to clear my head on that deal. The numbers were running in circles in front of my eyes.” I’m backpedaling into safer territory, boring and dry and most of all, appropriate.

  Tiffany smiles, shaking her head. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Besides, at least you work on Saturday night. My big plan was ordering in and watching a documentary about Bob Ross. I know, you’re impressed.”

  “Happy little trees,” I singsong unexpectedly, and Tiffany laughs at my awful impersonation. “I do remember that . . . and regretfully, at one point, I spent a whole day wondering if I could have an awesome white dude ’fro like that.”

  “Did you?” Tiffany looks amazed, her hand reaching out to lightly touch my hair, brushing over it. It’s casual but feels intimate.

  I grin. “I said I thought about it, not that I tried it. No, I’ve had a few bad hairstyles over the years, including one trip to a Bon Jovi concert long ago that . . . let’s just say I made sure to hunt down all copies of the pictures from that concert and burn them. But never did I pull off a Bob Ross.”

  “We totally have to get you a wig so you can try it,” she says.

  My heart rate quickens at the idea of seeing her again. Not for a date, I remind myself, but for a friendly dinner. It sounds like she could use one as much as me.

  We finish up our burgers, and I walk Tiffany to her car, running my hand over the fender affectionately when we get closer. “I’m glad Elle gave you this,” I tell her. “She always scared the crap out of me when she drove it, but it would have hurt if it had been sold off to some random schmuck.”

  “It does feel like she’s here when I’m driving it,” Tiffany says, giving me a look when I open her door for her. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  My hand falters at the polite endearment, wishing it were something darker, and I drop it to my side, unsure. She’s biting her lip in a way that has me wanting to lean in to steal a taste of those soft-looking lips . . . but that’s too much. That’d be a date, and I can’t. This isn’t a date.

  “Be safe,” I tell her, sending ice water through my own veins with the words. I’m trying to sound fatherly again, but there’s a small piece of me that hates that label.

  I had fun tonight for the first time in a long time, and for a man like me, that’s a rarity I appreciate. Time with someone who’s not trying to get something from me, not after a loan or a deal, but rather is simply having a meal with me because of me, not what my title is at Fox Industries.

  “Yeah. You, too.” Tiffany is stalling, standing in her open door, looking up at me from a couple of inches too close for propriety. Did she move there? Or did I?

  “And thank you for dinner,” I blurt, willing to say whatever banalities come to mind if they’ll keep her right here, close to me for another moment. “I enjoyed it.”

  It’s not even a quarter of what I want to say, but I have to say something. It feels important that I let her know that for some reason, for her to understand how valuable a simple black bean burger with no expectations is to me.

  I need her to understand that I appreciate her.

  “Me too. More than you know,” she replies, pushing her hair behind her ear. It’s a flirtatious move, but surely, she doesn’t intend it to be. It must be my too long denied brain that’s reading undertones into what have to be innocent behaviors.

  She lingers, and I search for something to say to keep her here even longer.

  But that’s a bad idea.

  Because I want to feel those coal-black tresses between my fingers again, not gently soothing her to sleep but wrapping them in my fist to guide her head back and allow me to inhale her scent and bury my nose in the curve of her neck. I want to taste her skin, to treat her not as all the positions in our lives say I should . . . but simply as a woman.

  Yeah . . . that’s a major fuckup waiting to happen on so many levels, Stryker.

  I take a step back, putting a solid foot of space between us, and turn on my professional façade.

  “I’ll see you at work.”

  It’s a reminder to us both about our roles. But things have changed. I might not have noticed Tiffany at the front desk for the past few months, but I will most definitely notice her now. I might even stop by to say hello. Nothing wrong with that at least, right?

  She grins a Cheshire Cat smile, the left side of her red lips a bit higher than the right, as if she knows something I don’t. And then she pats my chest . . . twice. “Yep, I’ll see you at the office, Daniel.”

  Why does her saying my name send a jolt through me? And her hand on my chest feels like one of those paddles they use in hospital dramas, the kind that shock your heart back into action. Because I’m definitely well-aware of my racing pulse at the moment.

  And why does it remind me of her calling me Daddy and asking me to ‘fuck her in’?

  I clench my teeth, my brain locking away the memories my libido wants to stir up. It takes a fair amount of discipline to wrangle back control of myself, and by then, she’s already gotten in her car and pulled away.

  It’s for the better. But even though I know I should just purge those memories of a gloriously nude Tiffany from my mind as I purged those memories of me in a ‘righteous’ mullet singing along to ‘Bed of Roses’ in the tenth row at the Meadowlands, it’s a hard memory to eliminate.

  I watch the tail lights of the blue sports car for too long, fantasies of a long-lost youth and makeout sessions in the back seat of a Camaro similar to that one stirring in my mind.

  With a sigh, I turn to go to my car, but Frankie calls out to me.

  “Mr. Daniel!”

  I look back, and he’s leaning out the walk-up window with a smile on his face. Frankie’s always got a smile, sometimes real and sometimes one of those fake customer service ones. But this one is the real deal, his cheeks puffed up and full like a happy Buddha.

  “Hey, Frankie.”

  “I like her. She’s not impressed by you.”

  “Is that supposed to be a good thing?” I ask, not correcting his obvious assumption that this was a date.

  “For most men, no. For you, absolutely. You need a woman who’ll tell you when you have lettuce in your teeth.”

  My hand jumps to my mouth, covering my melting smile.

  Frankie laughs, seeing he’s zinged me. “I can’t see from here, man. But you get my point. Woman like that” —he points to the road where Tiffany disappeared— “she’d tell you flat out. No tiptoeing around.”

  “You sound like you know her.” I consider that Elle might’ve brought Tiffany here before. Just because I have only ever come here with Elle doesn’t mean the same is true for my daughter.

  “Nah, just years of watching people interact,” Frankie says. “You get a knack for it after serving for awhile, ya know? Instincts.” He taps his head, nodding wisely. “I can tell the dates that are going well, the ones who are looking for an exit, and the ones who need help.”

  “And this?” I’m curious, even though the date assumption is off-base.

  Frankie snorts. “You don’t need me to tell you that date went awesome, Mr. Daniel. You know,” he says slyly.

  He’s right. I read people too, but I think my reading might be a bit off when it comes to Tiffany Young. Which could be very, very dangerous for both of us.

  Chapter 6

  Tiffany

  Elle once told me that when opportunity knocks, you yank the door open, pull opportunity inside, and tackle it to the floor to make it your bitch. I’m not so sure how well she lived that mantra, considering how often I had to give her a little ‘push’ to get a few doors opened in her life (her husband, cough, cough), but I’m going to follow her advice.

  That’s my plan, at least.

  And opportunity is spelled D-A-N-I-E-L.

  I could see it in his eyes last night and feel it in the air between us. He wanted to make a move on me. Me, Tiffany Young! I smile to myself, barely believing it. Unfortunately, he didn’t sweep me up into his arms and take me against the nearest surface. No, he’s hesitant and doesn’t want to admit it. Which is fine by me. He’s a thinker, an analyzer, a control freak, and I like that about him. Those also happen to be some of my best traits, and I’m not going to let him decide until he’s seen what I’m bringing to the negotiation table.

  This isn’t exactly the sort of thing we can walk into casually. It’s got to be with open eyes and understanding because of, one, Elle, and two, work. But, though I love my job, I would go work somewhere else in a heartbeat if it meant being with Daniel, and Elle kinda gave me her blessing on chasing Daniel years ago. She didn’t think it’d ever actually happen, and it might’ve been more of a sure with a shake of her head, but she didn’t exactly say no.

  So, I’m putting my much-considered plan into action. I’ve taken my time today, thinking this through from every angle before getting dressed thoughtfully. I’m aiming for sexy, but with class, and casual with quality.

  That’s a lot of mental gymnastics to put on workout gear, but there’s a method to my madness. And oh, yeah, this is totally crazy. I’m doing it anyway.

  I pull on my best pair of black workout pants, the ones with a designer label, ruching that makes my ass look spectacular, and mesh inserts that flash a sliver of skin along my outer thigh. Next, I grab a pink tank top. It’s tight enough to keep the girls locked, loaded, and lifted without putting my cleavage on full display, plus the back dips down a tiny bit, showing off my upper back. Lastly, I add a pair of tennis shoes that show minimal signs of wear. I want it to look like this is just a little something I threw on carelessly for errands today.

  After that, I braid my hair before putting on some barely-there, natural makeup. I study my reflection in the mirror. Yep, perfect. I look pretty but also ready to work.

  Despite the care I put into my outfit, the real prep is my kit.

  I pull together cleaners, scrub brushes, and microfiber towels. Daniel got his car guy to take care of my mess before I could handle it, but I have other ideas on how I can thank him for rescuing me.

  Flashes of memories have come back, and other than his car, I know I trashed at least one of his bathrooms. Could I figure out his house cleaning service and give them a call? Sure. Am I going to do that? Nope. Because that doesn’t get me time with Daniel again. And that’s the bottom line of my grand plan. Time together so he sees me as more than Elle’s bestie and surrenders to the magnetic pull between us.

  Yeah, this calls for the personal touch, the Tiffany treatment.

  He mentioned working from home today over dinner last night, joking that he does that most weekends, and I’m taking full advantage of the insider knowledge to go on the offense.

  Of course, my plan is risky. There’s the potential that I totally misread everything last night, projecting my own desires onto him, and I’m going over there to loudly and outwardly declare myself a stage-five stalker-clinger.

  Hide the pointy objects, Tiffany’s here!

  Either or, you know? Go big or go home.

  But as I take the elevator up to his condo, I know that this is my move to make. Daniel would never. Not because he’s not confident but because he’s well aware of the dangers this could present, and he tends to play things conservatively and strategically. So it’s up to me. I won’t be able to get what I want without taking this risk.

  And what do I want? Him, Daniel Stryker, to be mine.

  Decision made, I ring his doorbell, putting my plan into action.