Page 13 of Daddies' Little Troublemaker

That was, in a word, the most amazing, most erotic experience of my life. I want to relive it while I take a nice, hot, leisurely shower, but instead I’m gathering things up and haphazardly tossing them into my stolen suitcase—the one thing I’d broken into Mom and Harold’s house to take. I refused to tow my belongings to my dad’s place in garbage bags.

I use an app to get a ride to Hillside. It’s going to cost a fortune from San Esteban, but I budgeted for this, and I’ll find a new job soon, and my own little place to rent. Maybe not in San Esteban, with its higher cost of living, but in Hillside, or farther out in the suburbs, maybe.

My dad’s house looks exactly the same. A big, two-story house, aesthetically pleasing architecture, spaced far enough from the neighbors for plenty of privacy. His job as a big-shot interpreter earned him this place. Of course, it also meant he was absent from a lot of my childhood milestones because he was always working, usually overseas.

As soon as my driver stops the car in the circular driveway, the front door of the house opens and Dad steps outside. Years have passed, but they’ve been kind to him. A few faint wrinkles crease near his blue eyes, and there’s extra gray in his brown hair. I was born when my parents were both twenty-one, making them among the younger parents when I was growing up.

“Evelyn,” he says, opening the car door.

I step out and let him envelop me in a hug. It’s a little awkward, because my head doesn’t fit against his chest the same way it used to—I got a little taller. But we recover quickly and get my suitcase and other bags from the trunk before waving off the driver.

Dad helps me with my luggage, giving the suitcase a second glance. “That’s all?”

“Yep.” I try to infuse cheer into my voice, but I’m honestly not feeling it.

I’m twenty-six and moving back in with my father. I always thought I had my life together.

“I got your room ready for you, fresh bedding and everything,” Dad says as we head inside. “There are a few things of Lincoln’s that I didn’t have a chance to move yet. Those can go to the spare room or my office.”

An old point of contention. I’d been furious, as a teenager, that Lincoln was taking my room when there was a perfectly good guest bedroom. But mine has an en suite bathroom and Dad thought that since I hadn’t even been staying overnight on my rare visits with him, Lincoln may as well have the nice bedroom.

I was a spoiled brat to insist otherwise—I see that now.

And here I’ve spent six years hating the guy for taking my place.

This sucks.

We go upstairs. Dad sets my suitcase in my room and says, “I’ll just let you settle in. Come out whenever you’re ready. I have fixings for paninis.”

“Yum, I’ll be out soon.”

Once his footsteps echo down the hall and fade from my hearing, I look around. This room looks like it never belonged to me. A guitar rests on a stand—I never played. There are a few books on the Amazon rainforest—two travel accounts, some field guides, and a photography book—the kind you’d put on a coffee table. Well, maybe I can learn something new while I get back on my feet.

I unload my clothing into a thankfully empty dresser. In the closet, a couple of suits hang, but otherwise the hangers are empty and waiting for my things.

I set up my phone charger and speaker on the nightstand next to the bed. When I look along the wall to find the outlet, I see a piece of paper on the floor. It looks like it slid underneath the nightstand and got hooked partly under the baseboard.

Curious, I pull it out. Hmm…a receipt to Love Adventures, the local adult toy store located on the shady side of Hillside. Definitely not mine—I never worked up the nerve to go in there when I was in high school. Although naturally, I was curious. Looks like Lincoln purchased…damn. Nipple clamps, a butt plug (v), whatever the v means. Vibrating? Wow, he’s adventurous. Also, gross. Not him—it isn’t gross to be adventurous. But I feel gross, because I shouldn’t be curious about what my uncle bought.

Step-uncle, I mentally correct myself. He’s my dad’s stepbrother, so he and I are not related. And I never met the guy so it’s not like I can picture him using any of this stuff.

Still, ew. Uncle. Stop, brain.

If he’s adventurous, then I am, too. Exhibit A: last night’s very sexy encounter with two hot, older men.

I wish I hadn’t panicked afterward. I wish I hadn’t left without giving James or Caleb my phone number, or getting theirs. I’ve had a taste of what just one of them can do. The two together? I might not survive it, but heck, I wish I had the chance to try. Now I’ll never get that.

I swear I don’t know what’s best for me sometimes. I ignored my gut when Troy was cheating. I ignored my gut when Chloe buddied up to me, pretending to be my best friend. I ignored my gut telling me to stay in that room at Vice with those two men.

So many regrets.

And for some reason, the biggest, most painful among them right now isn’t Troy or Chloe. A bizarre need to see James and Caleb again is filling my heart, but I have no way of finding them. I didn’t even get their full names.

Maybe if I type “hot forty-something men named James and Caleb,” the search engine will be kind to me.

I snort. Doubtful.

But Dad’s waiting, and my stomach rumbles. I head toward the kitchen, ready to eat.

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