Page 17 of The Single Dad

The thought of my non-existent love life turns my thoughts to men, and involuntarily, I find myself thinking of the man I met the other day. Cole.

Those dark blue eyes, captivating and alluring, fixed upon me. His thick, jet black hair—perfect for running fingers through.

I let my fingers wander down my body as I think about him, wondering with a surge of jealousy if there’s some other girl who gets to feel his strong hands on her skin, to press herself against his chiseled chest.

Since I’m trying to unwind, I don’t stop myself from leaning into my fantasies. I indulge myself, thinking about the flawless Cupid’s bow of his upper lip, and what it would feel like pressed against mine.

My fingers slip over my clit, a small gasp escaping me as my thumb slides across it. Would he be gentle, or would there be a ferocity to the way he kissed me? The thought of both is exciting, each in different ways.

What if it was his fingers between my legs, deft and strong, trying to learn what it took to electrify me?

It’s been a while since a fantasy was this arousing to me. I find myself moaning quietly as my fingers move in the still-warm water.

Just as I’m starting to really get into it, my door buzzer rings.

I jump, my hand flying out of the water. Droplets arc across the room, splashing the mirror and soaking the bath mat next to the tub.

Damn. That was just getting good.

I sigh, climbing out of the water, and wrap myself in a towel, fluffy and fresh out of the dryer. I move over to the intercom. “Hello?”

A male voice answers me. “Is this Riley?”

That must be the food I ordered a while ago. Still a little annoyed at the interruption, I say, “Yeah, that’s me. Come on up.”

After a moment, there’s a knock on my apartment door. I feel a twinge of embarrassment—I’m wrapped in nothing but a towel—but there’s no time to throw on clothes, and besides, my bath is waiting for me to return.

They won’t judge. At least I’m covered up.

I walk to the door, cracking it open.

Immediately, I have to stifle my yelp of surprise. It’s not a delivery driver. It’s Cole.

He stands on the threshold, his hands in his pockets, his expression the same severe, stoic mask I remember from the other day. If he’s surprised to see me wrapped in a towel, he doesn’t show it.

Flustered, I open the door wider, stammering, “Oh, I’m—I’m sorry about the—this is a surprise—what can I—ah!”

In my surprise, I accidentally let go of the corner of the towel. My protective covering comes unwrapped and slips, and I yelp, trying to catch it before it falls all the way to the floor.

Cole’s gaze rakes my body briefly before darting away, giving me time to secure the towel once more, my cheeks burning in shame.

Not just shame, though. There’s also a little flame of desire burning in me—I can’t help it. He’s just as attractive as I remembered. If anything, my little candlelit, bathtub fantasy didn’t do him justice.

I clear my throat, trying to collect myself. “Sorry about that—sorry. How can I help you?”

Cool and stone-faced, he says, “I got your address from your brother. Would you like a moment to get dressed before I come in?”

“Yes, please,” I manage to squeak out, mortified.

Cole waits by the door as I run to my bedroom, wringing out my soaking-wet, dark brown hair with the towel. I throw on a t-shirt and shorts, then sheepishly return to the front room to invite Cole inside.

He doesn’t exactly make himself at home, just steps over the threshold and peers around briefly before saying, “I came here to offer you a job.”

“A—what?” I stare at him, confused. “A job?”

“A nannying position,” Cole clarifies, “for the boy you met the other day. Archer.”

I blink at him, then realize: he must have spoken to Noah. After all, Noah gave him my address.

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