Page 24 of Sexy Bad Daddy

“And I was jealous.” I can’t believe I just admitted that to him. This would be a hell of a lot easier if it were about him ruining the steps we’d taken to improve his bad boy image.

“You were?” He tugs at his tie, freeing it from his neck and draping it around his shoulders. Then he takes my coat and hangs it next to his in the front closet. Turning around to face me, he adds, “Really?”

Slipping off my heels, I roll my eyes and head to the kitchen. This conversation is probably better had over a drink. He trails behind me.

“What’s your poison?” I ask.

“You.”

“Stop.”

“Fine. Jamison. Top shelf, to the left of the fridge. Are you drinking with me?”

“Most definitely.” I splash amber liquid into two glasses and hand one to him. He tosses back half his drink while I sip more sedately.

“We need to talk.”

“Clearly.”

“Erin, look. I—”

Lifting my hand, I cut him off. “Look, Garrett, this hasn’t happened since my first job. Maybe that’s because they always end up finding out. I don’t know. I mean, we haven’t been together that long—er, I haven’t worked for you for that long. I didn’t expect any of this to happen.” Screw sipping. I take a slug from my glass.

“I understood pretty much nothing you just said.”

Leaning against the island, I stare down at my drink. “We need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“This.” I wave my hand between the two of us. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” Maybe if I say it out loud, it will stay true.

He drives a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end, much like I suspect it would look after a vigorous round of sex. With some other woman. Would he have gone home with Fiona if I hadn’t interrupted his ball massage?

“I keep forgetting you have a boyfriend,” he says.

Shit. Me too.

“It’s not even about that. It’s about…” Part of me wants to tell him about my colossal fuck-up, so he’ll understand why I cannot possibly cross that line with him. But I don’t want him to think of me that way. I’m not that woman who sleeps with men because of their status or money, even if it sure as hell seems like that’s who I’m attracted to.

“It’s about Abby,” he says. “I get it. But I still want you, even though I know I shouldn’t.”

I stare at the floor and don’t tell him I want him, too. He doesn’t need to know that. What good would it do? “The best thing for Abby—for all of us—is if you and I can agree to just be friends.”

I can’t believe I’ve managed to say the words without stuttering or swallowing my tongue or laughing hysterically at the absurdness of that statement. Because the last thing I want to do is be friends with the sexy daddy I work for.

Not unless that friendship comes with benefits.

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