Page 3 of One Week With My Dad's Best Friend

The wind has picked up and whips my dark hair around my head. Still, his deep blue eyes penetrate the side of my face. I want to turn, but I can’t look at him, so I look ahead. I’m not sure what his look means, but I have a feeling Anton is a little annoyed at having to babysit me for a week.

Mom told me to keep out of the way and not bother him. He heard her. He thinks it’s for his sake, but I know why. She doesn’t want their time in Hollywood ruined and having to deal with me.

“I’m ready,” I tell him.

“Good.” Anton’s large hand drops on my shoulder as he ushers me back inside the house.

“I’ll get my suitcase,” I say, pulling away from him and heading to the staircase.

“I’ll get it. It will be heavy.” His voice snapping at my heels as I climb the stairs.

I turn and glare at him, not wanting him in my bedroom and definitely not wanting to be on my own with him. I’ve tried my best to keep my distance from Anton, too scared he will work out how I feel.

How do I feel?

You’ve made it obvious, he already knows.

I groan.

I’m no longer on the cusp of understanding what that may be. Before, when my body zinged to life whenever he was around, I never quite understood what was happening.

Now I know exactly what the feeling is. He does something to my stomach, turning it over and over. He does something between my thighs, so that my hand and fingers play there, often.

I don’t know why I like him so much. Maybe it’s a stupid crush that will disappear on its own. But I’ve had an infatuation with him for too long now. Perhaps it’s because of the way he smiles, like he is the only person to really care about me. The only person who understands.

But I don’t want him to care about me like I’m his best friend’s daughter. I want him to want me entirely different.

And that’s the reason I know I have to keep out of his way.

Chapter 2

Anton

My knuckles whiten against the steering wheel as I drive back to my townhouse. Scarlett’s perfume fills the car—a gentle mix of vanilla and something floral I can’t place.

She shifts in her seat, crossing her legs. A sideways glance catches her profile. Those full pink lips curved up in a slight smile. The streetlights paint shadows across her face, highlighting her cheekbones before my gaze lowers to her Eiffel Tower print tee-shirt, and then I see the whisper of fabric over her bare legs.

I snap my eyes back to the road.

Focus on driving. Focus on anything else.

I grip tighter. She tests every ounce of self-control.

“Your place is in a lovely area.” Her voice breaks the tension as we pull into my driveway.

“You’ve been before,” I tell her. Clenching my jaw. “And I like the area because it’s a short commute to the office.” My words come out rougher than intended.

She turns toward me, and I feel her gaze on my face. I also feel as her eyes roam down my body, and it’s like the touch is real. I wish it was real. “Must be convenient.”

The garage door rolls up, and I park with mechanical precision, but my heart is beating erratically as I wonder how this week will go.

I agreed without question when her parents asked if she could stay with me. I wanted her in my home. Now I’m not so sure.

Leading her inside my house, I head straight for the wine rack. I need something to calm my nerves.

The familiar ritual of uncorking the bottle steadies my hands. She stares as I pour myself a glass.

“You can’t drink,” I tell her.

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