Page 57 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

"Maybe it is." The admission scrapes out raw, more honest than I intend.

"Then mark your boundaries, Austin." Skylar pushes off from the counter, closing the gap until we're nearly toe-to-toe. "But remember, I'm not one to obey 'no trespassing' signs. Besides, aren’t you the one that invited me to live here? Or am I remembering that wrong?"

The air shifts, charged with something dangerous and tempting. For a moment, we're suspended in a standoff, the silence pregnant with the promise of a battle neither of us may be ready to wage.

"Your coffee's getting cold," she says finally, the smirk returning as she steps around me, leaving me to grapple with the disarray of my thoughts and the lingering scent of her defiance.

I pour myself a cup, the black liquid mirroring the turmoil inside of me. Skylar Deveraux might think she has the upper hand, but I'm Austin Rhodes—I don't yield, I conquer. Except, I realize with a jolt of unease, when it comes to her, victory feels perilously like defeat.

I stride into the living room, my steps measured, hoping for some solitude to sort through reports. But of course, she’s there too, lounging on the couch next to Theo. Her laughter is a melody that grates against my resolve. She's everywhere, an omnipresent force in this house.

"Mind if I join you?" The question slips from my lips before I can stop it, each word tasting like a concession.

"By all means," Theo says, his grin wide as he pats the cushion beside him. "Skylar was just telling me about her first time teaching pre-K."

She chuckles and leans into Theo, the camaraderie between them a visible thread that tugs at something deep within me. I nod stiffly, taking a seat on the opposite end, the distance doing little to ease the tension that coils inside me.

The day drags on, a seemingly endless loop of accidental encounters with Skylar. In the hallway, her shoulder brushes against mine, a fleeting contact that sets off sparks. At the dining table, our fingers nearly touch as we both reach for the salt, and she retracts her hand with a smirk, as if she's playing a game only she understands.

As much as I try to ignore it, I can't help but notice the way Theo looks at her. He doesn't bother to hide his desire, his eyes tracing her every move with an intensity that stirs an unwelcome heat in my chest. He’s not bothering to hide that they’re togetheranymore either. It's not just attraction; it's possession, and the thought of it ignites an unfamiliar rage within me.

And then there's Cohen. Observing them together, I catch the subtle shifts in their interactions: an exchanged glance here, a half-whispered conversation there. They suddenly share a flicker of understanding, a silent language that speaks of something more, something hidden beneath the surface. The tension simmers, potent and unspoken, and it gnaws at me, this suspicion of secrets shared between them that I'm not privy to.

My gaze lingers on Skylar, her hazel eyes alight with mischief as she responds to Cohen's veiled innuendo. There's a dance of words and glances between them, one that suggests a connection that needles at my composure. Something between them has changed, too. And I want to know what.

I retreat to my office, the sanctuary of leather-bound books and polished mahogany offering no relief from the disquiet that has taken root in my mind.

"Damn it," I mutter to myself, staring out the window at the sprawling grounds below. She's under my skin, infiltrating my thoughts, challenging the boundaries I've meticulously erected.

Fuck, fuck,fuck!

I can still hear her giggling with the kids. This isn’t far enough; it’s not enough distance. So, I head downstairs to the gym I had put in after we moved here.

Each lift, each curl, each controlled breath is an attempt to drown out the chaos Skylar has brought into my life. Sweat trails down my back, a testament to my exertion, the desperate need to expel the frustration that coils inside me like a spring wound too tight.

I'm mid-rep when the door swings open with a soft creak, and she steps in. Skylar, in all her infuriating glory, stands framed by the doorway, her eyes scanning the room before they settle on me. There's a moment—a flicker of something unspoken—thatpasses between us before she schools her expression into one of indifferent curiosity.

"Looking for this?" She holds up a jump rope, one eyebrow arching as if she's just stumbled upon some great secret. “The kids said it wasn’t theirs, so I assumed it belonged down here.”

I grunt in acknowledgement, but offer nothing more. I can’t. I’m literally frozen. That is what this woman does to me and it’s infuriating. It’s unfair how beautiful she is, how tempting.

I want to storm across this room and drag her body into mine, force her to acknowledge what she does to me. Demand she take care of the problem. My jaw nearly cracks with how tightly I set it, forcing the images of Skylar on her knees out of my mind.

"Don’t stop on my account," she teases, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, her tone light but not without intent.

I set the weights down with more force than necessary, the clatter reverberating off the walls. I stand, facing her fully now, feeling the pull of muscles stretched and worked, the heat emanating from my skin. I'm acutely aware of the space between us—charged, alive with an electricity I want to deny. Want to, but can’t.

"Wasn't planning on it," I retort, keeping my voice even, though I can feel the edge in it mirroring hers.

Her gaze drifts—a slow, deliberate sweep—over the sweat-dampened fabric clinging to my chest, down the lines of my arms, pausing at the flex of my hands. Her lips quirk, and it's clear she's enjoying this little game, the push and pull of tension we've danced around since the day I discovered her in my pool.

But, is that all it is? A game? I fucking hate games.

"Good," she replies, stepping further into the room, her movements calculated and sure. "Wouldn't want to disrupt your...routine."

With every word, every look, she's challenging me, daring me to break, to show any sign of weakness. But I hold steady,because that's what I do—I maintain control, keep my emotions in check. Even when everything in me screams to react, to call her out, to close the distance that separates us.

Instead, I turn away, picking up another set of weights, the cool metal grounding me as I refocus on the task at hand. I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing just how deep under my skin she's gotten. Not now, not ever.

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