Page 58 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

"Make yourself at home, Skylar," I say over my shoulder, my tone deceptively casual. "You seem to be good at that."

There's a beat of silence where I imagine she's weighing her next move, deciding how far to push before she crosses a line we both know is there, drawn in the sand but never acknowledged aloud.

"Always do," she responds, and I don't need to see her to know she's smiling that smug, self-assured smile that tells me she's won this round.

But this isn't over—not by a long shot.

I expect her to leave now that she’s returned the jump rope, but she doesn’t. Instead, I watch Skylar root through the cabinets. She's a deliberate thorn in my side, and the way she carries herself, all nonchalant confidence, only sharpens the sting.

"Looking for something in particular, or just enjoying the view?" The words slip out before I can rein them in, barbed and loaded with a challenge I'm not entirely sure I want her to accept.

She straightens up, turning slowly, and there's that smirk again—weaponized casualness that could cut glass. "Maybe both," she retorts, and in two strides, I'm in her space, our bodies inches apart. I can see every fleck of gold in her hazel eyes, the rise and fall of her chest quickening.

"Careful, trouble," I ground out, my voice low, my control fraying at the edges. "Don't start a game you're not prepared to finish."

Her breath catches, and there it is—the flicker of something raw and unscripted. We're teetering on the edge of a cliff, the drop both terrifying and tempting. Our gazes lock, and the air around us crackles with the tension of a storm about to break.

Time slows, our breathing melds, and I swear she's leaning in, those regal features softening with an emotion I can't quite name. Don’t want to. For a heartbeat, I think this is it—she's going to bridge that last bit of distance between us, she’s going to be the one to give in.

But we stay frozen, toe-to-toe, the moment stretched taut, a silent battle of wills. And then, as if nothing happened, she blinks, shattering the illusion.

She scoffs, a sound sharp as a knife's edge in the silence between us. Her eyes, those deep-set hazel pools that had just been locked with mine, now glint with something like victory—or is it defense? She whirls around, chestnut hair cascading over Theo's hoodie, and my gaze follows the sway of her hips as she departs. Every muscle in my body tenses, my fists clenching at my sides.

"Skylar," I start to say, but she doesn't turn back. The door shuts behind her with a quiet click, and I'm left alone.

The frustration coils tighter within me, a serpent squeezing around my chest. I throw myself back into my workout, each lift, each press, an attempt to push her image out of my mind. But it's useless.

Evening descends and dinner calls. Laughter and conversation mingle with the rich aromas of a delicious meal, but the atmosphere is heavy, laden with undercurrents of tension. I feel like I’m living on the edge, just barely hanging onto the last thread of my control. She’s unraveling me bit by bit.

Skylar and Theo are in their own little world. He's relaxed, his whole demeanor easygoing as he slings an arm around her shoulders, casual as if he's done it a thousand times before. His lips find her temple in a tender kiss that should be innocent enough, but it's like a match to the powder keg inside me.

I'm glaring. The realization hits when her eyes, those deep pools of hazel, lock with mine. A flicker of something—recognition? Amusement?—crosses her features, and she holds my gaze. It's insolent, challenging, the air between us crackling.

Then Theo turns his head, his green eyes landing on mine, and I see it—the slow, knowing smirk that curls his lips. He sees right through me—damn him.

"You good, man?" His voice is light, tinged with laughter. It's a simple question, but from him, it feels like an accusation, a call out on the stage we're all playing our parts.

"Fine," I grind out, each syllable sharp as shards of glass. The lie tastes like ash, but admitting the truth isn't an option. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Skylar's gaze hasn't wavered, though her expression has shifted ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth pulling down in what might be concern, or maybe curiosity. There's a storm brewing in those eyes of hers, but I can't read its path.

"Good." Theo's response is nonchalant, but his eyes are alight with something akin to victory. He knows he's gotten under my skin, and he's relishing it. The bastard.

I force my attention back to my plate, the food suddenly unappealing. But I can feel Skylar's eyes still on me, studying, probing, as if she's trying to peel back my layers and peer into the chaos within me. And I hate how much I want her to keep looking.

The night stretches on. I prowl through the halls of the house like a shadow, each step echoing the discord inside me. It's thekind of night that feels alive with possibilities and regrets, and it draws me toward Skylar's door.

I pause, hovering at the threshold of a line I know better than to cross. The murmur of voices seeps through the wood, Theo's low baritone mingling with the soft timbre of Skylar's laughter. Each chuckle is a velvet caress against my skin, stirring something primal within me. The bed creaks—a mundane sound transformed into an intimate whisper—and my imagination flares.

My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms, a feeble defense against the surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I shouldn't be here, lingering in the shadows like some lovelorn fool. I shouldn't care about the intimacy shared behind that door—yet here I am, bound by invisible chains of longing and frustration.

With a sharp turn, I retreat from the precipice of madness, only to come face-to-face with Cohen. He stands there, a mere few feet away, his eyes locked onto mine. His presence is a mirror, reflecting back the turmoil I've tried so desperately to hide. And in his silence, he speaks volumes.

"Man," he breathes out, his voice laced with an edge of humor and resignation. "Yeah. You're screwed."

The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. They settle on my shoulders, an added weight to the burden I already carry.

I don't bother with a response; what's there to say? The truth doesn't need affirmation—it just is. I turn away and walk down the hall.

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