Page 13 of Daddy Next Door

Standing in Ethan's office in just my bra and jeans felt far more intimate than I was prepared for. My skin prickled with goosebumps—from the air conditioning or from the situation, I wasn't sure. I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper-aware of my body in a way that made my cheeks burn.

I needed to find his laundry room. With wet shirt bunched in one hand, I padded out of the office, leaving a trail of water droplets behind me. The hardwood would be fine, but I'd need to wipe it up before leaving.

Moving through someone else's house half-dressed felt transgressive in a way that made my stomach flip. What if someone could see through the windows? What if Ethan had security cameras? The thought made me walk faster, hunching my shoulders as if that could somehow make me less exposed.

I found the laundry room off the kitchen—another impeccably organized space with detergent lined up by type and purpose. The washer and dryer were high-end models, the kind I'd dreamed about while struggling with my apartment building's ancient communal machines.

I tossed my shirt into the dryer, setting it for twenty minutes. That should be enough to make it wearable again. As I closed the dryer door, I caught my reflection in the small decorative mirror hanging on the wall. My hair was slightly mussed, cheeks flushed pink. The contrast of my pale skin against the black bra made me look vulnerable, younger somehow.

For a flashing moment, I imagined Ethan walking in, finding me like this. The thought sent an unexpected heat between my legs that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

"Stop it," I whispered to myself, turning away from the mirror.

I needed to borrow a shirt and clean up the water before it damaged his floors. Ethan's bedroom would have shirts, but entering his most private space felt wrong. There had to be another option.

I remembered seeing a linen closet in the hallway. Maybe he kept spare clothes there? It was worth checking before I invaded his bedroom.

As I stepped back into the hallway, water from my jeans dripped onto the floor, joining the trail I'd left earlier. I'd need paper towels for that. But first—clothes.

The linen closet yielded towels and sheets, but no clothing. I chewed my lip, considering my options. The dryer would take twenty minutes. I could wait, half-naked in his laundry room, or I could borrow something quickly and put it back before I left.

"Just a t-shirt," I justified to myself, heading toward what I assumed was his bedroom.

The door was closed but not latched. I pushed it open slowly, feeling like an intruder in the most personal part of his home. The room was spacious and minimalist—a king-sized bed with a navy comforter, nightstands with simple lamps, a dresser, and a closet. No personal photos here, no clutter. Just clean lines and subtle masculine energy.

I stepped inside, my bare feet sinking into the plush area rug. The whole room smelled like him, that same cedar and musk. My skin prickled with awareness.

Then, I saw it.

A door.

It was set into the wall adjacent to a bookshelf, painted the same color as the walls. I might never have noticed it if I hadn't been on my knees at this exact angle. There was a small doorknob, no key hole.

Was this the room Ethan had specifically mentioned was off-limits?

This didn't look like a storage room door. It looked like a secret.

The responsible thing would be to finish cleaning, get my shirt, change back, and leave.

Instead, I found myself drawn to the hidden door, curiosity prickling along my skin more insistently than the air conditioning had on my bare flesh. I should have turned away. Instead, my fingers reached out, brushing against the cool metal of the doorknob.

To my surprise, it turned easily in my hand. Not locked. This was a clear boundary. Ethan had trusted me in his home.

But something pulled at me, a curiosity so intense it felt like hunger. What kind of "secret space" did a psychologist need? What was so private he'd specifically warned me away?

I hesitated, my hand still on the knob. I closed my eyes, warring with myself.

"Just one quick look," I whispered, as if saying it aloud made it less of an invasion. "Five seconds, then I'll close it and never look again."

Before I could reconsider, I pushed the door open a crack. Something pastel caught my eye—a soft lavender color on what looked like a wall.

My breath caught in my throat.

The room that greeted me was awash in gentle colors—lavender walls with white trim, accented with touches of mint green and pale yellow. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting the space in a dreamy glow. At first glance, it might have been a guest room decorated for a child—but the proportions were all wrong. Adult-sized. Inviting.

A bookshelf lined one wall, filled not with psychology texts but with children's books. Not just any children's books—vintage hardcovers, classics arranged by color to create a rainbow effect. Next to them sat coloring books and a wooden box that likely contained art supplies.

My feet carried me into the room without conscious command. The door swung shut behind me with a soft click that made me jump.

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