Page 20 of Bourbon and Secrets

Lily shouts, “Dad,youuusaid sometimes you have to make your own rules. So that’s what we’re doing.”

He barely glances at me, but with his attention on his daughters, I take advantage and my eyes wander. In the broad light of day, Lincoln Foxx is beyond handsome. A full head of dark hair, which is a luxury for most men dancing around forty. I always remembered him as more clean shaven, but now his sideburns blend into stubble. Everyone who has a pulse feels his confidence and more than recognizes that he’s the prettiest Foxx. And somehow, he’s improved. Light blue eyes behind dark-framed glasses make me want his attention even more. Why I didn’t tell him to fuck off the other night is beside me. But right now, in dad-mode and pissed off, he’s disturbingly sexy. It would be so much more convenient for him to be aging poorly.

I’ve done plenty of questionable things and made some morally gray decisions throughout my life. I knew someday I’d have to answer for them. I hadn’t realized that karma would be dressed in Wranglers and a crisp black shirt and dark wool coat, ignoring my presence.

A chill works its way down my arms and around my legs, reminding me that I’m outside and not dressed for the winter weather.

The default emotion whenever I think too long about Lincoln Foxx is a combination of hate and annoyance. We both painted each other into corners. I hate that he was there that night. I hate what that night made me. I hate that he saw it, accepted it, and kept it a secret. I hate that at the core of it—of all the shit people I’d come across—the person I chose to hold a grudge against was probably the most honorable. It’s annoyingly inconvenient.

His gaze shifts to me for a brief moment and, oh yeah, hate and annoyance are mirrored right back to me. “Why are you here?”

I look around the porch. “This is technically still my house. Well, half of it, at least. Why are you here?”

Letting out a sarcastic laugh, he rubs his hand behind his neck as he repeats the question to himself more quietly. “Why am I here?” He looks at both of his girls. “Let’s go,” he bites out from the bottom of the porch steps.

But Lark chimes in, “Dad, please can we just take the day?” Her hands clasp together in prayer. “We all need mental health days.”

I try to mask my amusement. She’s right. We all did, but I don’t think her dad’s buying it. Especially not after seeing me here talking with them.

“I don’t know what you’re smiling at.” My eyes connect with his when I realize he’s talking to me.

I raise my eyebrows.

“When I’m done handling this,” he says, pointing at his girls, “you and I are going to have a little chat.”

I shake my head no with a smile at the audacity. “I don’t think so, Foxx?—”

His dimples pinch as he smirks right back, like my words were meant to be funny. Looking down at the porch floor, his hands glide into his jacket pockets. “Lily and Lark, get in the car.”

One of them starts up again. “Oh, c’mo?—”

“Now,” he clips back in a tone firm enough that it makes me sit just a few centimeters taller. The girls hustle down the stairs, but Lily stops and turns, hustling back up the steps.

Quietly, she says, “Here. This one is supposed to give you courage. Don’t lose it, okay?” She tosses the gray rock next to me. When it bounces and flips over, the ragged purple crystals land face up.

I clamp my lips together, trying to keep the amusement off my face as she walks away, but as I shift my attention, I meet her father’s glare of disapproval.

“Do not go anywhere,” he says, pointing at me.

“You’re trespassing,” I clap back. They’re the same words I said to him five years ago in that cornfield. He doesn’t miss it by the narrowing of his eyes.

Shaking his head, his hands meet his hips. “You’re a fucking peach,” he mumbles.

Why does it feel so satisfying to piss this man off? “I’m not a fan of pet names, Foxx.” I scrunch my nose at him. “Sorry.”

His deep voice pitches an octave lower. “I want you gone.”

I stand up, letting the blanket that had fallen in my lap drop to the floor. The cropped Queen tank hits just above my navel, but below is nothing more than a pair of tiny sleep shorts. Lower than that is a pair of fuzzy socks hiked to my knees, but I don’t think he gets that far. His gaze snaps to everywhere there’s bare skin—my arms, then my waist, and to my thighs.So predictable.

“You sure about that, Foxx?” I glance at his legs and up toward his belt, letting my gaze linger, just to irritate him further.

Swallowing roughly, he looks over his shoulder at the Jeep. But instead of walking that way, he charges up the stairs, stopping right in front of me. “Those two little girls are my entire world. A decent set of tits and perky ass doesn’t mean I’ll forget that you’re not the kind of person I want anywhere near them.” He looks down the front of me and back up, meeting my eyes and searing me to the spot. “So yeah, I’m sure.”

I wish his words didn’t sting as much as they did.

“You have no idea what kind of person I am,” I say on less than sturdy footing as I brush past him and through the front door, kicking it closed behind me.

I huff out a breath as I lean against the door. Frustrated, angry, and...hurt. Dammit, I loathe feeling hurt more than anything.

---