Page 3 of Swiped By My Dad's Best Friend
I hesitated, tempted. Ty was a beefy jock who loved to take off his shirt while playing ball. It made for a nice show. But Dad’s quiet disappointment was still under my skin. “Nah, Dad’s not happy. Better go to class.”
Kev smirked. “Whenisyour dad happy?”
I shrugged.Probably not for six years at least.
But that made two of us.
Kev didn’t push it. He knew my parents were divorced. Also, that my father—fucking college dean—wasn’t thrilled his son preferred weed and frat parties to weekends at the library.
I wasn’t built for college. I’d figured that out before I ever enrolled. I was still waiting for Dad to get the memo, but then we hadn’t really been on the same page since Mom left. Dad’s life was academia, and he wanted to believe I’d find my purpose here too. That I kept changing majors and dropping classes just to pull a C average—making me a fifth-year senior—didn’t seem to clue him in.
As much as I’d like to stop fucking around with classes I didn’t care about, I didn’t know what I’d rather do. I only knew what I couldn’t do—leave.
Not the way Mom did.
Dad wanted me here, so here I was—the prodigal son. I could live with being a disappointment. What I wouldn’t be able to stomach was breaking his heart.
Not like she had.
* * *
TRACE
Only two things were on my mind as I pulled up to the bed-and-breakfast where I’d be staying for the weekend: a hot shower and a quick fuck to blow off steam. After six hours in the car, my shoulders were tense.
Facing my former best friend in less than twenty-four hours? Surely that had nothing to do with it.
Sunset had just begun to streak the sky with pink and orange when I parked. A sign out front readHayworth House Bed & Breakfast, built 1914. The historic two-story home—more regal than cozy—anchored one end of a cul-de-sac just outside the campus proper where I’d be speaking the following day.
The B&B had once been a fraternity house; Matthew Rutledge told me when he called to set up my arrangements. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized I’d be dealing with him. When I’d accepted the invitation to be an alumni speaker, I didn’t know my former best friend was the college dean. We hadn’t exactly kept in touch.
Hayworth was my alma mater, and his too, but we hadn’t known each other until we’d both wound up in the same central Kansas town. We’d become fast friends, bonding over our old college days. His family had practically become my own.
Until it all came tumbling down.
Samantha Rutledge had looked my way one too many times. Matthew had made accusations that didn’t sit right with me. And just when tensions wound tight and friendships were on the precipice of shattering, Samantha had gotten a new job opportunity and the family had moved away. It had seemed like a blessing at the time, though I’d lost my best friend in the process. Not to mention his adorable kids. Cooper, the incredibly smart kid who had half a dozen building projects going on at any one time; Lena, the precocious tween who’d no doubt put a few gray hairs on Matthew’s head before she was out of the house.
Precisely when Matthew had taken the dean’s post at Hayworth, I didn’t know. But he was there now, and judging by the strain in his voice when he invited me to have dinner after I gave my presentation Saturday, time didn’t heal all wounds.
This was going to be one awkward reunion.
I killed the engine and shouldered my laptop bag before opening the back door to collect the rest of my things: a duffel full of casual clothes, a toiletry case—which included my beard-grooming kit, couldn’t leave home without that—and a nicely pressed suit hanging from a hook above the door.
As I walked up the front steps, my duffel and laptop bag thudding against my sides, I juggled my other things to free a hand to reach for the doorknob. It turned before I could grasp it.
“Hey there, let me give you a hand!”
A slim guy with brownish-gray hair reached for my toiletry case and suit, and I relinquished them happily. “Thanks…”
“Craig Meadows,” he supplied. “Co-owner of Hayworth House. And you must be Mr. Laurie.”
“Call me Trace.”
“Sure thing,” he said as I cast my eyes around, taking in the high ceiling, glossy wooden floors, and imposing staircase that led to the second floor. Through a wide doorway, I could see a great room filled with delicate antique furniture, a floral rug, and a large fireplace. “Your room is on the second floor, second door on the right. Let me show you.”
He kept up a stream of friendly chatter as we took the stairs. “The house was built in the early 1900s by a banker,” he said. “He built the home for his only son, and it stayed in the Worthington family through two generations before it was ultimately sold off when they fell on hard times. It went through a few more owners, including Hayworth College itself.”
“I heard it was once a frat house.”
