Page 27 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
After helping him clear the dishes, I follow Victor to the living room, where he settles onto the sofa by the fireplace and pats the cushion beside him. When I sit down, careful to maintain some distance, he reaches for his tablet.
"I want to show you something," he says, opening what appears to be a series of documents. "Research opportunities. Graduate programs. Funding possibilities."
I lean closer to see the screen, and my breath catches. These aren't just any opportunities—these are positions at Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Stanford. Programs with waiting lists years long.
"This is incredible," I breathe, scrolling through offer letters and scholarship descriptions. "But these are extremely competitive. How did you even get these?"
"I have connections in academic medicine," he says simply. "People who owe me favors. People who recognize exceptional talent when I point it out to them."
The casual way he mentions these "connections" makes me wonder again exactly what kind of business Victor Strickland is really in. What sort of man can make a phone call and open doors that brilliant researchers spend their entire careers trying to access?
"Why would you do this for me?" I ask, looking up from the tablet. "We barely know each other."
His voice drops to that intimate register that makes my pulse quicken. "I've seen your determination, your brilliance, your refusal to accept limitations. I know what drives you, what you value, what you're capable of achieving."
The intensity in his words makes me reconsider my earlier assumptions. Perhaps this isn't about some inappropriateattraction on his part. Perhaps Victor truly sees me as a promising researcher worth investing in—a brilliant mind to mentor, to support financially, to guide toward greater achievements.
That would make more sense than the alternative. A man like Victor Strickland, with his wealth and power and sophistication, couldn't possibly be interested in me romantically. I'm half his age, his son's ex-girlfriend, a struggling graduate student. The idea is absurd.
"This is what I can give you," he continues, his eyes holding mine with startling intensity. "Not just opportunities or funding, but the freedom to be brilliant without apology. Without limitation."
I turn to face him fully, suddenly seeing our interaction in a new light. He's offering me patronage, not romance. Mentorship, not seduction. The realization is both a relief and, strangely, a disappointment.
Why does my heart race when he looks at me like this? Why do I find myself watching his hands, the way they move with such precision and control? Why am I noticing the silver at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes that speak of experience and authority?
Oh god. I'm the one having inappropriate thoughts about him. Not the other way around.
"What do you want in return?" I ask, because there must be a price. Men like Victor Strickland don't give gifts without expecting something back.
"Smart question," he says with approval. "I want your mind, your brilliance, your unique perspective. I want to be the one who helps you change the world."
"That's all?"
His smile is warm but enigmatic. "For now."
I interpret his answer through the lens of academic mentorship—of course he'd want recognition as the benefactor behind my success, perhaps naming rights on research or acknowledgments in publications. Standard patronage arrangements in academia, nothing more.
The warmth that spreads through me at his attention isn't attraction, I tell myself. It's gratitude. Appreciation for someone who finally sees my potential and has the resources to help me realize it.
So why am I finding it hard to maintain eye contact? Why am I so aware of the distance between us on the sofa? Why do I keep wondering what his hand would feel like against my skin?
Stop it, Kyra. He's being professional.He's offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. Don't make this weird by projecting some inappropriate schoolgirl crush onto a man who's only trying to help your career.
"Kyra," he says softly, and my name in his voice still makes something flutter in my chest.
"This is... overwhelming," I breathe, trying to process both the magnitude of what he's offering and my own disturbing reaction to his proximity.
I should move away. Should maintain professional distance to ensure I don't send the wrong signals. He's offering me academic mentorship, not whatever my traitorous body seems to be hoping for. I'm mortified at my own thoughts, at the way my pulse quickens when he looks at me.
What's wrong with me? Am I so starved for male attention after Aaron's rejection that I'm developing feelings for his father? How pathetic. How cliché.
The sound of his phone ringing is a welcome interruption. Victor's jaw tightens briefly before he pulls the device from his pocket.
"I'm sorry," he says, glancing at the screen. "It's Aaron."
Aaron. My boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend, the reason I'm here. The reminder is jarring, pulling me back to reality and away from whatever strange dynamic is developing between Victor and me.
"Take it," I say, grateful for the interruption and the chance to collect my thoughts.
