Great.
Leave it to Chloe to order up a heaping helping of hate sex, and add a dose of love on the side, please. She always did like dessert.
“Holy shit,” Wendy added, staring out the window overlooking Main Street, her tone awe-inspired by whatever she saw on the sidewalk. “It’s my lucky day.”
“What?” Chloe asked, dropping her things onto her desk, a full day of appointments ahead of her.
A nice distraction from the man formerly occupying her body, and currently occupying her home. And her heart.
“Hot dad.”
No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
Because Wendy only used the complimentary but cringe-worthy phrase for one person in the entire universe. Graham Morgan.
Her father.
“Yes! Hot dad incoming,” Wendy repeated, rosy color coming to her cheeks as she hitched her finger toward the door just as it opened. Then mouthed, Hot dad around a cupped hand as he walked in.
Unannounced.
She guessed he could be considered classically handsome. God knew, all her girlfriends in high school and college adored him from afar, Wendy first and foremost.
But to Chloe, he was simply—
“Dad,” she said, greeting him in their usual way. A quick hug that ended with him holding her out for his inspection, ensuring her well-being. “I didn’t know you were stopping by today. Or that you were even in The Hamptons.”
In his usual suit and tie, he was dressed more for his office in Manhattan, but seeing him made her feel better. He had that way about him.
Commanding, yet comforting, he was her personal Mister Fix-It. A boo-boo when she was seven, no problem. A huge boo-boo when she was seventeen, a bigger problem but one that could be managed.
“I drove up first thing. Your mother called me. She senses trouble.” His lips twisted. “Her words, not mine.”
Chloe laughed. “Genevieve’s just looking for an excuse to see you.”
“That’s what Soraya said.”
“How is she? I haven’t talked to her in a week.” Not since Jameson arrived.
“She’s amazing. At the hairdresser right now. She wanted to cancel and join me on this fact-finding mission, but I told her it wasn’t as gravely urgent as Genevieve made it sound.”
He motioned toward her, watching as she settled down at her desk and fired up her laptop. “You seem fine. No blood, and all your appendages still attached.”
“Uh-oh,” she said, ignoring her mother’s frantic 911 to her father. “Just a haircut, or is she adding color too? For your sake, I hope not red.”
Soraya was the kind of woman most wanted to be if only they had the guts to step outside the lines of social propriety. She spoke her mind, showcased her style, and had Graham wrapped around her inked finger.
She also added colorful streaks to her hair, depending on her mood. Red was never a good sign for her dad.
“Hope not red, too,” he said, with a wry grin.
“Are you in trouble with her?”
He thought about that then shrugged. “Only the good kind of trouble.” And then he winked.
“Okay, gross.” Chloe held up a hand, ignoring Wendy when she practically squirmed in her seat. “Don’t overshare or I’ll lose my breakfast.”
A frown replaced his grin. “I’m here regarding another matter.”
The matter of one infamous Jameson Maine, of course. The reason Genevieve summoned him from the city.
“Yeah, he’s back,” she said, knowing her father didn’t need a name to know whom she was speaking of. “And yeah, mother’s panties are all in a wad over it.”
He shook his head, the scattering of gray at his temples only adding to his powerful presence. “Please don’t mention your mother’s . . . underthings to me.”
She laughed, and after a full forty-eight hours of radio silence from Jameson, it felt good.
“You can’t say panties?” She looked at Wendy, who sat at her desk, making googly eyes at her father. “He can’t say panties, Wen.”
Hot dad, she mouthed, pointing at his back.
“I can say it,” he clarified. “But I prefer not to where my daughter and or her mother are concerned.”
“Say panties, Daddy,” Chloe teased, barking out a laugh when he nearly gagged. Then she gestured toward the drink station. “You want coffee? Because I need caffeine.”
“Yes, thanks.” He watched her pour two cups, lowering his voice as he stepped closer. “But maybe I should’ve brought some strawberry milk. You wanna talk, honey? You look like you’re not sleeping.”
Wendy, sensing an impending father-daughter talk, scooped up an armful of paperwork and disappeared into the supply room.
And when he sat in the chair facing her desk, Chloe knew from experience he’d stay put until she opened up.
“I don’t need strawberry milk. I’m not a little kid anymore.” That was their thing when the going got tough. Strawberry Quik and heart to hearts.
“You’ll always be my kid, little or not. Now, talk.” Sitting back, he sipped his coffee and peeked at his watch.
When seconds passed and she didn’t say a word, he made it a point to pull out his cell phone and turn it off.
He didn’t lower the ringer. He didn’t press vibrate. He shut it off.
Unheard of for a man in high demand.
“You know the stock market is open, right? You could be losing thousands of dollars of your clients’ money right now. And you’re bothering me for details on something that’s ancient history.”
He arched a brow. “Hundreds of thousands. And I’m not bothering you. You’re my daughter, and you know that guy’s not ancient history. If so, you’d have moved on by now and your mother’s . . . underthings would be straight.”
Picking up a pen, she fiddled with it. “Just because I haven’t found Mr. Right yet doesn’t mean I’m still hung up on Mr. Wrong. He’s only back to clean out the house.”
“Figured that was the case. It was a good move, buying that house. Suits your objective.” He nodded, seeming impressed. “It’s what I would’ve done. If I wanted to get someone’s attention, I would’ve made a move so bold they had no choice but to respond.”
“It was a business decision.”
He smiled. But he didn’t press her to admit it. “Have you had contact?”
Umm, yeah. They had solid, skin to skin, male to female contact.
In the biblical sense, too, though the sinful act they committed would get them both struck down by a God-like bolt of lightning should they step foot in a church.
“We’ve spoken, yes.”
“And?” He rolled a hand when she didn’t elaborate. “How’d it go? Did you work some things out? Communication is key.”
“It established that we still don’t like each other.”
“You sure about that? Because if you didn’t like each other, you never would’ve been in the position you were in ten years ago.” He flicked a finger her way. “Nor would you have a hickey on your neck.”
“What?” Gasping, she touched her neck, then reached for her mirrored compact, needing to see what he saw.
Huffing, she snapped the case shut and glared at him when the reflection showed nothing. Not even a scrape of that stubble she craved.