The chair scrapes on the floor and then I feel her behind me, her soft breaths heating my left shoulder blade through the thin fabric of my shirt. She’s close, too close.

“You can’t let your thoughts go there, Mr. Reid. You’ll torture yourself.”

I turn, slowly placing my empty beer bottle down on the counter. “It’s Grayson.”

The air crackles between us as she wets her lips and offers a nervous smile. A smile I should not soak up with my eyes.

“I should go,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I agree, dipping my gaze to her cleavage before looking away, “you should.”

Her footsteps retreat, but before she leaves the kitchen, she turns in the doorway with her hand on the frame. “Thanks again for dinner.”

Then she’s gone, and I drop my head back between my shoulders, dragging a hand down my face. “Jesus Christ.”

CHAPTER 8

WILLOW

JANUARY 13TH, 2016

I test the temperature of the water in the bathtub. It’s bordering on too hot, which is just how I like it. If it’s perfect, it cools down too soon.

As I step out of the adjoining bathroom and into my bedroom, I pause, gazing through the window. Grayson sits on the edge of his bed, staring straight forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. I wonder what’s going through his head.

My feet move deeper into the room. I turn in front of my bed, about to reach for the towel and clean clothes, when I hesitate. One look in the mirror on my bedroom door confirms it: Grayson has turned his head, his gaze burning my back.

I look down at the neatly-folded, crisp towel on top of my made bed. Everything is just so fucking perfect. Pink, flowery, and feminine. There’s none of the darkness that I feel swirling in my belly as his brown eyes take me in. I shouldn’t tempt a grown man, my dead best friend’s father. I know better.

It doesn’t stop me from hooking my fingers in the hem of my tank top and sliding it up and over my head.

It falls to the floor by my feet.

Reaching behind me, I hold my breath as I unclip my bra. It slides down my arms, and my nipples pebble as I imagine him watching me through his window. I don’t dare look up in case our eyes catch in my mirror.

With trembling hands, I hook my thumbs in my sleep shorts and shimmy out of them. As they pool around my feet, I do the same to my lace panties. Straightening up, I suppress a whimper. My body tingles everywhere, hyperaware of his roaming eyes. I can’t believe I’m doing this—standing naked before Chloe’s father, pretending I don’t know he’s watching me.

I know.

I feel it.

Heat pools between my legs and my nipples ache to be tweaked and pulled. If he were here behind me, I would hold my breath, anticipating the brush of his touch over my soft skin.