The divide between us is too much. It’s too wide. She’s out of my league, and I’d be an asshole to drag her down into mine.

But when we hop back into the truck and she peeks over at me and says, “You’re an amazing dad. I hope you know that,” I want to drag her down right on the spot.

11

Willa

Summer: Did you leave with Cade?

Willa: Yeah.

Summer: You could have stayed with me! We’re getting a cab.

Willa: Nah. Cade’s hotter. Went home with him instead.

Summer: Lol.

Summer: Wait. Are you joking? I can’t tell.

Willa: Save a horse, ride a cowboy.

Summer: I still can’t tell.

* * *

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I rasp as I see Cade’s imposing form step onto the deck. The sight of him standing above me, looking down on me in the hot tub, makes my stomach flip. He’s downright mouthwatering with swim trunks riding low on his hips, framed by a cut V-shape that disappears beneath them.

A V-shape my fingers itch to trace.

I press my thighs together at the intense expression on his face. If it’s a scowl, it might as well be the hot one. Because the look is sizzling. Maybe it’s in my head. Maybe it’s wishful thinking.

Maybe I have a crush on an older man.

Again.

It’s pretty much part of my personality now. I’ve always had a thing for older men. I like to bug Summer about her dad being hot—but I’m not really joking.

I need therapy.

“I can leave.” Cade’s deep voice rumbles through the cool night air, the smell of freshly mowed grass mingling with the light tang of rain. I heard thunder but didn’t see lighting, so I figured I’d take my chances with staying submerged in the hot water.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your house, I’ll leave.” I push to stand as he approaches, failing at not checking out the imposing width of his shoulders, the way his scruff dusts down over his sharp jawline and throat, the muscles in his thighs.

When I go to step out, Cade’s harsh voice lances through the silence. “Please. Sit down.”

I glance up to see where the bite in his voice came from, but his eyes are trained on my chest. On the unpadded one-piece swimsuit I’m wearing.

On the way my nipple piercings press against the fabric.

With a small squeal, I fall back into the water and sink down. It’s not like I’m embarrassed about my piercings—I actually love them—but I don’t typically waltz around advertising them to employers.

I see his jaw pop as he avoids meeting my eyes while he climbs into the sunken tub, holding a hefty glass of amber liquid in his hand.