The Truth

Usually, when you compare a woman to a bulldozer, it’s a bad thing, but I understand what she means. “Uhm, thanks, I think?”

“A cute bulldozer,” she assures me. “Just don’t let him make you pay for his past experiences because you don’t deserve that either.”

I’m touched. This has got to be a strange conversation from Elle’s point of view, and her allegiances must be torn between her dad and her best friend. But even in the awkwardness, she’s watching out for us both. In return, I give her the best kindness I can think of . . . a way out of the touchy-feely and potential dick discussion.

“So, should we discuss what you’re going to call me when I’m your stepmother? I’m partial to Mummy Tiffy myself. A little nod to your English side with a touch of the familiarity a nickname offers. What do you think? Oh, and I must insist that Neve not be allowed to call me Granny, or Grandma, or Gammy or any of that.”

Elle growls. “Ugh! If I could, I’d reach through this phone and throttle you. That’s what I think.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and then we both break out into laughter. “Mummy Tiffy it is, then!”

“I hate you, you know that, right?”

“Love you too, babe,” I answer, knowing the truth behind her words. “Deep in the gut loves.”

“I do love you.” She sighs. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but go get him, tiger!”

That’s what I needed to hear. “Thanks.”

We chat a little longer, just catching up on general life shit, but the big issue’s handled. After I hang up with Elle, I feel better about the whole situation.

The truth is, I’ve had a crush on Daniel for years. But Elle’s right, it was always a fantasy, sort of like how you might have a crush on a Hemsworth brother.

But like those fantasies, I never would’ve acted on my thoughts for Daniel if the opportunity hadn’t presented itself this weekend.

And now, with Elle on board, I’m ready to really go all-out in pursuing him. He thought my showing up on his doorstep to clean and inviting myself along on a run was forward?

Shit, I’m going to blow his mind, and hopefully something more, when he sees what I’m going to do next.

There’s only one thing to figure out.

What should I do next?

Chapter 9

Daniel

I must be going crazy.

That’s the only explanation for my hearing voices.

And not just any voices.

No, I keep hearing Tiffany’s voice outside my door talking to my assistant, Vanessa. And it’s not just coming by to gossip, either. Apparently, Tiffany has managed to sweet-talk her into mentoring a few of the newer staff on a spreadsheet thing Vanessa created.

I didn’t even know she’d done that, but apparently, it’s a big enough deal that other people want to learn it, and organizing the sessions has required an entire morning’s worth of conversations. There’ve been little breaks, of course, someone grabbing coffee, the others going to the ladies’ room . . . but if anything, that’s made the conversations even more intrusive in my head because when they stop, I find myself listening intently with bated breath for them to start again so I can hear Tiffany once more.

Why this couldn’t have been done over email, I don’t know, but I’m fucking grumpy as hell about it.

Not because it’s distracting Vanessa. She never, ever drops a single ball I toss to her. In fact, it’s usually the opposite. Like every executive who isn’t full of shit is willing to admit, I couldn’t do anything without her. She’s efficient as hell at getting everything done not only on time, but early.

No, it’s nothing to do with that. What’s driving me batshit is that every time I hear Tiffany so much as speak, my cock gets fucking rock hard.

And that pisses me off because it’s wrong. Thinking of Tiffany in a tight skirt, maybe a sexy hint of panty line showing me exactly where her ass curve begins, or the outline of her breasts against her blouse . . . those breasts with their delicious looking pink nipples, and . . .

Goddammit, this is not just wrong, it’s very, very wrong.

She’s my daughter’s best friend.

She’s a coworker, and nothing more, I remind myself for the dozenth time.

But no matter how many times I tell myself that, somewhere deep down, in a part of me I don’t want to admit exists, I don’t care. What I do care about is wondering what color her panties are and if she’s wearing pantyhose, stockings, or is deliciously bare-legged today . . . and if maybe that bare skin goes all the way to her waist.

I care about how she smells, and I don’t mean her perfume.

So instead of working like I usually do, with my nose to the grindstone, I’m taking illicit pleasure from eavesdropping on Tiffany through the door and smiling stupidly when she laughs at something Vanessa said.