1
Cane
It's hot as hell in this kitchen, and it's not because I live in Las Vegas. It's because Lucia St. Michaels is walking around in a little apron showing off her curvy ass, turning me on every time she glances in my direction.
"Do you think I should add some extra sprinkles to the cookies?" she asks me, dipping her finger into the buttercream frosting, drawing it to her lips, licking it ever so slowly.
Fuck, my cock is aching at the sight of it, and I have to turn away, remembering the fact that this 22-year-old woman is my daughter's best friend and my daughter happens to be standing right the hell next to her.
This is not appropriate or acceptable any way I look at it. Fuck, this is trouble.
I swallow. "It's fine," I say gruffly, "I don't really care." But I do care. I care way too much. I care about Lucia in ways that would make her father livid, that would make my daughter's eyes blaze, in ways that would probably worry Lucia herself, though of that I can't be too certain.
Because I goddamn swear that sometimes that girl looks at me with desire in her eyes, lust on her lips, need between her knees. I've seen her spread her legs ever so slightly more than once. I've seen her arch her back when she was wearing a too-tiny bikini while lounging at my swimming pool, pretending to be looking at the pool party when I know her eyes were on my body.
I may be 25 years older than she is, but age is just a number, isn't it?
"Dad," my daughter Fiona says, "Flynn and I were wondering if you're bringing a date to the Christmas party?"
"A date," Lucia says, and I swear there is annoyance in her voice, offence on my behalf. Good girl, I think. I'm offended by the question too.
"No," I say. "Since when do I bring dates anywhere?"
Fiona sighs, "I don't know. I just thought now that I'm married, maybe, I don't know, maybe it's time for you to settle down. Clearly, I'm all grown up and I don't need you to–"
"Fiona," I say, cutting my daughter off. "I'm happy you are married to Flynn, but no, I'm not bringing a date to my annual Christmas party. It would be ridiculous. Who am I going to hook up with in Sin City?"
Fiona smiles. "I don't know. There's a lady I've met that I think might be perfect for you. She's kind and sweet and..."
Lucia smirks, "She sounds way too vanilla. Your dad is much more..."
Fiona's face twists up in disgust. "What?" she asks in horror. "My dad is much more..." She shakes her head, unable to even fill in the blank. "Oh, my God, I wouldn't want to know," she squeals in disgust. "Lucia, maybe you've been getting out too much. You always were the wild one, weren't you?"
Fiona exhales and continues frosting the cookies. It's the girls' annual Christmas tradition. Of course, they don't need to be frosting anything. There are caterers who are going to be bringing in all the food, drinks, and desserts for my soirée. But Fiona and Lucia have been doing this every Christmas, since as far back as I can remember, making Christmas cookies to pass out at the party. Tradition holds, and I think that's sweet. Some things shouldn't change, but others?
I shake my head, taking a drink of my whiskey.
It's getting dark out, nearly seven at night. The sun has begun to set in the desert, and I wish I weren't going to bed alone tonight, but some things do change. Traditions, yes, they stay the same, but I look over at Lucia, all grown up. She's no longer the little girl in pigtails who would run around this kitchen. She is fully formed in every way imaginable. I run a hand over my jaw, thinking I'd like to see just how grown up she’s become.
She must be reading my mind because just as I step outside to get a breather on the patio, she joins me.
"Hey, Cane," she says. "You needed some fresh air?"
I chuckle, "Something like that."
She's twirling some whiskey in a glass of her own.
"Aren't you too young to be drinking the hard stuff?"
She shrugs. "You know I'm all grown up." She looks over at me coyly. At least that's what I think. I'm reading between the lines here. Hoping. Praying.
"All grown up, huh? Pretty big words for a little girl."
"I'm not little, Cane."
"Yeah? What are you?"
"I'm a woman."
"I can see that," I tell her. I take another drink of the whiskey. I raise a glass to her. "And I was getting grilled in there about the date I was or was not bringing to this party. What about you?"
She looks over her shoulder into the kitchen. Flynn and Fiona are kissing over the kitchen sink, noses touching, eyes lost in one another's gaze. "No," she says, "I'm not bringing anyone. The person I want will already be there." Her eyes then lock on mine.