His Rules (Love, Daddy 3)

“You are a quick study, Lex. You know how much I like my rules.”

“Yes.” I squeeze my thumbs under my fingers and turn the toes of my right foot inward. “I’m beginning to pick up on some things about you.” I cross my fisted hands over my chest, feeling the sun warming my back, and a quick breeze fluffs my skirt around my thighs.

“Is that a fact?” Another deep breath stretches the gray jersey fabric across his chest. I see the indents and pressure from where the muscles of his torso create an almost X-ray effect on the fabric. He’s thick everywhere I can see. Not overly bulky.

And in height, he dwarfs me. He’s got to be six foot five, because my dad was about six three, and Rueger has a couple inches on that memory.

“You ready for the zoo?”

The smile on his lips is inviting, the sapphire blue of his eyes hypnotic. I’d never really considered what makes a man sexy to me until Rueger.

He’s far from slick. The words pretty boy would not apply. He’s a bit crooked, even, when I think about it. His nose sits a bit to the left, which balances the way his full upper lip lifts slightly upward at the right corner from the scar that pulls there.

He looks happy today, but suddenly I think it’s more than that. More than just contentment. He looks pleased. I remember seeing a look like that in my father’s eyes whenever I did something that made him proud.

His eyes wander over me and come to rest on my chest. I swear he’s never done that before.

At least, not so obviously. And, my God, those eyes of his. I think Facebook stole their blue from his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like that; they deserve their own patent.

“New shirt.” He clears his throat and brings a hand to grip over his mouth, holding it there for a moment, then shaking his head and finally breaking his gaze from my chest.

That’s another reason I think I’m so drawn to Rueger. He has that same genuine interest in me. In seeing me succeed.

And it’s not as though he’s dating me. Even when I think about the few boyfriends I’ve had, none of them seemed to care at all about what made me tick, what was inside my head. They all seemed more interested in what I could do for them.

Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all, it didn’t save me from letting a couple of them get what it was they wanted from me a few times. I shake the thought away. Those fumbling, insecure boys from the past are nothing compared to Rueger. Even if I will never be more than his mentee, I savor every moment we are together, fueling my foolish, girlish dreams that there could ever be anything more.

I pluck an invisible bit of lint from the front of my new shirt before I reply. “I saw it and liked it.” I bounce up and down on my toes, having a hard time controlling my nervous energy when he’s close. “I’m ready to go when you are.”

Who would have thought a twenty-three-year-old waitress with a petty theft arrest record and a semicolon tattoo would be taking so much joy in a simple trip to the zoo with her probation project sponsor?

“Okay, then let’s go. We are sloth-ward bound.” He unfolds his right arm in an arc toward the front of the Wagoneer, urging me forward. I straighten in anticipation of the gentle contact I know is coming. His hand at the small of my back as I step in front of him.

Even knowing it’s coming, I can’t help the reaction even the slightest touch from him ignites inside me, the flames that shoot down the backs of my legs. Such a gentleman in such a rugged physical form.

The next minute, he’s got me securely fastened into the passenger seat, leaning over me as he snaps my seat belt into place. I think of pressing my lips into his beard. He’s so close I can see the coarse hair a mere inch from my nose. I’m barely breathing when he closes the door and works his way back around to the driver’s side.

As the engine growls awake with a turn of the key, I clutch my bag tight on my lap, biting my bottom lip to keep from showing just how thrilled I am to be here. With him. Right now.

Only this time, he doesn’t immediately drive away. He looks over without a hint of shame, his eyes roving over my chest again, making the heat pool between my legs and on the tips of my ears.

His gaze sticks on the points of my nipples as they start to tighten into knots, his hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, tighter and tighter until his knuckles are white and the veins on the backs of his hands dance like vines.

Oh God, his hands. What is it about his hands? They send my stomach toppling up and over itself at a simple glance.

“Everything okay?” I ask, wiggling a little in my seat, and I nervously cross my ankles.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, I uncross them and cross them the other way, d

ropping my eyes and studying my feet like they’re the most interesting things in the world. The red Converse Chuck Taylors he got me for my birthday last month rasp against each other, the huge-looped lavender laces trying to tangle.

Oh my God, I wish my heart would slow down. At this rate, I’ll have to start to worry about a cardiologist at my age.

He takes a deep, loud breath through his nose, holding it. A second passes, then another, and I find myself holding my own breath right along with him. Another second, another. The moment seems to stretch into eternity. The rust-colored vinyl seat sticks to the backs of my legs as I try to shift and find some comfort.

Something is different.

He feels different.