December 4

DECEMBER 4

“I just wanna wake up on Christmas morning with snow all around and a Daddy holding me tight.”

My eyes flashed open.

“Behave, boy.”

Oh God.

“Stop being so difficult, Parker, and tell me your address. I’m trying to get you home safely.”

“Oh no,” I whimpered.

My sheets weren’t this nice. My bed was…softer than this.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

What had I done?

With my heart lodged in my throat, I scrambled out of bed and looked around me. Ouch—perfect time for a headache to just slam itself right into my skull.

My bedroom wasn’t this tidy. Or fancy. Every piece of furniture was of some dark wood, a stark contrast to the cream-colored walls and beigey stone floor.

Holy shit. I’d given him no choice but to take me home with him when I’d refused to tell him my address. Because apparently you didn’t give that to strangers. But going home with one was okay? I was a fucking idiot. I’d crossed so many lines. And I remembered it all. Why did I remember? I didn’t wanna remember.

I swallowed a bout of nausea as I scanned the floor for my clothes. That was how I noticed the door next to the large bed. It had to be a bathroom. At some point, I’d shed all my clothes and left them in a trail into the bathroom. Man, I hoped he hadn’t been around to see that.

I picked up my clothes on my way into the bathroom, where I quickly decided to stay for a while. Hot damn, a shower for two. I wasn’t going to make myself at home—I’d already done that too much—but I needed to get rid of any traces that revealed I’d inhaled a bar last night.

There were actual dispensers in the shower for shampoo, body wash, and conditioner. Like at some hotel.

And the fluffiest towels…

Yeah, I was gonna end up taking a long shower. I couldn’t face Mr. Abrams like this. I had shadows under my eyes, my hair was a mess, and let’s not discuss how I smelled. I couldn’t show up at dance rehearsal like this later.

Spare toothbrushes under the sink, thank you, thank you.

Okay, a plan. I needed a plan. Once I was done here, I was going to apologize profusely, make it clear that I would totally understand if he fired me, and then I’d call an Uber, go home, and put together a gift basket that screamed I’m sorry.

Embarrassment was one thing, and everyone made mistakes. But I’d gone way too far. I felt ashamed, and I might actually need a good cry as soon as I got home.

* * *

How the hell did I open this ancient block of a wood door—oh, it was a sliding door. All right. I swallowed my nerves and left the guest room. I assumed it was a guest room anyway.

The stone floor continued outside the room, and I could veer left and right along a hallway or go straight ahead, where it opened up to reveal a large kitchen with a priceless view of the ocean. No, not priceless. There was definitely a set price tag on this address. Mr. Abrams had an actual beach house in Santa Monica. That was a whole other level of rich.

He liked his cream-colored floors and walls, combined with the same dark wood I’d seen in the guest room. Maybe walnut. Along with lots of spotlights and natural light. The patio doors went along the entire length of the house, as did the patio outside.

The weather fit my mood. Overcast and foggy.

I spotted him when I was just a few feet into the kitchen. To the right, past a kitchen bar, was a dining area and then a sitting room. He sat at the kitchen table and looked like he’d just walked out of a Nespresso commercial with George Clooney.

Not a hair out of place. Suit pants, a light blue button-down that made me acutely aware of the wrinkles on my own shirt—hell, he even wore shoes. A small cup of coffee or espresso, the paper he was reading, and one leg folded over the other. Nespresso Daddy. That was it. He was a Nespresso Daddy.

I cleared my throat and didn’t come closer.

He glanced over at me and put down his paper. “Good morning, Parker.”

“Morning, sir.” Fuck, I was seriously nervous. I wasn’t used to that. My stomach knotted into a tight mess, and I hated it. “I, uh…I wanted to apologize before I get out of your hair. My behavior last night was…” I shook my head, struggling to find an adequate word. “Obnoxious.” Good enough. “I’m very sorry if I made you uncomfortable, and I wouldn’t blame…” I trailed off when I heard the doorbell.

Mr. Abrams held up a finger and got up. “That should be your breakfast. I expected you to sleep till noon, but this is good. Now we won’t have to reheat anything later.”

He passed me on the way to the door, and I was just dumbfounded. At a complete loss. He’d ordered me breakfast?

“I understand if you wanna poison it,” I blurted out.

He threw me a strange look over his shoulder, as if I was acting weird, then continued toward the door.

He was the weird one right now. And while he was out of sight, I did my best to tuck in my shirt and smooth down the fabric. I ran a hand through my hair too, in an attempt to tame it.

Mr. Abrams returned shortly after with a white paper bag, and he told me to have a seat at the table.

Having breakfast here indicated I wouldn’t be making a hasty exit.

Just pointing that out.

I didn’t dare defy him, though. I’d been doing that by pushing his buttons all week.

I made my way to the round table and sat down at a respectable distance. In the meantime, Mr. Abrams went behind the kitchen island and unpacked whatever he’d ordered for me.

“I took a shot in the dark and followed the holiday party’s hashtag on social media,” he said conversationally. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you tagged in oh-so many photos and videos.”

Gulp.

He poured a bottle of OJ into a glass, followed by some hot beverage into a mug. “You’re quite the clown around friends. Quite the drinker…” That one earned me a raised brow. “And quite the performer.”

He must’ve seen footage of Kim and me dancing.

“From there, it was easy to locate your own account and find out what you like to eat,” he said, plating something in a wrap. “Because as we all know, you can’t be on social media and not let friends know what you had for lunch. Dinner… Breakfast.” With that said, he gathered everything on a tray and returned to the table.

If I had been dumbfounded before, it had nothing on now.

He was supposed to yell at me—or, which was more apt to his character, quietly tell me to leave and never come back. Instead…he’d bought me juice, hot cocoa, a breakfast sandwich, and friggin’ pancakes.

“How’s your head this morning?” he wondered and sat down again. With his espresso and some tiny cookie. It looked like a biscotti. Typical Nespresso Daddy, I decided. “After I put you to bed last night, I was going to get you a couple painkillers, but when I came back to the guest room, you were in the process of taking off all your clothes.”

“Oh, of course I was.” I scrubbed at my face, beyond mortified. “This would be the perfect time for the ground to swallow me whole.”

He chuckled. He actually chuckled.

I looked up from my hands, and damn, his smile reached his eyes. It was the hottest sight I’d seen all year.

Then it faded, and he motioned to my food with his cup. “Eat your breakfast.”

Yes, sir.

“What about you?” I tucked into my pancakes with gusto and filled my mouth. “A cookie iffn’t breakfaft.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, just a pinch of mirth lingering. “Swallow before you talk.”

Oh, right. Yeah. I knew that.

“Are they good?” he asked.

“Very. But they’d be even better with more syrup.” I had to be honest. “And my head is okay, by the way. The shower helped.”

“Good, I’m glad.” He rose from his seat and headed over to the kitchen again. “I spent most of my thirties in both Rome and LA. This is what I had for breakfast every day in Italy.”

An espresso and a tiny cookie? That sounded boring.

“Maybe Italians should stick to pasta and pizza,” I said. “Do you by any chance have whipped cream? I already owe you the biggest gift basket known to man. I figure why not go all the way.”

“You lost me. Why do you owe me a gift basket?” When he came back, he had both syrup and whipped cream. Fucking yum. “You’re going to end up in a food coma.”

“That’s my kind of coma.” I grinned gleefully and sprayed a bunch of cream onto my cocoa, then poured lots and lots of syrup onto my pancakes.

“Hm.” Mr. Abrams clearly didn’t agree with me. “Answer my question, Parker.”

What ques—oh. “To show you how sorry I am, obviously. For stepping over the line last night. And for being pushy and stuff all week.” I poured a little bit more— “Hey!”

He’d stolen the maple syrup from me.

“I think that’s enough sugar.”

I pouted.

He merely dipped his biscotti in his coffee and took a bite, all while watching me, and it was becoming unnerving. This whole morning, in fact. It hadn’t ended the way I’d imagined or anticipated. He wasn’t mad—I didn’t think so, at least. He’d barely acknowledged my apology, which had been cut off.

Before last night, he’d been seemingly eager to get rid of me as quickly as possible whenever we’d been in the same space. Now I’d learned he’d checked out my social media to find out what foods I liked, and he’d asked around about me at work.

I bit into my breakfast sandwich instead, and it was amazing. Eggs, melted cheese, and sausage on a croissant. Heaven!

“You don’t owe me a gift basket of any sort,” he said after a while. “I appreciate your apology, but that’s unnecessary too. It’s been an interesting week.”

Interesting?

Interesting?!

“I’ve learned a lot.” He smiled to himself and took a sip of his coffee.

I scrunched my nose and reached for my cocoa. “You’re very cryptic, sir.”

That got me another chuckle.

“You’re very talkative, boy.”

I liked it when he called me boy. He’d done that last night too.

“Sorry.” I had to drop my gaze before I could be accused of staring too much. The deep blue color of his eyes did me in. And the way he expressed the power he held. No, wait, that was wrong. He didn’t express it at all. And that was what made it so irresistible. A man of true assertiveness didn’t feel the need to showcase his strengths or tell people how he was. It was simply there for the rest of us to discover on our own.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” Mr. Abrams leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “I rather enjoy how expressive you are. It’s a good trait in people. I have some experience with the opposite, and that didn’t end well.”

I couldn’t look down any longer. He was offering up information about himself without any prodding.

“Former employee or relationship?” I took another huge bite of my sandwich.

His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “The latter. Which, ironically, made me close myself in when it was over. My divorce essentially turned me into the reason I’d wanted a divorce in the first place.”

Oh. “You were married.”

He inclined his head. “It was a disaster.”

“That sucks.” I had some more of my pancakes too, even though I was starting to feel full. “When was this?”

He hummed, thinking. “Must’ve been…five years now—since we divorced. We were together for twelve but only married eight months.”

Damn. I suddenly felt unsettled, like I was standing on shaky ground or something. Like I had no business being here. My longest relationship had lasted a year, and it was difficult for me to get attached properly. And I wasn’t even gun-shy. The men I’d been with simply hadn’t ticked enough boxes for me to relax fully.

“So you’ve been the grinch since then?” I asked.

He let out a little laugh and finished his coffee. “Yes, you can say that. I bought this place, spent my free time remodeling it—when I wasn’t traveling—and I stopped meeting new people. I stopped socializing.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, then took a gulp of my juice. “You must’ve gotten hurt.”

He tilted his head. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know what thing other than betrayal would result in closing yourself in like that.”

He grew pensive before he eventually offered half a nod. “I suppose you’re right. There were a lot of empty promises, and it put a dent in my ability to trust.”

I put down my fork, unable to eat another bite. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I wasn’t sure it was only the food that was giving me a stomachache. “Can I ask, um… I mean—was this an ex-wife or an ex-husband?”

He smirked faintly. “Ex-husband.”

Confirmation, check! I managed to keep my face composed, but it did feel nice to have it verified.

“I wasn’t sure,” I admitted. “A friend told me she thought you were gay, but then you had two women waiting outside your office last night, so…”

“Ah. You mean Claire and Cassie—my new interns.” Mirth seeped into his eyes. “They’re my nieces, Parker. They mentioned they saw a naked guy asking about me.”

Fuck. I scratched my ear, and it felt hot. Eye contact was suddenly difficult too. I was so embarrassingly obvious.

“Are you finished?” He gestured to my food.

I nodded and inched back. “Thank you very much, sir. You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“Consider it a thank-you for the snickerdoodle cookies. They were perfect.”

That put a grin on my face so fast. “I’ll make you thousands more if you want.”

“Oof. Some of us don’t have the metabolism of a twenty-five-year-old anymore.” As he brought my plate to the sink, I grabbed some more stuff to help out, and I followed him there like a puppy.

We’d had such a nice time that I couldn’t bear to put any distance between us yet. I wasn’t ready. I wanted more. Much more.

Once we reached the sink, I put down the dishes there before I leaned against the counter next to him. “Oh, wow. I don’t think my sink has been empty ever.” Even after I’d just tidied up the kitchen, I found the random spoon or plate somewhere, and it had to wait in the sink until I was ready to do the dishes again a week later.

“Discovering that you’re a slob doesn’t even qualify on the top ten surprises I’ve had this week.” He smirked to himself as he threw away the leftovers in the bin under the sink. “But this is interesting. You don’t like boundaries, you struggle to control your urges, you eat way too much sugar for breakfast, you were seemingly born without a verbal filter, you’re a goofball, and you’re a slob.”

I swallowed hard and looked away as I bit at a cuticle.

Talk about a reality check of the cold-shower variety.

What was I even doing here? Mr. Abrams was so far out of my league that I shouldn’t be allowed in the same room.

“Yeah, I know, I’m such a catch.” I needed to grow up.

He finished what he was doing, then positioned himself in front of me, and when he cupped my face in his hands, it was damn near impossible to keep my stare fixed to the floor.

Holy crap!

My heart began pounding furiously.

He dipped down till our foreheads touched, and then he waited me out. Oh my God, was this happening? I could barely breathe, much less understand what he wanted me to say or do to get…more. He had to kiss me, dammit. He has to, he has to, he has to. My whole body buzzed around those three words. He has to, he has to.

He smiled a little, just enough to show a hint of his perfect teeth. And he finally closed the last distance and kissed me.

I sucked in a quick breath and kissed him back, and I felt the need to lock my arms around his middle to prevent him from going anywhere. Just in case he wised up.

“An irresistible catch,” he whispered.

I shuddered and deepened the kiss, at long last getting a taste of him. He was all warmth and coffee and sweet almonds. And he kissed so damn well. Soft yet demanding, unhurried yet with urgency lacing every touch. There was no getting enough, and I didn’t have the patience he evidently did. I slipped my hands up his chest instead and stood on my toes to reach him better.

As his hands fell to my hips, mine went around his neck so I could press myself against his body.

He let out a quiet groan and kissed me hungrily, then reached down and squeezed my ass.

The kiss turned into an absolute drug, and I poured myself into it. Every brush of his tongue, every touch of his lips, and the air of control he exuded reduced me to a pile of needy mush.

“What on earth are you doing with an old man like me, Parker?” he murmured raggedly.

“All the unspeakable things, I hope,” I replied, out of breath. He couldn’t stop now. It was too soon. “Forty-six isn’t that old anyway.”

“I’m glad you think so.” He kissed me again, a deep, passionate one where he swept his tongue into my mouth and stole my breath.