3. Wren

“Thanks.” I smiled at the young guy behind the hotel desk.

“Text us if you need anything at all, Ms. Jacobs. Our virtual concierge service is top tier.” As he passed me the keys to the suite the auction house had reserved, his gaze slipped over my head to the hulk of a man glaring at pretty much everyone.

It didn’t matter that Tom Wilson was in jeans and had a baseball cap pulled low to obscure his face. The man couldn’t do low-profile. I didn’t know whether the concierge recognized him as the famous former baseball god he was or the coach of the Boston Revs, but it didn’t matter. Tom’s presence was bigger than his reputation.

And the tight T-shirt didn’t help.

My stomach flipped as I took in the muscles barely hidden by gray fabric. It was unfair, a man of his age with shoulders and pecs of stone. Not an inch of his body had aged in all the years I’d known him. It was difficult to believe he was in his late forties. Hardly a wrinkle pulled at the skin around his bright blue eyes, and the light brown hair that peeked out from beneath his Boston Bolts cap was barely flecked with gray. I swore the man had single-handedly learned the secret of how not to age. The rest of the world changed, grew older, yet he stayed forever young.

But I’d been crushing on Tom Wilson since the time I’d understood what it was to have a crush. At one of the Rev’s player’s wife’s birthday party last month, I’d enjoyed the hell out of wiggling my way past his steel will to get a reaction out of the rigid man. And I swore, that night at Zara’s party, was one of those times he saw me for the woman I was and not the girl I used to be.

Excitement tingled through my stomach. There had been times over the last two years that I could have sworn Daddy Wilson was looking at me. When I thought that maybe the growls he fired my way weren’t brought on by annoyance but attraction. I’d never been certain until this moment.

“Are you not freezing?”

With the way he was looking at me, I felt anything but cold.

His attention heated me through, and not only did it have my lips lifting into a smile, but it made my confidence soar.

“Don’t you know the expression beauty knows no pain, Daddy Wilson?”

His frown deepened, but as his eyes lifted to mine, the spark of interest still burned bright.

“Mr. Wilson.” Although it was his typical response, this time, I thought the reminder of who he was supposed to be wasn’t for my benefit.

Typically, this was when I’d give up. When I’d give into the box he’d locked me in. But I was already a drink in, so between the liquid courage and the certainty that this buzz I felt around him wasn’t totally one-sided, I pushed my luck.

“Okay, Mr. Wilson. You can buy me a drink for trying to kill my vibe.”

I latched on to his arm to pull him toward the bar. The second my hand touched his exposed skin, the air went from that tingle of attraction to heavy with something more.

His corded forearm bunched, but otherwise, he was frozen. When I looked up to his face, he was fixated on the place where our bodies were connected. Slowly, he dragged his gaze up my arm, and when he paused at the neckline of my strapless black dress, I fought the shiver that tried to race down my spine. There was no stopping the pounding in my chest, though. And it only increased when he continued up my neck to my mouth. With his teeth pressed into his bottom lip, he shifted a bit closer.

Holy shit. My best friend’s father was about to kiss me.

The idea burned through my system like wildfire .

But between one blink and the next, a switch flipped and the heat in his eyes vanished.

Swallowing thickly, he spun toward the bar. I was still holding on to his arm, so I moved too.

“You’re playing with fire, baby girl.”

The words left his lips in a growl, like he was trying to convince himself to think of me as an off-limits teenage girl rather than a thirty-year-old woman.

“I’m not a child,” I snapped.

“Trust me, I’m entirely too aware of that.” Sidling up to the bar, he gave it a tap with two fingers. “Can I get a scotch on the rocks and a cranberry mimosa?”

With a nod, the bartender moved for the scotch.

“You’ve been watching me, Daddy Wilson.” I’d set my champagne flute down a while ago, and yet he knew what I was drinking.

He leaned in close, his nose almost brushing my jaw.

“Years, Wren. I’ve been watching you for years.” His breath danced over my ear, and my heart skipped a beat. Snapping straight, he yanked his glass off the bar. “Have a good night.”

It might have been a month ago, but every moment of that interaction was so vivid in my mind, it felt like yesterday.

Despite all that, this weekend was not the time to needle him. Because this was business.

For a single heartbeat after my eyes met his on the airplane, I’d been shocked. But the clues clicked into place quickly. Not only had he been passionate about Stonehenge when we’d discussed it forever ago, but he’d always been a fan of the arts. My first trip to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts was courtesy of Tom. Avery had been bored out of her mind, but sixteen-year-old me had listened to him talk about how art could tell entire stories in one beat of time. I had been fascinated. Part of my awe that day was because he was this cool star athlete I had a massive crush on, but another large part was caused by his passion for each watercolor.

As I turned away from the concierge, his bright eyes locked on to me, making it harder to breathe. Typically he didn’t meet my eyes. Or look at me much at all. Today, though, he wasn’t avoiding me, and the intensity of his stare had me on edge .

“Ready?” I asked, trying not to wince at the crack in my voice.

“That was quick.” His words were low and his lips hardly moved.

The gruff tone somehow felt like a compliment and sent a thrill up my spine.

“I called this morning and requested the room be ready early, and then I checked in on the mobile app on the way over.” I knew Tom well enough to know he hated wasting time.

“Well done.” His mouth twitched like maybe he was happy, but since the man never smiled, it was impossible to tell. He held out an arm, gesturing to the elevator.

Quickly, I headed that way, and as luck would have it, we stepped right on. The silence in the small stainless-steel box was surprisingly comfortable. Normally I’d try to fill the void with words, but Tom hated nonsense, and the knowledge that he didn’t expect conversation put me at ease.

When the doors opened, he held them in place and waited for me to exit before stepping out behind me. I wasn’t short by any means, but I felt small when this well over six-foot-tall man hovered behind me.

I pulled my shoulders back as I moved toward the suite door. Normally professionalism came easy to me. I boxed clients into spaces that kept them at arm’s length. With Tom, though, that routine was much harder.

Erin’s warning ran through my head as we made our way down the hall. When she’d given it, I’d been lost and maybe a little offended. I wasn’t the type of person who needed a reminder like that. But in hindsight, she was cautioning me, knowing that I was going to spend the weekend with my best friend’s father. Her concern was not about a hookup. Not that Tom would ever let that happen, even if we’d shared a few moments and despite the hints of this electric chemistry that arced between us. No, Erin’s warning was about balancing my familiarity with him with his preference for working with a distant professional. That was okay. Great, really. Because I desperately wanted to prove I could be that.

I pushed the door open, reining in the awe that consumed me as I took in the gorgeous sprawling suite in front of me.

“Let me know if this isn’t acceptable.” I waved my hand, feigning indifference, gesturing to the space—a living room and full kitchen flanked by bedrooms and a balcony with a gorgeous view of Central Park.

“We both know it’s over the top,” he muttered. Though he must have made well over a hundred million dollars between his pitching career in baseball, sponsorships, and during his time coaching the Revs, he wasn’t much for extravagance, and he never flaunted his wealth.

I gave him a sheepish shrug. “Sometimes it’s fun to be over the top.”

Rather than growl in response like I expected, his lips twitched again. “Sometimes.” He strode toward the master bedroom and, unsurprisingly, dropped my bag inside the door.

He turned back, a scowl on his face. “You’re staying here. No arguments.”

Hands clasped in front of me, I nodded.

Tom had a thing about being closer to the exit. In restaurants, movie theaters, hotels, any place that was bustling with people. He always insisted on being between Avery and the door. Being famous, I guessed, could make a man paranoid. Though I could appreciate his need to protect his daughter, I didn’t like the way his instinct to protect me too made butterflies take flight in my belly. There was no preventing the sensation, so all I could do was swallow it down.

As I moved past him, my arm brushed against his abs, sending an electric spark through me.

Hissing, he flinched away. “We’re leaving in ten minutes,” he gritted out as he spun and headed for the second bedroom. “Be ready. I want to be early.”

Early was his natural state. In his mind, if a person arrived on time, they were late. In this moment, though, it felt less like he wanted to be early and more like he needed to get away from me.

Swallowing down the dread and disappointment that stirred in my chest, I opened my bag, removed what I needed, and then went to wait in the living room, ensuring I was ready and willing when my grumpy suitemate came out .

I stood in silence, listening to the zipper of his suitcase, and pulled up the text thread I’d created for our driver. As I tapped out a message, a drawer clicked shut. Huffing, I shook my head. Who the hell unpacked for one night? It was one p.m., and our flight out was at seven tomorrow morning. We’d be here for another eighteen hours. There was no way he needed to unpack. But I’d keep my mouth shut. If I brought it up, Mr. Uptight would lecture me about wrinkles. I worked smarter, not harder, so the wrap dress I’d brought for tomorrow wouldn’t wrinkle even if I tossed it in a heap and left it that way overnight.

The sound of another drawer slamming had me cringing. This was supposed to be an adventure for Tom. The amount of effort it had taken to convince the owners to part with the piece of art was an achievement on its own. Owning a work as sought-after as Stonehenge should be a celebration, not cause to stress.

Once we picked up the painting, we couldn’t leave it alone in the room, so if we were going to celebrate, we needed to do it now. Not only was it my job to make this exchange go smoothly, but to make it memorable too. And whether Tom knew it or not, he was going to enjoy today.

I deleted the text I’d typed out and chose a different route. After a few messages, our plans had been adjusted.

Tom’s door opened, snagging my attention, and when he stepped out, my knees wobbled.

Holy shit, the man rocked a fucking suit. It was hard to decide which was sexier: the way the charcoal jacket pulled tight across his shoulders or how the crisp white shirt with the top button undone showed off the thick column of his neck.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Come.”

The word sent a shudder down my spine. Though the command was an innocent one, its dual meaning wasn’t lost on me.

I could see the scene play out. His fierce eyes on my face as he hovered above me. His hand between my thighs. Toying with me.

My breath hitched, my heart pounding in my ears?—

“Wren?”

That single syllable pulled me out of the fantasy .

Tom frowned at me, standing halfway across the room, and waved me toward the door.

I forced down the reaction I had no right to have. Even if we hadn’t been thrown together because of business, my best friend would kill me if I slept with her dad. Regardless of the desires he awoke in me, I had to ignore them. I couldn’t go there without risking one of the most important relationships I had.