Falling For Dad’s College Rival by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Seven

Brooke

If I had somewhere else to go, I would.

The idea of being home when dad may be bringing home a ‘date’ from his reunion is enough to make me feel worse than I already do.

We’ve never spoken about having visitors or god forbid sleepover friends, dad, and me.

It’s kind of always been the unspoken understanding that neither of us would have to worry about that ever happening.

Stupid dress.

I practically peel it off me and step out of everything else once the front door is closed and locked behind me.

I’m soaked through and only want a hot shower, something in my belly, and then sleep.

But I have this nagging feeling that tonight isn’t over yet somehow, and I’m dreading my dad coming home now more than anything.

I just want to put all this stupid Trent Latham stuff behind me and move on with my life.

Oh god.

The thought of my whole life ahead of me is equally depressing, maybe more so.

I groan, almost painfully once I do hit the shower. As nice as it feels, the thought of not seeing Trent again causes a lump in my throat that won’t go away.

I’m not gonna cry over it. I’m not gonna cry over anyone anymore.

I’m no stranger to being hurt, and it’s not as if Trent said or did anything nasty on purpose. He was nothing but a complete gentleman.

Probably just not into younger, thick girls and that’s okay too.

I tell myself all this and more as I gradually relax a little and feel warm enough to decide I’ll have a microwave meal, some ice cream, and an early night.

I hope my dad does have better luck than I did, he deserves some happiness after all.

Ah, crap.

I should’ve texted him, called him even. Now it’s been so long since I left the damned reunion it’ll be awkward, so I decide to just leave it.

Checking my phone I can see he hasn’t called either, so maybe he’s having too good a time for me to interrupt him anyway.

With dad out, I can crank up the thermostat without him getting on my case and I slip into my comfy jammies.

The ones with all the holes in all the wrong places, but they’re so damned cozy on a night like this and they just don’t make them like this anymore.

My double serving of microwave mac n’ cheese beeps that it’s ready, and I wonder if I should watch a few episodes or a binge season of my favorite new series before the doorbell chiming turns my heart to ice.

I freeze, feeling like an intruder in my own home. Like I’ve done something terrible and the whole world’s come knocking all because I bailed on my dad at his college reunion.

I decide to ignore it, hoping whoever it is will just go away.

Anyone important enough has my number and the house phones too.

It wouldn’t be my dad.

He has his own keys.

The doorbell chimes a second and then a third time, making me start to worry.

I’m here all alone, and whoever it is isn’t going anyplace anytime soon.

What if it is dad? Maybe he lost his keys.

Maybe there was an accident?

And so it goes, round and round in my mind until I have to get up the courage to at least have a peek through the living room curtains.

I creep down the hallway, hoping the sound of the wind and rain covers the creaking floor when the sound of a heavy knock makes me scream momentarily before I can cover my mouth.

“Brooke?” Brooke!”

It’s a deep, powerful voice. Commanding and strong.

It sounds familiar, but nah. It couldn’t be.

There’s a heavier thumping on the door, followed by the same voice demanding I open up or he’ll kick it in.

“It’s Trent Latham, Brooke. Just tell me you’re safe,” he pleads, and I feel all the fear and worry rush out of me like a plug has been pulled.

Without even thinking I rush to the door, hurrying to unlock and pull it wide open.

There’s a rush of frigid air from outside, cutting through my jammies and finding every hole, every exposed bit of my flesh.

But I don’t care.

Anything’s worth it to see him again. Anything.

I almost hug him. At least, that’s what I want to do but he takes me firmly by the elbows, asking me if I’m alright.

“I heard a scream, my god Brooke, are you alright?”

Hearing him so concerned, feeling his huge hands holding me up, I’m more than alright.

But then I remember the reunion. Seeing him take out that drunk guy who groped me, and then coming back in with that… woman on his arm.

I’m supposed to be mad at Trent Latham, and it’s getting mighty hard to even remember why let alone feel it when all I want is for him to hold me with those huge arms of his.

Hold me in his arms so I can nuzzle into his perfect body.

“I… I tried to catch you before you left,” he says almost sheepishly, loosening his grip on me and looking down at his feet.

“You seemed pretty well occupied as far as I could tell,” I almost hiss. Not a hint of venom in my voice. Well, not much.

His eyes rush to meet mine, and his hands take hold of me again.

“I don’t even know that woman, I swear,” he says, setting his jaw tight, his eyes full of nothing but the truth.

He’s got no reason to lie to me, about that woman or about anything else.

“She seemed like she had a good grip on you, I just assumed—” I start.

“Well don’t,” he says firmly, moving one of his hands up to cup my face, lifting my chin a little and making my breath shiver.

“Don’t assume anything unless I tell you directly,” he adds just as firm like he’s as mad I am now that we even had such a stupid misunderstanding.

“I just figured you might have another date is all, not just that woman who grabbed you,” I finish, wanting it to sound as if it’s no big deal but feeling like I need to sit down from the shock of my relief.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” he asks, his lip curling into a smile as his eyes move from mine, down to my jammies.

Holding his gaze for a moment here and there as I feel my nipples stiffen in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

“My dad—” I say without thinking.

Idiot!

“I mean, I should call my dad and let him know what’s happened. He might be worried,” I tell him, watching him shrug and then look at me askew.

“So you’re not gonna ask me in?” he asks, slightly taken aback.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean…” I stammer, reaching out for him, grateful to feel his arm under my tiny hand. My eyes begging him not to go.

“I just mean I should call my dad,” I murmur, feeling like I’ve taken my first breathe since he arrived once he steps in and I close the door behind us both.

Trent doesn’t mention my dad or my need to call him. He glances around with a little frown nodding before he focuses on me again.

I realize we’re both standing in the hallway, and I’m glued to the spot, totally unsure of what to do or even say next.

“We could still go back,” he finally says. “To the reunion, I mean.”

It’s my turn to look taken aback.

“I didn’t want to go alone, really,” he adds thoughtfully, letting his eyes dance across my chest again before they move down to my hips.

He lets out a low sound. The sound of a man who’s satisfied and likes what he sees.

It’s not something I’ve ever experienced, but there’s no denying his interest.

If that pant bulge of his is anything to go by anyway.

Maybe it’s just the light.

“I’m all wet,” I tell him quickly, watching his brows lift with amusement. “I mean, I got all wet in the rain and now I’m wet from the shower still… My hair,” I explain.

He shrugs. “Dry it. Then you could change and we could be back at the reunion in time for the main course,” he says hungrily. Almost greedily as he catches my eyes moving over his body as much as his are still moving over mine.

I open my mouth to try and make an excuse, but the idea of saying no to Trent Latham is almost as frightening as the idea of being alone with him in the house in my jammies.

The feeling in the air between us is not my imagination, and I know that if I don’t go with him, he’ll have something else in store.

Something I can’t even contemplate right now without feeling like I need to lay down.

I stab a nod, telling him I’ll go get dressed. He nods with that satisfied look again, the same deep sound echoing through the hall as I feel him watch me walk into my room.

“Make yourself at home,” I call out over my shoulder, having to lean against my bedroom door once I close it, and feeling so wet down there I struggle not to too moan or make too much noise as I get dressed.

Each inch of fabric against my aching mound responds as though it was Trent himself down there.

It’s my body’s way of telling me that here’s a man who knows what he wants, and he’s found a girl who knows what she really needs too.

And I know Trent Latham is just the man to give it to me.