Her Daddy's Best Friend
Kim Wickford
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Her Daddy's Best Friend
A Naughty Romance Novella
Kim Wickford
Copyright © 2017 Kim Wickford
http://KimWickford.com
All rights reserved. Except for review quotes, this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any simulators to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Chapter 1
"Mom, you can't do this," I groaned. "I'm not a child anymore." Here I was, a few days away from celebrating my twenty-first birthday, and my mother was totally freaking out on me.
"Amber, I don't want to return home this weekend to find my antique furniture burning in the front yard, and a brothel being run out of your father's rec room."
I rolled my eyes. She could be so dramatic at times. "You've watched too many teen movies from the Eighties, Mom. No one does that kind of stuff in real life."
"Yes, well, I was young once too. I know how wild kids can be. Things are even worse now. You're all electronically connected with those dangerous FaceChat and Kindling apps."
"It's FaceTime and Tinder," I explained. She never got it right. How many times did I have to tell her? "And for the record, those apps aren't dangerous."
"Whatever," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I don't like the idea of you having an entire internet mob available at your fingertips."
"So what are you saying? You're cancelling my party? This is so unfair. You promised!"
Now it was my mother's turn to roll her eyes. "Amber, have you heard a single word I've said? Your celebration can go ahead as planned, on one condition. I want you to have supervision."
"Oh my God, you guys are staying home?" I exclaimed, barely able to keep the hysteria out of my voice. "That wasn't part of our deal!" I turned to my father in the hope that he could talk some sense into my obviously crazy mother. "Dad, you guys are supposed to go away this weekend."
"We still are. Two glorious nights at Twin Oaks bed and breakfast." He put an affectionate arm around Mom's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "But if our house is going to be overrun with strangers, we want someone around to keep an eye on things."
"Guys, please, you can trust me," I said, clasping my hands together in supplication. "I won't do anything to put your home or my life in jeopardy."
"No, but your crazy college friends might."
I don't know why I bothered arguing with my parents, it was a hopeless battle I would never win. Even though I'd been the model daughter all the way through high school—never getting into trouble once—they somehow got it into their heads that I'd turned into a delinquent ever since I started attending college in the big city.
Having a babysitter at my party would be humiliating. But it would be even worse if I had to tell my friends that the celebration was cancelled.
"Fine," I grumbled. "If you guys won't be here, who'll be around to supervise?" I put the word in sarcastic air-quotes, and imagined my parents had hired a company of Navy SEALs to watch over me.
"Mr. Worthington," Dad replied.
My eyes bugged out of my head. "What? No! Not our neighbor? Dad, you can't be serious."
He looked confused. "Why? What's wrong with Mr. Worthington? He's a reliable, upstanding guy. I'd trust him with my life."
I groaned and slumped onto the couch. Of all the people to be looking after me, why did it have to be him?
Logan Worthington had moved next door during my final year at high school. He kept to himself, so I didn't actually meet him until a few months after he had settled in. He and Dad bonded one Saturday morning as they stood in their respective backyards and watered their grass. Both of them had a thing for lush, green lawns. They talked about fertilizer and sprinkler systems for hours. Men—go figure.
Logan's black Maserati was a constant fixture in his driveway. I never saw him get into it and drive off to work in the mornings. Dad told me, with a hint of envy in his voice, that Logan had retired when he turned thirty, almost a decade earlier.
"That's kind of young," I said. "What kind of job did he have? Was he a banker?"
Dad shrugged. "He did something big in Silicon Valley. I think he invented an app, or holds an important patent. I'm not really sure. You can ask him yourself tomorrow. I invited him over to watch the game with me."
Mr. Worthington didn't look like a typical tech geek as he lounged on my father's couch. If I didn't know any better, I would have mistaken him for a Men's Fitness model. A five o'clock shadow darkened his angular jaw. His broad shoulders filled out his hoodie. The way the fabric clung across his chest made it obvious he was no stranger to push-ups and bench-presses. If it weren't for the touch of grey at his temples I never would have guessed that he was the same age as my Dad. I suppose the stress-free life of early retirement was like the fountain of youth.
In the end I never got a chance to ask him what he'd done in Silicon Valley. The moment he looked at me with those baby blue eyes, an unexpected rush of shyness washed over me. I felt a fierce blush rise in my cheeks. I was hardly the bashful type, but something about Mr. Worthington made me feel like a dorky school girl who was about to ask a cute boy to dance with her at the junior prom. One glance from him was all it took to send tingles through every part of my body. Especially the parts between my legs.
I murmured a quick "hi" and gave him a silly wave. Then I rushed from the room and steered clear of him for the rest of his visit.
Ugh, what was wrong with me? Why had I behaved like such a total moron in front of him?
That wasn't the last I saw of Mr. Worthington. He and Dad became fast friends, and the handsome retiree became a regular fixture around our house. On Wednesday nights he would come over to play poker and smoke cigars with Dad. On Sunday afternoons the two of them had a standing appointment to watch sports in the den.
Embarrassed by the way I'd behaved, I was determined to keep a low profile during Boys' Nights and never show my face when he was around. I succeeded for a short while until Mom spoiled my plan by recruiting me as a hostess and making me go down to the rec room to freshen up the chips and dip at every halftime. To my absolute dread Mr. Worthington always tried to make conversation with me. In a voice as rich and dark as chocolate he would ask how I was enjoying my final semester at high school. I'm sure he was just being polite. He probably didn't give a damn about what had happened during my second period calculus class.
While I wasn't as twitchy around him as I'd been during our first meeting, he
still had the power to leave me weak at the knees. I knew I couldn't linger long in his presence. I always did my best to avoid eye contact, and kept our conversations brief.
All that changed the night my boyfriend, Chad, dumped me.
Chapter 2
Chad-hole dropped the bombshell two months before graduation. We came back from what I thought was a fantastic date and were parked in my parents' driveway. As I leaned across the seat to get a goodnight kiss he backed away.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Do I still smell like burritos?" I cupped my hand over my mouth and gave a few experimental puffs. I wasn't at my freshest, but I certainly wasn't pungent enough to be rejected for a quick smooch.
"I don't think we should see each other anymore," he said.
Boom … just like that. No easing into it. No softening the blow. He went straight for the knockout.
At first I didn't believe him. I thought he was kidding around, so I gave him a playful punch in the arm. "C'mon, my jalapeño breath isn't that bad."
He stared straight ahead through the windshield, unable to look me in the eye. "I don't think we should see each other anymore, Amber," he repeated robotically.
"What are you talking about? Why are you saying this? Did I do something wrong? You can't just dump me out of the blue. We need to talk about this."
I put my hand on his arm hoping that a bit of physical contact would thaw some of his chilliness, but he brushed me away.
"There's nothing to discuss," he said. "We're over. Now get out of my car. I've got to get back home before my curfew."
That was such a bullshit excuse, and we both knew it. His parents didn't care when he came home.
I pleaded with him to talk to me, to tell me what was going on. When that didn't work, I got angry at him. It didn't matter what I said, Chad remained mute. He tapped his finger on the steering wheel and waited for me to leave.
"You're such an asshole," I spat as I took off my seatbelt and climbed out. The door had barely slammed shut behind me when he threw the car into reverse. He roared out of the driveway so fast that he left skid marks on the asphalt.
I didn't go inside straight away. I wandered into the backyard in a daze, unable to believe what had happened. A potent brew of anger, confusion and rejection churned inside me.
I wondered if his sudden change of heart had anything to do with Kylie. He'd spent an awful lot of time with her in recent weeks. When I asked him why they were always hanging out together he claimed he was tutoring her in chemistry so she could graduate with a higher GPA.
"It's nothing to worry about, Amber," he assured me when I shot him a doubtful look. "I'm just being a good friend." He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, and that was all it took to quell my suspicions.
God, I was such an idiot for trusting him. If nothing else, his lame kiss—something you'd give a kid sister—should have tipped me off that something was wrong between us. Very wrong.
I wanted to punch something, to scream into the night at the top of my lungs, to run over to Chad's house and throw a brick through the cheating bastard's bedroom window. But I did none of those things. Instead, I slumped onto the steps of the back porch and began to sob.
I don't know how long I'd been crying when a voice from the darkness startled me.
"Rough night?"
Across the knee-high hedge that separated our properties, Mr. Worthington sat on his own back porch. The patio lights were off—the reason I hadn't seen him—and a cigar was in his hand. His perpetually unshaven face glowed orange as he took a slow drag. The breeze shifted and the rich aroma of tobacco drifted my way.
"Yeah, you could say that," I sniffed, and wiped my eyes on the back of my sleeve. Now, in addition to being upset, I was mortified at being caught blubbering in the middle of the night.
"I've got something that'll help."
"Hate to break the news to you, but nothing's gonna make me feel better right now."
"This will," he said. He got to his feet and slid open his porch door. "Wait right there."
"Yeah, like I'm going anywhere else," I muttered under my breath.
When he returned a few minutes later the cigar was gone. In his hand was a tumbler filled with a brownish liquid. He straddled the hedge and strolled across the yard.
"Shove over a bit," he said as he dropped down beside me and pushed his hip against mine.
I was vaguely annoyed by his bossiness. Especially since there was a ton of space on the other side of the step. Why didn't he sit over there?
"Here, take a sip of this," he said, and passed me the glass.
I lifted it to my nose and immediately recoiled. The concoction smelled like old socks fermenting in dirty dishwater. "Are you trying to poison me?" I exclaimed. "I mean, yes, I've had a bad night, but not bad enough to want to kill myself. What is this stuff?"
"Kombucha."
"Kom-what?"
"Just try it."
Despite my better judgment I held my breath and took a tentative sip. It was bubbly on my tongue, sort of like a soft drink. To my surprise it tasted even worse than it smelled. I spat it onto the grass.
"You really are trying to murder me, aren't you!"
He didn't accept the tumbler when I tried to pass it back to him.
"Keep sipping," he said. "It's good for you. Chock full of electrolytes. You could use some hydration after all those tears."
"A glass of water would have been a better idea, don't you think? This stuff tastes like death."
"Which is precisely why you need it."
I shook my head, confused. "I'm sorry, I don't follow."
"Something this nasty will make all the other problems in your life pale in comparison."
I wasn't sure if he was being serious with me or not, but at his insistence I attempted another sip. This time I managed to swallow a bit.
"See what I mean," he said as he watched me grimace. "I bet you've already forgotten why you were so upset."
Mr. Worthington didn't bother to ask me what was wrong, or why I was crying on my parents' porch in the middle of the night. He just sat quietly beside me, resting his forearms on his knees as the two of us gazed across the backyard.
Maybe it was the long silence between us that got to me, or maybe it was my need to vent about my boyfriend situation. Whatever the reason, I found myself opening up and telling him everything that had happened to me that night.
Once I started, I couldn't stop. All sorts of details about my relationship with Chad came pouring out. Mr. Worthington didn't say anything in reply, he didn't interrupt, he didn't judge. He just let me get everything off my chest. It felt good to say those things out loud, to voice the doubts I'd harbored about Chad for such a long time.
After I'd yabbered for Lord-knows how long, I finally ran out of steam. I felt purged. But at the same time I also felt very self-conscious.
"I shouldn't have told you all that stuff," I said. "You're probably sick of listening to me ramble on like that."
He reached for the tumbler, still clutched in my clammy hands, and took a sip. "This Chad character sounds like a real asshole."
"You got that right," I grunted.
"Things will get better for you, trust me. Boys your age are never as emotionally mature as girls. Sometimes it takes a while for them to catch up."
I glanced over at him. "How many years do I have to wait?"
He shrugged. "That's anyone's guess."
"Is that why you're not married?" I asked, and gave him a teasing nudge in the ribs. "You're still a boy waiting to grow up?" I knew it was a daring thing to say, but I couldn't help myself. I'd just been dumped and I was feeling sassier than usual.
"I used to be married … a long time ago." Mr. Worthington's fingers went to his left knuckle to touch the ghost of a ring that was no longer there.
"Was she too mature for you to handle?"
He took another swallow of kombucha before he answered. "Sometimes couples can't always agree on what they want—no mat
ter how much they think they love each other."
There was something in his tone that piqued my curiosity, but I didn't want to pry. I wondered if his ex-wife had wanted children and he didn't. That would make sense. He was too handsome and youthful-looking to be tied down with a family. Why would he want to settle into a boring domestic life when he was so wealthy and carefree?
"You're starting college in a few months, aren't you?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
I nodded.
"Don't waste another moment thinking about Chad. Something tells me a beautiful young woman like you will find a nicer boy in no time."
"I doubt it," I said with a snort. I was glad we were sitting in the dark because I could feel my face grow hot when he called me beautiful.
I liked talking to him, and not just because he paid me a compliment. Even though he was almost twenty years older, I felt like I was having a conversation with someone who was my equal. Someone who understood me in a way my parents didn't.
As it turned out, Mr. Worthington's prediction about my love life was utterly wrong.
I didn't find a nice boy when I went away to college. And I didn't find one in my sophomore year either. Something had changed in me that night on the porch. In my moment of vulnerability I realized something important about myself. What I needed wasn't another boy. I wanted a man. A man who could appreciate my womanly maturity. A man who was experienced and worldly. I wanted a man like Logan Worthington.
No … correction.
Not someone like Logan.
I wanted Logan.
But why would Logan ever want someone like me? I was a girl who needed a babysitter for her twenty-first birthday party.
How humiliating was that?
"Is Mr. Worthington going to be over here checking my friends' IDs and guarding the liquor cabinet all night?" I asked my parents.
Dad sighed. "Amber, we're not totally insensitive to your situation. He'll only stop by if your party starts to get too loud. We don't want any trouble with the homeowner's association."
