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Biting my lip, I turned my phone over and over in my other hand. As soon as I get home, I’ll call him.
The bus stopped at the end of my street and I disembarked, my heart hammering so hard, my limbs shook. When the house came into view, my steps faltered.
A light was on in the living room. Several lights in the house were on, I realized. A little silver Toyota Corolla was parked outside the garage. And inside, I was willing to bet I’d find a jet-black ’69 Mustang.
I teetered at the edge of the walkway up to the house. The lawn was freshly cut, the smell lingering in the air.
Dammit.
Dammit.
Dammit.
I turned back, but before I could go anywhere, the front door opened.
“Julietta.” His raspy voice was like a gunshot in the early evening despite how quietly he said my name. I jerked, still not facing him. “Come inside. Please.” He tacked on the last word, seemingly as an afterthought.
With a deep breath that I hoped would calm my racing heart, I finally faced the hauntingly gorgeous man only twenty feet from me. He stepped further onto the white, wooden porch, a glass clutched in one hand. His black suit jacket was absent, the crisp white dress shirt partially unbuttoned at the top, exposing enough of his perfect golden skin beneath to make my mouth water.
Fucking hell! It wasn’t fair that he looked so perfect while I, no doubt, was a mess from lacking sleep and having just gotten off work.
My feet carried me toward him without my consent, our eyes clashing and holding each other captive. His Adam’s apple bobbed before he brought the glass to his full, perfect lips and sipped what I guessed was whiskey.
All I could hear beyond the rushing of blood in my ears was the faint clap of my shoes against the wood.
Which was why I barely heard him say, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
By the time I thought to ask who he could possibly want to introduce me to, he’d led me into the kitchen, stopping just as a young boy around nineteen rose from the chair opposite me. He was tanned, lean, with the barest bit of muscle definition on his biceps, wearing light wash denim jeans and a baggy, navy blue T-shirt that did little to help his scrawny ass. His smile was polite, though his eyes—behind ugly wire-rimmed glasses—roved over my body a little too slowly for my liking. Most girls might find him attractive if he’d tried a little harder.
“Julietta, this is Marcos. The newest intern at one of my architecture firms.”
My brows furrowed. “How many do you own?”
Romero didn’t respond, and the boy—Marcos—came around the table, extending a hand toward me. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I shook his hand, hiding my cringe at his mildly sweaty palm behind a tight-lipped smile.
“Wow, your dad really wasn’t exaggerating. You’re super cute.”
My stomach flipped. “He’s not my dad,” I snapped at the same time Romero said, “Stepfather.”
Marcos looked between us, and for a moment I thought he might suspect that the panic in my voice was due to the fact that my not-dad had spanked my ass and then pressed his erection against me.
Instead, he said, “Oh, right. That makes sense since you two don’t really look alike.”
I nodded adamantly, but then realized the added vigor was likely not helping my case.
“Let’s sit, shall we? Dinner is nearly ready, I’m sure.” Romero gestured to the table, and Marcos rushed back to his seat.
Before I could snag the chair opposite the gangly boy, Romero placed a hand on my lower back, shuffling me toward the seat between the two of them. My skin beneath his touch prickled with awareness, my lungs suddenly tight.
All too soon I was sitting next to Marcos, who began speaking about how grateful he was for the new internship. I couldn’t even pretend to listen. My attention was drawn to the man on my other side. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what this was.
A setup.
He brought home this boring teenage boy to sway me away from his friends. My eyes narrowed on the infuriating man. I let my displeasure for the situation show on my face, but Romero studiously ignored me.
“You were an excellent candidate for the position,” Romero said, answering the boy. Turning his attention to me, he said, “Top grades, a freshman at Stanford University—”
