Page 116 of The Daddy’s Girl

“Fine,” I mumble weakly. “I’ll think about it.”

When my phone buzzes again with an incoming text, I reach down to the bed and pick it up.

Ronan: Call me when you’ve got a minute. I have something to talk to you about today.

“You should call him back,” she says while pulling clothes out of her overstuffed closet.

“Then what? How am I going to get out of here?”

She giggles. “You should have thought of that before you climbed into my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

The corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk. “It was worth it.”

And it was…even though I think I pulled something in my back and my biceps are more sore than they’ve ever been in my life.

“Call him back and tell him you’re on your way over. I’ll distract him in the kitchen so you can sneak downstairs to the front door and knock like you just got here.”

She’s as cunning as she is adorable.

Pulling on my shirt and pants, I watch her comb her short blond hair, tousling her bangs over her forehead. “How will you distract him? And what about your mother?”

“I’ll show him my sketches,” she replies with a shrug. “He’s a sucker for anything I make. And my mom is glued to his side anyway, so I don’t think that’ll be a problem. I’ll just text you when the coast is clear.”

Watching her get ready, replaying the events of last night and how it felt to sink inside her for the first time, my heart pitter-patters wildly in my chest.

I’ll miss this, I think to myself. This phase of our relationship—sneaking around, being together despite the rules, indulging in all our firsts.

Amelia is it for me.

I don’t know when this happened or if I really tried to avoid it, but it happened nonetheless. She owns my heart.

Even if she moves on with her own life without me someday, Amelia is the last person I will ever love this way.

Fifteen minutes later, she slips downstairs with her sketchbook under her arm. I’ve already texted Ronan to tell him that I’m in the area and on my way over. As I wait in her room for the text to tell me it’s clear for me to go downstairs, I stand with my back against the door and a feeling of disgrace in my gut.

I’ve never judged men my age who pursued women Amelia’s age. Hell, I’ve done it in the past. But it’s not like that with us. I know that in my heart. I never acted on or desired anything with her before this month. It’s not her age that I love.

It’s her.

Her spirit. Her soul. Her brilliance.

These things ring with truth in my heart, but will others see it? Can I withstand the criticism others will project at us?

And what about my friendship with Ronan? This changes everything.

My phone buzzes and I look down to see a message from Amelia on the screen.

Amelia: Go.

There’s a sense of unsettled nerves in my bones as I quietly peel open the door to Amelia’s room and slip down the hallway toward the stairs. The house is quiet, but I hear their voices in the distance, in the direction of the kitchen.

Thankfully, they’re speaking loud enough to each other that they don’t hear the creak on the stairs as I make my way to the main level. When I reach the bottom floor, I spot movement to the right and see a member of the house staff passing through with a pile of folded laundry in her arms.

In a rush, I tiptoe to the front door just across the foyer. Before I can reach it, someone behind me speaks, nearly giving me a heart attack.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Moreau.”

I spin around and smile at the housekeeper. She’s grinning at me politely.