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Acold gust sneaks beneath my jacket as I linger on the sidewalk. The icy blast reinforces my guard against what’s to come, yet I remain frozen on the spot. It’s going to take more than wind to push me faster. I’d rather freeze my ass off than go inside.
Large lightbulbs frame the front window, drawing attention to the studio within. The bright interior promises warmth. White walls display frilly tutus and leotards. Ballet shoes hang on metal racks. A couch and two chairs are arranged around a low table. It appears welcoming, but I know better. There are ulterior motives hidden in the glow.
My next exhale streams out in a foggy cloud. I search for restraint and patience. Both rest dormant beneath the surface, just out of reach.
“Daddy! Why’re you just standing there? Let’s gooooo.” Enter the reason I put myself through this bi-weekly torture.
Sydney had been practicing her twirls. I was just fine hanging tight while she delayed the inevitable. Then she had to go and realize I wasn’t moving.
“After you, kiddo.” I motion toward the entrance.
My daughter doesn’t hesitate to rush toward the door in a blur of excitement wrapped in tulle. I hang my head. The fact that tulle is in my vocabulary is telling. This little girl has me wrapped around her finger tighter than dental floss.
A pitchy tune announces our arrival. I steel myself against the seduction lurking behind the desk. A set of blinders should’ve been included in my earlier list. Only this woman gets a rise out of me. She plucks a hidden chord, otherwise long forgotten, that demands I surrender. It takes monumental effort to keep my attention trained straight ahead.
“Hey, Syd. You look adorable.” Harper’s melodic voice should grate on my nerves. Instead, it has the opposite effect.
I fight the urge to glance at her while striding forward like I belong. As if I’m not an imposter. As if I could fit into her world. My worn boots scuff across the polished wood floor, calling bullshit within seconds. This is her domain and I’m the intruder. That doesn’t mean I’ll cower.
Meanwhile, my daughter preens under Harper’s praise. Her jacket gets cast aside without a care. Then she hops in a circle to show off the entire mismatched ensemble. “Thanks. Daddy let me dress myself.”
A snort gets lodged in my throat. There’s not a chance in hell I’d take credit for pairing neon leopard with purple stripes, green polka dots, and a pink tutu.
“And your bun is almost smooth.” Harper motions to her own hair that’s pulled back in a similar style.
“Daddy’s been practicing. We bought more pins and a new comb.”
“I’m surprised you hold still long enough,” the blonde temptress teases.
Sydney huffs. “I try my bestest. It takes him foreverrrrrr.”
They continue chatting while ignoring my presence, which suits me fine. It gives me the opportunity to peek without getting caught. A quick glimpse doesn’t satisfy the gnawing hunger. This wouldn’t be an issue if I didn’t deprive my physical needs. It’s been too long, and I’m weak against the lure. I shift my stare to appreciate the full view of my fantasies. The error in my ogling—as usual—sets my blood ablaze the instant my eyes feast on Harper.
Once again, I’m tormented by the total package she flaunts. Stretchy material clings to her generous curves. Black and sleek and too fucking appealing. Flames burn under my skin while my muscles flex. I have the means to prepare myself but it’s never enough. She’s too fucking sexy.
It’s a testament to my willpower that I haven’t made a scene. I’m convinced Harper’s dance attire is created to tempt me. I want to peel those tight layers off to reveal—
Nope, not going there. The fire in my veins is horribly inappropriate. This is the worst place to get aroused. Talk about creeper status. I widen my stance and think about Glitzy acting tough at the dog park. Her growl couldn’t scare a mouse. That visual does the trick, all traces of heat fizzling out with a grunt.
“Problem?”
I snap out of the distraction method to find Harper arching a brow at me. “Nope, just waiting for time to pass.”
Sydney begins bouncing on her feet. “That’s what I do when you’re busy folding clothes. It’s so boring.”
“That builds anticipation for the fun,” I reason.
My daughter blinks at me. Something gleams in her blue eyes, which instantly puts me on alert. Alarm bells clang against my skull when she pins those concerning intentions on Harper.
“Are you good at laundry?”
The vixen shrugs as if she’s innocent. “Probably as good as the next gal.”
Sydney’s smile curls with devious plotting not fit for a six-year-old. “Can you find—?”
“Why don’t we discuss this later? Your class is about to start,” I cut in. “Let’s not waste precious moments asking your… teacher about chores.”
“But why not, Daddy?” My daughter stamps her foot, betraying her true age. “Maybe Miss Harper can help us.”
