Page 86 of Daddies on Ice

She hands me a needle and thread, along with a navy blue sweater with a simple snowman design.

We work in comfortable silence, the only sounds the soft whisper of thread through fabric and occasional crackles from the fireplace.

There’s something oddly intimate about the domestic scene.

“Carl,” she says eventually, not looking up from her work. “I know this situation is…complicated.”

I pause, my needle halfway through fabric. “What situation?”

She looks up then, her dark eyes meeting mine. “You know what I mean. With Jake and Ash and…everything.”

The elephant in the room. I’ve been trying not to think about it, trying not to let jealousy eat me alive every time I see her with one of them.

“I don’t judge you, Trisha,” I say finally. “You’re a grown woman. You can make your own choices.”

“But it bothers you.” It’s not a question.

I set down the sweater and lean back, studying her face. “What bothers me is that I’m old enough to be your father, and I can’t stop thinking about you in ways that are anything but fatherly.”

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t look away.

“Age is just a number,” she says softly.

“Is it?” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Because sometimes I feel like a dirty old man for wanting you the way I do.”

“You’re not old,” she whispers. “And you’re definitely not dirty.”

The air between us crackles with tension. Without thinking, I reach across the table and brush that rebellious strand of hair from her face.

Her skin is soft as silk beneath my fingertips, and when she leans into my touch, I’m lost.

I stand, moving around the table to where she sits.

She tilts her head back to look at me, lips slightly parted, and I can’t resist any longer.

I cup her face in my hands and lean down, pressing my lips to hers.

She tastes like coffee and something sweet, something uniquely her.

When she sighs against my mouth, I deepen the kiss, my hands tangling in her hair.

She stands, pressing her body against mine, and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes.

“Carl,” she breathes against my lips, and the sound of my name in her voice nearly undoes me.

I back her against the kitchen counter, my hands roaming over her curves.

Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I can feel her heart racing against my chest.

“God, Trisha,” I breathe against her neck, my voice rough with want.

My hands slide down to grip her waist, lifting her easily onto the counter.

She gasps at the sudden movement, her dark blue eyes wide with desire as she looks down at me.

I capture her lips in a searing kiss, pouring all my pent-up desire into it.

My hands find the hem of her sweater, sliding underneath to feel the warm silk of her skin.