Page 16 of My Ex’s Dad (Scandalous Billionaires #1)

Chapter eight

Warrick

M y hours are all over the place. I’ve never paid that much attention because I’ve never lived with anyone.

No roommates.

And never a girlfriend.

Amalphia is the first live-in housekeeper I’ve ever had.

It’s not like Amalphia is sitting at home waiting for me, but it does give me a start when I walk through the front door just after eight and find her perched at the kitchen island with her laptop open and one of those long, lined, yellow paper pads off to the side.

She swivels around on the black stool as soon as she hears me enter, smiling at me like she belongs right there in that exact spot.

In my house.

In my life.

Which is absurd.

I mean, past a cleaning perspective.

Even if I did spill my gut, heart, and past with her, and even if she did hug me, this isn’t anything more than a platonic work relationship. We’ve both kept our professional distance for the better part of a week. Maybe that’s what’s so jarring about finding her here now.

“Hey!” she says cheerfully. She looks like a ball of sunshine, and not just because she’s highlighted by the golden summer sunlight streaming through the window. The coppery undertones in her wild auburn curls shine just as brightly as her sparkling green eyes. “Are you hungry?”

“I…”

“Did you eat on the way home? Pick something up? Go somewhere? Order in?”

Her care presses on something inside me that goes beyond even intimacy.

“No,” I admit. I’m starving, but the fact that she asked makes me feel like she’s offering, and I don’t want to be a bother. I’m perfectly capable of scrounging up something that I’ll barely taste anyway.

“Oh good! The grocery delivery people came again this afternoon. I didn’t even know that was a thing before, but of course it is.

You can get anything delivered now. Uh…” Her cheeks flush pink.

“I definitely wasn’t snooping as I was putting them away, and I wasn’t going to help myself or anything.

I do have my own food now, and I’m not gleaning and thiefing yours anymore, but I did do this mental cooking inventory in my head, and I thought I could make meatballs with that spinach ravioli.

It came with the sauce, so I wouldn’t even have to worry about messing it up. ”

Thiefing. She used that word instead of thieving , almost…playfully.

My tongue is thicker than a pentastacker burger. My chest feels a little too tight, as do my button-up shirt and jeans. I chose my scruffiest pair of motorcycle boots today, seeing as I knew I’d be meeting with my parents first thing in the morning.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

She hesitates. The thick fringe of her lashes sweeps up and down a few times over her shimmering eyes, which causes my heart to do a strange palpitation. “I mean, I already ate lunch and, uh, an early dinner, but if you’re offering, I won’t say no.”

“I’m offering. Feel free to help yourself to anything in the fridge. I’m not a grocery gatekeeper.”

That only seems to make her nervous. Her hand flutters by her face for a second before she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I…I noticed your door was open this morning. Your bedroom door. So I cleaned in there. The bathroom too. I hope that’s okay.”

I rake a hand over my beard, telling my body to stop doing the things it is doing, namely south of the beltline, at the way the word bedroom sounded sultry and husky when she said it.

I go for casual and sound more like a drowning duck. I doubt that should even be a thing, by the way. “Of course.”

Her nails drum the kitchen counter. My brain is in full asshole mode, and it conjures them scratching down my back, sinking into my ass, raking down my arms, and creating trails above my ink.

“It’s just that the door was always closed before.”

I make like a scientist and study the floor. Err…well, I focus on it like a scientist would focus on whatever is in the microscope. My god, my brain has reverted straight back to the mouse wheel. “I didn’t even realize I was doing that. I apologize. You have free access to anywhere in this house.”

“The basement is locked.” Her eyes narrow like she’s asking me if whatever I’m keeping down there is going to need police involvement and end up with her having to run while I chase her with a chainsaw, slasher style.

“It’s just the man cave.” I drop my gym bag off my shoulder and roll my neck, rubbing the back of it where a sudden knot of stress has gathered. “My parents and I…we obviously have a complicated relationship.”

Calling that an understatement of the year would be an understatement of the year, especially now that Amalphia knows what happened between me and them.

The back of my neck prickles. I’m sweating just thinking about that conversation.

We moved on after it, and Amalphia treated me like nothing even happened, but the truth is, it did. She knows now.

“They drop by sometimes,” I continue explaining.

“Well, hardly ever, but it’s like…I keep the house the way it is for them.

They see it and approve. The basement is my area.

It’s not a mess or anything, but it’s personal.

It’s fun. It’s a normal place where normal people do normal things. Like watch TV and game.”

“You could have that stuff up here,” she argues, rolling her eyes, but I can tell it’s not at me. I don’t think the high color on her cheekbones is for me either. She’s pissed off on my behalf, but she’s angry with my parents. “Who cares what they think?”

I’m silent for a beat too long. I do. Obviously. Though I have no idea why. She’s right. This is my house. I should be able to do what I want with it. The longer I stand there not saying anything, the more awkward things get until, finally, Amalphia lets out a strained laugh and shrugs.

“ And it’s clearly none of my business because this isn’t my house. Sorry.”

“No,” I grunt. “It’s fine. It’s all…fine.”

She narrows her eyes at me, frown lines that I want to rub away appearing between her brows, but she doesn’t tell me that fine usually means the exact opposite.

Instead, she slips off the stool, rounds the island, and heads for the stove. “Meatballs coming right up.”

I have no idea why, but I feel like a heel.

I went to the gym right after the office to blow off steam and stretch out muscles that were not meant to sit in a chair all day long.

I’m sweaty, exhausted, and, for some reason, utterly dissatisfied.

I’ve felt that way for days, as though my own meatsuit suddenly isn’t so homey.

I’m at odds with my own body, and I don’t like it.

I can’t pin down just one reason I feel that way.

It’s more complicated than that, but usually, working out takes care of that sensation.

Not this time.

I look longingly at the backyard through the windows.

The pool glistens in the late evening sunlight, the rays breaking up into a thousand little pieces like broken glass.

I want to swim laps in the pool, pushing myself hard, the water washing away the stress of the day, but I probably don’t have time.

I’m not going to be late for homemade food that someone is taking time out of their day to prepare.

Amalphia already has the pan on the stove and is pulling things out of the fridge.

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.” I groan awkwardly at the guttural caveman— me hungry, meatballs delight me— beating on my chest and the way it comes out, far, far after the fact. “I’ll just get washed up so I don’t smell like an old gym sock and ruin the meal.”

Amalphia responds from deep in the fridge. “Mfkay,” comes her muffled response.

I do the worst thing I can do and step around the island to say something to her.

Whatever I want to say is completely forgotten when I see her bent over, her shirt riding up just above her tight jeans, which showcase her lovely round bottom.

I shoot my eyes up, but they linger on that tiny, exposed inch of pale skin between her shirt and jeans.

I whip around quickly, focusing on my gym bag as it bangs against my hip and nearly takes me out when I collide with the island’s lip in my hurry to get out of the kitchen and hit the shower.

Upstairs, I let out a sigh that goes on for decades. I’ve learned that what happened with Candice wasn’t a me problem, though it took me a decade to accept that. I struggled with attraction. I felt tremendous guilt over desire and my body’s natural functions.

Until I lost my virginity at twenty-six, I never masturbated once.

After that night, I spent the next few months reading every book I could find on trauma and healing.

I slowly started to let go of the shame, anger, and guilt.

With every word I read, I felt like less of a stranger in my own skin.

I began to see desire not as a bad thing, but I was always wary of relationships.

I wasn’t just burned. I was fucking incinerated.

I don’t need to give myself a pep talk now about inappropriate interactions. Amalphia is a beautiful woman on the outside and inside. I’ve noticed with my mind, my soul, and now my eyes.

The way my cock kicks in my jeans, turning into an erection that could rival a steel bat, tells me that it’s not just my eyes that have noticed it. My whole body twinges, my skin getting that tight feeling again.

I shove all those thoughts down, determined to get them straight off my brain. Amalphia is my employee. She’s Reginald’s ex-girlfriend. Our relationship is platonic. Always. Forever. End of.

I violently empty my gym bag into the washer, then set my shoes and the empty bag on top to air out. I slide the bifold doors enclosing the water and dryer shut to keep everything tidy, then head to the bedroom.

I get a change of clothes ready and strip down in the bathroom.

It smells fresh in here. Like juiced oranges with a hint of lemon. Not only is the air inviting, but it’s also sparkling .