Page 9 of My Ex’s Dad (Scandalous Billionaires #1)

Chapter four

Warrick

I t’s an unfortunate employer indeed who isn’t even around when his brand-new employee starts.

I made sure I paid for movers so that Amalphia wouldn’t have to worry about anything and to be sure she didn’t hurt herself carrying heavy boxes. I wanted to make her transition as seamless as possible.

Maybe it was better that I was busy with our factories, had a business trip scheduled, and then had a scheduled vacation week— vacation being a completely inadequate descriptor—with my parents at their cabin in the Hamptons. It’s a family tradition. I couldn’t get out of it.

The less they know about what’s really going on in my life, the better, and that includes the work I’ve done to get Reginald into treatment for a gambling addiction that he may or may not have and then getting him into college for the fall.

He wants to major in economics. I hope he’s going to turn things around and learn responsibility, but I have my doubts.

I’m paying his tuition directly to the college, so really, he’d have no benefit of not going.

I can’t say I was more mature at twenty-two.

Never mind. Yes, I most certainly fucking can, but everyone has to grow up sometime.

It’s better he does it now and not when he’s fifty or sixty.

I can do nothing about Candice’s influence, but I can try to be there for him in small ways.

Not to say I haven’t tried because I have, and none of it has worked, but giving up wasn’t the right option.

Giving up nearly meant disaster for Amalphia and her poor family.

I feel like the past few weeks have been spent checking items off a life shitlist.

I can honestly say pulling up in my own driveway has never felt so good.

For all of a minute anyway, until the garage door shuts behind me, and I’m reminded of the reality of my situation. My son’s ex-girlfriend is now living with me.

Alright, so she’s living in the pool house and working for me in an entirely professional capacity because it was the least I could do, not because I’m some pervy asshole who thinks he can get something out of it.

I swear this was done entirely out of the goodness—alright, I mean guilt—of my heart and nothing more.

Amalphia is the kind of real-life beauty that is in your face—haunting, alluring, and lovely. She begs to be worshipped, but she’s not the kind of woman who is tempting. A person can appreciate another person’s beauty without doing anything about it. Take art for example. That’s what she is.

She’s like living art. Beautiful. Untouchable. Enchanting.

Do regular people get hard-ons for artwork?

Yeah, that’s probably a bad comparison.

Even if she wasn’t my son’s ex-girlfriend, she’s over a decade younger than me.

I made all my mistakes young and took firm control of my life. End of story.

It would be immeasurably helpful if I could get Amalphia’s grandmother’s comments about meatloaf out of my head.

If I hadn’t thought about it during work meetings and every fucking hour of my time at my parents’ cabin.

Good thing having my mother around immediately deflated boner problems before they even became a thing.

“Amalphia?” I shout loudly, letting her know I’m here. I don’t want to sneak up on her. It would be better if we had a routine or some kind of protocol, but as it is, she has been my housekeeper for over a week, and I’ve been MIA.

She’s had the house to herself.

Why does it feel wrong to enter it, as if I’m the intruder?

No one is an intruder. Don’t make this weird.

There’s no answer. The house is open wherever it can be physically unrestrained by walls without falling in on itself. All the glass, metal, and tall ceilings are great for acoustics. If I were in a band, I’d probably appreciate it a lot more.

It’s very much like my office. White walls, a few pieces of art here and there, furniture where it’s needed.

The upstairs is just as stark. The basement, where no one ever sees or goes, is a different story.

The basement is solely my space. It sounds silly in a house that I own and live in alone, but this way, when my parents come over, or if I’m ever required to have work colleagues drop in, or any other unexpected visitors, what they see on the surface is the boring, regular rich dude with zero skeletons.

The basement…

Okay, I do not have skeletons in the basement.

Just a bunch of junk and personal effects. Everything that makes me, me.

I might be a weirdo, but try growing up in a family like mine, and you’ll understand why you need a bug-out hole in your own fucking home.

“Amalphia?” My voice bounces off the walls.

Not a band but a choir. That’s who will appreciate the sound in here. Chamber choir? Ooh, definitely.

I walk up the stairs, check out every room, then come back down.

I trace a path through the living room, the dining area, the hall, past the home gym and through guest rooms one and two out of six and several useless rooms that I call my office, and end up in the kitchen. Still nothing and no one, but the place is spotless. Even more so than when I left it.

I haven’t had a housekeeper for a month and a half, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell. Unless you go, predictably, down to the basement.

There’s a strange transitional part of the house that is all glass and fancy chairs. I suppose some would call it a sunroom. It opens out to the pool, sauna, hot tub, and the palatial backyard.

I pull open the sliding glass and step out.

People think it doesn’t get hot in Pittsburgh, and sure, it might not get hot the way it does in some states, but let me tell you, as someone who is in the air conditioning business and as a human with a healthily functioning internal thermometer, it does.

It’s not hot enough to make eggs and bacon on the concrete, but the instant sticky humidity and glaring sun make me glad I didn’t remove my high-tops when I came in.

Yes, it’s like I’m twelve. And no, I don’t actually like them, but knowing my parents absolutely can’t stand it when I wear them or the shitkicker boots I own, I alternated between the two all week.

Even when we went out to dinner, I donned the same T-shirts and jeans that I’d filled my bag with.

I conveniently forgot to throw in formal attire, just like last year and the year before and the year before that.

I narrow my eyes, shading them against the sun. But they start to water anyway, especially when I sweep them over the pool and get a whole lot of scalding reflection.

The pool is unimaginative. Just a long rectangle, like the rest of the house.

It takes me point seven of a second to realize something isn’t right.

There’s an object at the bottom of the pool that shouldn’t be there.

A human object.

Holy frigid refrigerators!

My gut turns to ice, my skin breaks out in a clammy sweat, and my chest caves in on itself. My whole body feels like it’s been ripped apart at the shock, but I force my limbs into action.

The object is around straight dead in the middle. I take a running leap and plunge in headfirst, shoes, clothes, and all. Considering the pool comes with the house in a token posh move, I’m a good swimmer. It’s an activity I actually enjoy, and the pool gets used regularly.

I kick hard, spearing through the water and forcing my way down to the bottom. It’s a saltwater pool, and I usually never go under without goggles.

The person’s hair waves in the water, dark curls obscuring her face. There are no air bubbles.

Oh god. Oh fuck, no.

I swim like my life depends on it, even though it doesn’t. Hers does. Amalphia . How am I supposed to explain this to her family? Christ, what is she doing out here in the pool, alone? Why is she at the bottom and not floating on the top?

I kick frantically, dragging myself through the water until I’m almost right on top of her. I wrap both my hands around her arms, which are at her sides, grasping her shoulder and hip.

The water explodes in a burst of bubbles, and her eyes fly open.

She thrashes wildly, kicking and panicking.

I have no idea how to process what in the actual fuck is going on.

This is sci-fi-level shit, and I’m unprepared for it.

I push off the bottom of the pool and propel us straight to the surface.

We break through, both of us gasping and spluttering. My nose and eyes are on fire, my lungs and throat giving me a warning that I might retch up whatever I swallowed on the swim slash fight scene to the surface.

“What the hell?” Amalphia choke-screams. Water pours from her hair, her lashes, and her mouth. She shakes herself off like a wet dog, her curls slapping me on the cheeks and forehead.

“What the hell me ?” I splash away, hacking and coughing until I reach the edge of the pool. I swipe my burning eyes and suck in a breath that doesn’t contain saltwater. “You were at the bottom of the pool! I thought you’d drowned!”

“I was practicing holding my breath. I’m up to almost five minutes.”

“That’s not…that’s not safe,” I murmur. “That could give you brain damage.”

“Thanks,” she throws back dryly before swimming over to the edge of the pool. She pulls herself out with ease and gets to her feet.

I can’t help it. My eyes lock straight on her body.

She’s not athletically built, not model thin, not tall, and not short.

My brain can’t even compute words to describe her other than literal perfection in a red bikini .

The color works with her flawless pale skin, and the cut of the bathing suit showcases her lovely breasts, flat stomach, stunning curves, and long legs.

Even her feet are perfect from this vantage point.

I don’t have a foot fetish, do I?

Do I?

You’re worried about feet when you just felt up your son’s ex-girlfriend?

I was trying to save her life.

Are you trying to save her life with your eyes right now?