Melting - Sean Ashcroft Page 0,28

the mudroom.

I’d made it. I’d be inside, safe, and all I had to do then was make it to my room and change.

I reached out for the doorknob, and it swung open before I could touch it.

Dad.

In swimming trunks.

I froze.

“Well, well, well,” Dad said, leaning against the door frame, looking me up and down. “I didn’t think I heard you come in last night.”

I was going to die.

Dad had never caught me sneaking in the next morning before.

Because I never had. There was a first time for everything.

Even for a man who was turning thirty in a week to have to sneak into his childhood home after staying out all night.

I cleared my throat, unsure how to handle this situation. We both knew why I was wearing yesterday’s clothes.

I hoped Dad wouldn’t notice that my hair was still damp and realize I couldn’t have gone far since I’d showered.

Dad broke into a broad grin and pushed past me toward the pool. “I’m gonna swim a few laps. You’re just in time for pancakes! If you head into the kitchen now, Wes could probably double the batter for us. You’d probably rather tell him about your night than me.”

That was true, but not for the reasons Dad thought.

“I… thanks. I’ll…”

“One question,” Dad said, one hand already on the pool fence. “Was he cute?”

The rush of blood to my face threatened to make me pass out.

“He was cute,” I confirmed, ducking into the house to avoid any further questioning, my dad’s delighted laughter following me inside.

I poked my head into the kitchen to see Wes cracking an egg one-handed on the bench like a professional. His whole face lit up when he saw me, and my heart did a complicated aerial maneuver in my chest.

“If I say good morning, are you gonna bite my head off again?” he asked.

I snorted, pulling out the stool that had become my spot at the counter to watch him work.

“We haven’t done good mornings yet,” I said.

“Well, good morning,” Wes said. “Did you sleep okay?”

“There’s something kinda weird about that bed,” I said, watching Wes crack a second egg.

“Yeah?” he raised an eyebrow, glancing away from his work to look at me.

“Yeah. Someone kept waking me up,” I teased, offering him what I hoped read a conspiratorial smile.

“Gosh. Maybe I should sleep in it with you. Y’know, in case they come back.”

Relief I hadn’t realized I’d been hanging out for washed over me. Okay. We weren’t done.

That was good, because I wasn’t done. Clearly. I’d already jerked off over the thought of Wes once today, and it wasn’t quite ten-thirty in the morning yet.

I laughed, resting my elbows on the counter and my chin in my hands to watch Wes work.

It was exactly as sexy as I’d imagined it would be.

“So should I be jealous that you apparently make my dad breakfast every morning?” I asked as Wes got out a frying pan, butter, and oil. He knew what he was doing—if you wanted to fry something in butter, adding oil as well stopped the butter from burning.

I had high hopes for these pancakes.

“Not every morning,” Wes said. “We have meetings on Saturday mornings at ten-thirty. Write up a schedule, update the to-do list, that kind of thing. Helps keep us both organized.”

“You do a lot for him,” I said. I still hadn’t figured out exactly what Wes’s job title was—but I didn’t think I was alone, there. I guessed the closest thing would have been personal assistant, but honestly? He seemed to be a slightly better son.

“He does pay me,” Wes said. “And besides, after his heart attack, he needs the help.”

The world came to a screeching halt so fast I felt like I had to grip the counter to stop myself flying off.

“I’m sorry, heart attack?”

13

Wes

I’d fucked up. I’d really fucked up, so bad I wasn’t sure I’d still have a job by this afternoon.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Hayden’s voice travelled into the kitchen from the living room, the semi-open plan of the downstairs part of the house offering less privacy than would have been ideal at the moment.

Mr. Lewis said something quiet, his low rumbling voice a familiar background sound to me. I was used to him talking on the phone—or talking to himself—while I worked around him.

I slipped the last pancake off the pan, switched off the burner, set out maple syrup, melted butter, lemon juice, and powdered sugar on the table, and then hesitated.

Were they still talking? Should I interrupt