The Parent Trap Page 12

  Apparently, the compromise I’m coming up with is waking up at the perforated colon of dawn to go running—which I loathe, by the way, even after I’ve been for the run—with Delia, just because at least that way I get to pretend I’m not spending the whole run ogling the jiggly-sway of her fine-ass…ass.

  I am pathetic.

  I finish my mug of coffee, change into running shorts, a T-shirt, and a ball cap, dig my running shoes out of my closet. Pour a to-go coffee and ignore the little voice in the back of my head which says I’m in no shape to be running five miles.

  The macho man part of myself is all like of COURSE I can keep up with Delia, how fast can she run, anyway?

  Which I immediately tag as horseshit, because I’m a slow runner at best and if she runs five miles every day, she’s clearly going to be way faster than me. Or if not faster, I’m going to sweating like a pig and huffing and puffing, whereas when she woke me up in my truck last week, she’d been breathing hard and shiny with sweat, but clearly was not actually winded.

  This is a bad idea.

  Yet, within a couple minutes, I’m stopped outside her driveway—meaning, at the entrance where the main driveway splits off and leads to her house.

  I’m idling, trying to decide if I have the guts to get out and knock on her door and ask if I can go running with her.

  I’m a coward, clearly.

  Afraid of Delia McKenna shooting me down.

  Cursing myself in a dozen different ways, I pull into the entrance of her driveway but don’t pull all the way to her house. Instead, I shut off my engine and stand leaning against the hood, listening to the engine tick and pop, waiting.

  I hear her footsteps in the gravel before I see her. She doesn’t see me—she’s scrolling on her phone, looking for music to listen to most likely. I wait, but she doesn’t look up. Even when she’s going directly past me, she doesn’t see me. Not me, not my giant truck. Lost in zombie land, I guess.

  I happen to glance at her phone as she passes me—she’s answering email.

  “Delia.”

  No answer.

  So I follow after her to the end of the main driveway where she finally wedges her phone into a special pocket built into the waistband of her shorts at the small of her back. Today’s selection of running gear is a pair of bright neon 90s purple shorts with a white sports bra, the straps of which at her back are a complicated web.

  Her hair is in twin braids.

  She jumps up and down a few times, then does some high knees.

  That’s when I sidle up beside her, nonchalant.

  She screams and jumps a literal foot into the air. “What the actual fuck, Thai?” she demands, breathing hard with her hand clapped over her chest. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” I point back at the opening of her driveway. “You did walk directly past me and my truck.”

  She blinks. “I did not.”

  I laugh. “You did. Where do you think I came from? I didn’t walk here from my condo.”

  “Condo?”

  “Uh yeah. You don’t think I’m living with my parents, do you?”

  “I guess I didn’t think about it, honestly. I suppose I assumed you were, but now that I think about it, I know there’s no way you would.”

  “Not a chance in hell. I’ve seen them exactly twice since I’ve been back, once when I first got into town, and I met them for brunch last week. They spend most of their time at their place in Majorca.”

  “Where?”

  “Majorca. Spanish-owned island in the Mediterranean. They own a place there. I have a feeling at some point they’re going to sell that place—” I gesture in the direction of the fifteen thousand square foot monstrosity I grew up in, “—and live in Majorca full time.”

  She eyes me. “You’re not a morning person, self-admittedly.”

  “Nope!” I agree with fake cheerfulness. “And I’m also not a big fan of running.”

  She laughs. “So…why are you here, at six a.m., dressed to run?”

  “I have no idea!” I say, still faking the bright and chipper voice.

  She laughs harder. “Glutton for punishment, maybe?”

  “That, or I just really, really love your ass in those shorts.” And…that just came out of my mouth.

  Her head swivels slowly to pin me with a glare. “Funny.”

  I shrug. “Who’s joking?”

  Her cheeks color, but she gives no other indication of what she’s thinking or feeling. Finally, she huffs. “Keep up, if you can.”

  She accompanies this by bursting forward into a fast run—even when I was running several times a week with the guys at Wharton, I was never able to keep the pace she’s setting.

  Can I bench double my body weight? Yeah. Pull-ups with fifty pounds chained to my waist? Four reps. Three plate back squat? Five by five.

  But put me outside for a run? I’m doing great if I break a nine-minute mile, and according to my watch, as I push myself to catch up, says she’s rocking an 8:22 mile and is probably only going to speed up as she hits her groove.

  So the whole plan where I fake running slower than her just to have a legit excuse for staring at her ass? Turns out I don’t have to pretend.

  The view is glorious, though. Worth the early hour, and maybe even worth having to fucking run.

  “You’re staring at my ass.” This comes a mile in.

  I’m sweating already, and my lungs are asking me what the hell I’m thinking.

  “Yes,” I gasp. “Why do you think I’m even doing this?”

  “Well then…if you want to stare at the ass, you have to keep up with the ass,” she says, and puts on speed.

  “Challenge…accepted.”

  It’s the hardest, most punishing, most brutal forty-plus minutes of my life. By the time we’re a quarter mile from her driveway, my breathing is ragged, my legs are jelly, and sweat burns in my eyes. And even she’s breathing hard, but as we near the driveway she only speeds up. And speeds up. And speeds up. Until a good hundred yards from the mailbox, she’s at a full sprint.

  I swing my arms as hard as I can and do my best to match her sprint, and it feels like my legs are pumping on their own, without my input, and they feel like lead tubes.

  I slap the mailbox as I stumble to a stop, and hunch over, hands braced on my knees.

  “Up,” Delia pants, pacing in front of me, hands laced on top of her head. “More oxygen in your lungs. Hunching over makes your lungs compress.”

  I mimic her stance, upright, pacing, hands on my head. “You do this every day?”

  She nods. “Yup.”

  “You were showing off a little, today, though, right? Just to show me up?”

  She smirks at me. “A little.” She checks her watch. “Today was just under a minute faster, which in running terms is actually quite a big improvement. So I guess I should thank you for motivating me to my best time yet.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She’s coated in a sheen of sweat, her skin glistening. Sweat darkens the center of her sports bra, between her breasts. Beads of sweat trickle down her cheeks and throat…and down between her breasts. Her stomach, flat and taut, goes concave as she sucks in slow, measured breaths. Her thick, strong thighs tighten with each step.

  Her eyes narrow. “You’re staring.”

  “You’re sexy. Hard not to stare.”

  She blinks. “Who the fuck even are you, right now, what have you done with Matthais Bristow?”

  I struggle to slow my breathing. “Still me, I just have a better relationship with the truth than I used to.”

  She shakes her head. “The truth. The truth that all of a sudden you think I’m sexy?” She faces me, hands braced on her hips, now. “What you’re saying is that I’m sexy, now—now that I don’t have belly rolls and an extra fifty pounds on my ass? That truth?”

  Any answer I give to that feels wrong, so fuck it. As long I’m blurting out uncomfortable truths…


  “Yes, Delia, that truth. I’m comfortable enough my own fault to admit that I think you’re sexier now than you ever have been.” I pace closer, until mere inches separate us. “You want more truth? How ’bout this one: a good part of the reason I was such an unmitigated fucking bastard to you was that I liked you—I was attracted to you, and I hated myself for it.”

  And goddammit but that is the truth, which I’ve been desperately trying to avoid.

  She nods. “Ah yes, the old truism parents like to feed little girls—if a boy is mean to you, he must like you. I reject that—if a boy is mean to you, maybe…he’s just a mean little shit.”

  “In my case, it’s true both ways. Doesn’t excuse it, but it’s true. I was mean to you because I liked you, and because I was just mean. Not just to you. Ask Tim Harrington how he feels about me. I was even worse to him—he was a boy, so I could physically pick on him. And I did. Brutally.” I shake my head, turn away, sick to my stomach. “I can’t flinch from the past, Delia. I’m not going to stand here and act like I wasn’t a piece of shit human being. I was. And nothing I can do or say will ever change or make up for that.”

  “Why did you hate yourself for liking me?” she asks.

  I shrug, hands out, palms up. “Fuck if I can even say, now. Status? I was the king of the school and you were…”

  “I was Dorky Delia. Donuts Delia,” she fills in.

  “Yeah. It wouldn’t have been cool for me to be with you.”

  “So it wasn’t because I was fat.”

  “You weren’t ever fat.”

  “I was.” She shakes her head, eyes distant with old pain. “You made sure I knew it.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Doesn’t change that I was fat.” She meets my eyes, then. “Why do you think I started running? Because of you. Because I didn’t want to be Donuts Delia or Dino Delia anymore. I was already dieting all the time. I tried everything, every fad, every trend, every diet. I read every article in every magazine if it promised six ways to beat belly fat or whatever. Nothing ever worked.”

  “Clearly, something did,” I say, gesturing at her. “Look at you now.”

  “Yeah, look at me now.” She smacks her left ass cheek. “Still pear-shaped.”

  “Delia, you’re not—”

  “You know what worked? Not eating and running. No carbs. No treats. I only eat between noon and seven. There are no skip days, no cheat days. I run five miles, hard, every day but Sunday. And I’ve done it for six years.” She holds her arms out. “This is the result.”

  “Pretty spectacular result, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.” Her cerulean eyes are hard, icy. “Just like with the run time today, I have you to thank for the motivation to finally and truly lose the weight and keep it off. Every run, every mile, every day—hating you was my fuel. Your voice in my head, mocking me, calling me names. Asking Dell and your other asshole buddies if you were the only one seeing hippos every time I walked past. You, bringing cupcakes to class for no reason other than to mess with my head. I don’t even like cupcakes, Thai. Did you know that? I never have. I always preferred cookies and ice cream. Not that I’ve had either in years. One bite of a cookie and my ass balloons immediately. If I so much as look at ice cream, even the so-called healthy keto ice cream, I gain five pounds. But the point is…” She trails off, head shaking. “I don’t even know. I just know I ran to escape you. I fasted to get away from your voice in my head. It never worked. And just when I was starting to make progress, starting to feel okay in my own skin, finally able to get through a day without hearing your cruel, mocking voice in my head, finally able to look at myself in the mirror and go, hey, I look alright—that’s when you blow back into my life like a fucking tornado. You’ve set me back years of progress, Thai. Years. Because now I have to figure out how to be okay and be confident and like myself with you in my life on a daily basis.”

  A long, tight, sharp silence.

  But she’s not done. “And then—and then, Thai Bristow, you have the big brass balls to crash my run, and tell me you like my ass, and that you think I’m sexy. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Huh? Answer me that, if you can.”

  I have nothing. “Delia, I…”

  She nods. “Right. Exactly. Nothing.” She pushes past me. “Why don’t we keep this to work only, okay? Don’t show up. Don’t run with me. Don’t give me the cute little chitchat in the office when it’s just us late at night. Just…leave me alone.”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer, just walks away and doesn’t look back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Delia

  Apparently, I’d been lying all those years I’d spent telling myself that Thai Bristow had no more power over me. That I was stronger because of his torment. That if I could survive him, I could survive anything.

  Right now, I feel weak.

  I kept my back stiff and my head up as I walked away from him. But as soon as I’d closed my front door, I collapsed to the ground, back to the door, and sobbed.

  You know what did feel good, though? Thai couldn’t keep up with me. I ran his ass into the ground. Eat my dirt, Bristow.

  Small comfort, but I’ll take what I can get.

  I let myself cry for a few minutes, and then I force myself out of it. Like usual, I have to talk myself out of it out loud.

  “Suck it up, Delia,” I growl. “Stand up and dry your eyes.”

  I do it, working to my feet, scrubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms.

  “Now take off your clothes and get in the shower. And do not think about Thai Bristow.”

  I begin the struggle of peeling off my tight, sweaty clothes, and when I’m finally naked, I twist the shower on and start taking my hair out of the braids and dragging a brush through them.

  The bathroom is wreathed in steam. I grab a bottle of water from my fridge and suck half of it down at once, and I’m about to get into the shower when something unexpected and unwelcome happens:

  Someone knocks on my door.

  “I swear, if that’s you, Dell, I’m going to hit you,” I murmur to myself. Leaving the water running, I wrap a towel around myself and head for the door, grumbling obscenities under my breath.

  I yank open the door, fully expecting it to be Dell, slinking back for a handout. “Dell, goddammit—”

  It’s not Dell, and my words die in my throat.

  It’s Thai.

  He’s taken his shirt off, and he’s more incredible than even my fantasy could have imagined. He’s ripped. Powerfully built, with razor-sharp abs and massive, anvil-hard pecs. Not an ounce of fat on him. He’s still glistening with sweat.

  A bead trickles down over his pec. I’m seized with an absurd but powerful urge to lick the sweat off him.

  “What—” I have to swallow hard and try again. “What do you want.” It doesn’t come out as a question, but rather flat, robotic, without infection.

  He just blinks. His eyes rake over me, head to toe. I didn’t bother actually tying the towel around me—I’m just pinning it mostly in place with my armpits, since I had assumed it was Dell.

  His throat bobs.

  He can’t bring his eyes up to mine.

  “Thai,” I snap. “I thought I made myself clear—leave me alone.”

  “You did,” he says, his voice low, and unsteady. “I didn’t listen.”

  “Obviously. Following instructions seems to be hard for you.” I start to close the door. “Goodbye, Thai.”

  His foot blocks the door from closing. My mouth opens to protest, but then somehow he’s in my space. Looming over me, massive and hard and radiating heat and smelling of sweat, but not unpleasantly. I don’t know what’s happening, and I suddenly can’t figure out what to do about it. How to stop him. My voice is lodged in my throat. My blood hammers in my ears.

  His hands close around my face, fingers behind my jawline and under my ears, thumbs brushing over my lips and then across my cheekbones.

  And then he’s kissin
g me.

  It’s not one of those sudden assaults on my mouth that you read about. It’s slow and intentional. He gave me plenty of opportunity to pull away, or smack him, or knee him in the sack. Slow and intentional…and deep, and powerful, and skillful.

  This man knows how to kiss.

  He’s mastered the art.

  His tongue is a symphony against mine, and his lips are an aria on my lips. His kiss works me to a fever, steals my breath and leaves me dizzy.

  His body is huge and hard against mine. I feel him, all of him. Chest like a cliff face, abs like an iron washboard, thighs like tree trunks…and the thick ridge between us, at my belly. Lined up flush with my own sex, as if we’d been made to fit. He would barely have to dip at the knees to enter me.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t need to breathe. Slow, and thorough.

  I can’t help but respond—his desire is obvious even without the evidence pressed against me. It’s obvious in the way he kisses me. In the way his hands roughly cradle my face. In the way he towers over me, hunched to reach down to my mouth with his. It’s in the growl I feel in his throat and chest as he kisses me and kisses me.

  My arms reach up, curl around his neck. My hands slide into his hair, and I’m heedless, in the moment, of the fact that my towel drops away. All that matters in this wild instant is his mouth on mine and his body against my body.

  My hands scrape against his shoulders, and then my fingers dig into the meat of his chest. Need is a fury within me. To touch, to be touched. His hands are huge, strong, and rough. They’re like sandpaper on my skin as he rakes his palms over my shoulder blades and down my spine, and he’s got them wrapped around the small of my back, pulling me closer.

  I whimper into his mouth.

  What sorcery is this? His kiss is a drug—a phrase I’ve heard but never understood. Yet now it’s real—he kisses me and I am high with it, soaring on the wings of chemical, hormonal, physical bliss. I have never never never been kissed like this, didn’t know it was possible.