Falling For Dad's College Rival: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Page 2

  I’ve found it’s worked in my favor to have a bit of a reputation. Makes for less small talk and gets a lot more done.

  “Oh, C’mon now!” he gushes. “Who’s been saying that?” he asks, almost nervously. His dry lips smack together as he tries to find his tongue again.

  Well, you for one, Dean. But I’m not going there.

  “I’ll be there, Chambers,” I repeat and it’s all I have to say before hanging up, frowning to myself.

  My thoughts seem to echo through this big empty house as much as my voice does these days.

  I’m not getting any younger either, as good as I might look and feel most of the time.

  It’s starting to weigh on me, this being alone stuff.

  “I’ll go,” I growl out loud. “But I don’t have to like it,” I tell myself, wondering why I’m so against going if I’m also trying to find the woman of my dreams.

  The one.

  You won’t find her moping around here.

  The Dean was kind enough to send me an advance copy of the reprint of the yearbook from my last year at college.

  I’d opened the package, but like so many things that aren’t pressing, I’d let it get buried under a pile of paperwork on my desk.

  In my robe and waiting for my coffee, I sit down at my desk and open it to a random page.

  The past is like a vacuum sometimes, drawing us right back to a particular moment. Or, it can be like amnesia.

  Convincing us things must’ve been photoshopped or telling ourselves we couldn’t have really been that happy back then.

  For me, seeing the photo I never remember being taken is a little bit of both.

  I do remember the moment though, like the printed memory now. But who took the photograph?

  Doesn’t really matter. But I do know it was the last time Mike Wheatley had anything nice to say to me.

  It was before he accused me of breaking our pact. The promise we’d made each other as kids.

  I remember the girl, too. She was another bone of contention between Mike and me. But I guess I was an asshole back then.

  I let him believe I had eyes for her… What was her name?

  Nothing ever happened, of course. But once Mike went strange about some promise we’d made when we were like nine, I thought fuck it.

  Let him believe whatever he wanted.

  I remember, I even let a few guys casually mention certain things to him, Drove him nuts, apparently.

  I lost interest in that game after a while, moved on to bigger and better things.

  But if I know Mike Wheatley well enough, he’s still living in that damned snapshot moment.

  Still eating his heart out and probably giving himself ulcers just stewing over it still.

  The smell of hot coffee breaks my reverie, and I casually ignore the fact I’ve twisted the yearbook out of shape, my knuckles white and both arms so tense I can’t feel my fingers anymore.

  And Mike lives in the past, eh?

  Shut up. Just get your coffee, have breakfast, and try to blow off the rest of today.

  Something in me suddenly wants to have a spa day instead.

  A haircut, sauna. Maybe a massage.

  If I’m this tense before a reunion, I wanna iron out any kinks.

  It bothers me though. Not being tense. But being tense so suddenly.

  Tense over a past I’m pretty sure I left behind twenty years ago.

  The sound of my office phone ringing makes me jump, another sure sign I’m on edge.

  I feel my eyes narrow as I answer, forcing myself to shrug it off.

  Trent Latham does not do on edge.

  Its Dean Chambers’ secretary calling, wanting to confirm seating for the head dinner table.

  “The invitation is for Mr. Latham, plus one,” she says robotically.

  “There’s nobody else,” I hear myself telling her. “Just myself this evening,” I add dryly.

  “Very good, Mr. Latham, and sorry again to bother you,” she clips before leaving me alone again to my thoughts.

  There’s no shortage of freshly pressed, tailored suits for me to choose from, and being someone who likes to be prepared early, even for events I forget about entirely, I choose a simple black suit and tie.

  This isn’t tuxedo territory, no way.

  Actually, the more I think of it, I don’t even know how formal this thing is supposed to be.

  The black will do, I tell myself. Sitting by the pool with my robe open, catching some rays while I read some emails and drink my coffee before I head out for a day of nothing much at all.

  Maybe it’s the extra cup I have, but I feel a certain thrill developing in my midsection.

  Not the same as clinching a big deal or the regular butterflies before a big game or speaking engagement.

  No.

  This is something else.

  I can’t deice if there’s really something pulling me towards this reunion now, or if there’s still just a little, asshole part of me that wants to stick it to Mike Wheatley for being such a baby.

  I guess I’ll have to wait to find out.

  And for the first time in a long time, halfway through my session in the sauna a few hours later, I decide I can’t wait.

  There’s definitely something special about tonight.

  I can just feel it.

  Chapter Three

  Brooke

  They say time flies when you’re having fun.

  Or when you’re pushing shit uphill and trying to play catch up after daydreaming for half the day.

  I barely make it to the dry cleaner in time, after deciding I do need to buy a new dress and shoes after all.

  And have my hair done.

  And my nails.

  Okay, so it’s a little bit of overkill, and it’s drained my savings, but it’s all for a good cause.

  So why do I feel so… weird?

  The butterflies of excitement I had all day, thinking about Trent, the reunion. Thinking about something exciting for a change.

  It all starts to turn to a sick feeling of dread the closer it gets to the time I should be getting ready.

  I love my new dress. It’s simple. Strapless black and shows off my chest, maybe a bit too much. It’s the one thing I tell myself I have going for me.

  It takes the focus off my butt and legs, which are excellently disguised with some sheer tights.

  The hairdresser’s done a great job in putting my hair up with some nice, thick curls down one side and I even don’t mind my attempt at a little makeup.

  So why do I feel so...? Oh, I dunno. It must just be nerves.

  I’m a bundle of nerves by the time I hear dad pull up, but I know it’s useless trying to pretend it’s just another normal day with me all dressed up, so I walk into the kitchen to greet him.

  His face explains my instinct before he even registers my outfit.

  He opens his mouth to say something, but stupid me, I spin around and ask him what he thinks. Knowing I’m gonna hate the answer.

  “Ah, shit, honey?” he groans. “I shoulda called ya. I didn’t know you were gonna go to so much...” he starts but trails off, eyeing me up and down with a pained, guilty expression.

  “You look beautiful, by the way,” he adds, leaning in to peck my cheek but I know what he’s gonna say.

  I should’ve known earlier.

  “I decided not to go tonight, sweetie,” he says, contracting his lips. “I’ve got a ton of work to do, and well… To be honest, I just don’t feel like transporting myself back twenty years. I thought it over today, and those years before your mom and I—” he tries to say.

  But I get it.

  I should’ve known.

  I know my dad better than he thinks, and he’s only ever reliable when it comes to things he knows are safe and controlled. Like work, pre-paid holidays, and coupon dinner discounts.

  My hurt must show because he tries his best to remind me it was me who never wanted to go in the first place.

  But once
my lower lip starts to tremble, and my cheap mascara starts to run, he fesses up.

  “Truth is, sweetie,” he says slowly, taking me by the hands and sitting me down. “The thought of seeing Trent Latham again, after all these years? It makes me… ill,” he admits, but I don’t see fear or dread in his eyes when he mentions the name.

  I see that side of him I’ve only had a glimpse of.

  The one that tears up photos and smashes frames.

  But hearing him explain things snaps me to attention. Full attention and I get up as if I’m being pulled by strings, suddenly feeling an urgency I can’t explain.

  Like I have to go tonight. As if my life depends on it.

  “You’re going to your reunion, dad,” I tell him firmly, the very thought of missing my one chance to meet Trent Latham flashing through my mind.

  I list off all the reasons I can think of, least of which is my outfit, hair, and so on.

  “I made an effort for you, dad. To support you like you wanted,” I tell him, almost shouting and wagging my finger at him. “Oh, you’re going alright. Now get in that shower while I get your suit ready,” I command, surprised when he actually listens to me for once.

  “Alright, honey,” he murmurs, looking me up and down again with some pride. “I’ll go. And thank you,” he says, pecking my cheek again. “Thanks for not turning out exactly like me,” he adds, half-smiling to himself as he hurries to get himself ready.

  I set out his suit and shoes then fix my makeup in my room while he’s getting ready.

  I notice my hands are shaking but try to tell myself it’s just from getting bossy with my dad. Something I’d never normally do.

  But I know deep down it’s something else.

  That other feeling I’ve had all day.

  The feeling that my luck’s about to change somehow.

  I thought I was a little nervous getting ready, but my dad’s like a bundle of nerves which isn’t helping me either.

  He even asks me to drive us to the reunion before changing his mind at the end of the street.

  “Nope. Sorry honey,” he groans, and I sigh bitterly, but he only means he can’t be a passenger. “If I’m not driving I don’t feel in control,” he admits, and we switch seats quickly at the next red light.

  “What’s so nerve-wracking about a reunion?” I ask him once we’re on our way and he’s calmed down a little. Feeling better about being in charge of something like driving.

  “I think I just had one too many coffees this afternoon,” he fibs, shrugging off my question, but I can see him chewing at his lip, his eyes dancing around and his own impatience at the wheel.

  He’s usually a pretty calm guy, but this whole thing has him rattled, I can tell.

  “Just don’t wander off,” he says suddenly, interrupting my little memories of the yearbook photos, my thinking about Trent Latham all over again.

  “I mean, don’t leave me stranded stuck with someone I look like I don’t want to talk to,” he adds, trying to laugh it off.

  “Like who?” I ask. “I don’t even know anyone there, so how would I know who you want to talk to and who you don’t?”

  “It’s mostly a dinner, I think,” he says absently. Almost to himself. “So it should just be whoever we’re across from and sat next to. You’ll be next to me,” he adds.

  “And after dinner?” I probe him further, feeling like maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, after all, being tied to my dad all night how the hell am I supposed to get near Trent Latham?

  “I’ve got work tomorrow, so I don’t think we should stay long,” he tells me, shooting me a glance in the rearview that reminds me he didn’t want to go in the first place.

  Like he’s doing me a favor now by even driving me there so I can stay just long enough for a meal.

  That’s my dad.

  Just as well he’s taken over driving really. The college is in a part of town I don’t know, and once inside the gates, it’s like a maze but dad seems to know the way as if he was here just yesterday.

  Pulling up out front of a huge hall that looks like something out of a gothic novel, I get a shiver as we leave the car.

  It’s coming in cold and will most likely rain.

  Genius me forgot to bring or even think of a jacket or something to cover me.

  “It’ll be warm inside,” my dad observes, noting how cold I look already as he puts his arm around me but I recoil.

  Not because of his arm, but because his hands feel like ice.

  “Dad, you’re freezing,” I almost shriek, but he keeps a hold of me as he steers us both towards the entrance, fishing his official looking invitation from his pocket and handing it to an old man in an equally old suit who could pass for Jeeves the butler from the last century.

  “Very good, Sir,” he tones deeply. “Drinks and then dinner,” he continues, sounding like a gong as he signals one huge room full of people first and then another opposite, which I can already see is what must be an old ballroom converted to a dining hall.

  “Pretty stiff looking reunion,” I mutter under my breath, noting how tense my dad is again.

  “You okay?” I ask, aware of his pale look suddenly.

  “I… I gotta use the bathroom,” he blurts out, shoving me towards the room full of people before darting for a set of doors nearest the huge wooden oak staircase.

  Nerves, I guess. I tell myself, suddenly feeling a pair of eyes on me from the crowded room ahead.

  There are a hundred eyes in there, but only one set that counts just now.

  One set that’s giving me a very familiar feeling between my legs as I walk slowly, hearing my own breath catch with each step.

  I glance from person to person, but nobody seems to be noticing me as I make my way in.

  I’m feeling more than a little overdressed and just a little vulnerable in my low cut ‘look at how cold my chest is’ dress when I see him.

  Trent Latham is across the room, his dark eyes ablaze with an intensity that I feel burning all the way inside me.

  His jaw flexes as it sets with determination and despite the sound of hundreds of people chatting and mingling, I hear myself gasp.

  Glued to the spot, it’s like he’s cast an invisible rope around me with his eyes and is slowly moving over towards me.

  Before I know it, he’s kissing my hand and asking my name in his own special way.

  Holy freaking—

  Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t say anything stupid.

  “I… I…” I hear myself stammering, my gaping mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for breath.

  My name’s stupid.

  Stupid girl who can’t even say her name.

  Shit.

  Chapter Four

  Trent

  Dean Chambers has left me high and dry after an effusive greeting, more interested in entertaining his overseas guests, which is fine by me.

  I’ve sat through my share of winning and dining potential investors.

  The event so far is as much as I expected, a ton of people I don’t recognize anymore, and the ones I do look like they’d rather see me in a casket than at a reunion.

  I wasn’t always the nicest guy on campus, but I knew what I wanted and did what I had to do to get it.

  It’s early on in the piece, but enough for me to realize this is maybe the best time to leave.

  Before it even starts.

  It looks like Wheatley’s a no show anyhow, no big surprise—

  Turning to make my way out, I stop dead in my tracks. I spy Mike Wheatley, but it’s who he has on his arm that makes me swallow hard. My mouth suddenly dry.

  I barely notice him disappearing into the men’s room in a hurry.

  He never did have a strong stomach for this kind of thing.

  At a glance, I could say the woman on his arm must be a paid date of some kind. No way a guy like Mike Wheatley is gonna have a girl like that on his arm by her own choosing.

  But no.

  I can se
e she’s way too clever for that, even at the highest end of the scale. Not that I’d know.

  Plus she must be half his age. But I do notice a lot of people are half my age nowadays.

  What strikes me most is her eyes.

  Wide with something like wonder, but also a thrilled look of relief once her eyes meet mine. I can’t help but start to undress her with my eyes.

  I never knew I had a ‘type’ before. I don’t.

  I mean, I didn’t. Until now.

  Without another thought, before I can even question what’s happening, all I know is she’s mine.

  She’s the reason I came here tonight, the whole reason for everything.

  She’s wearing a simple black dress, but it highlights her smooth, powder soft skin.

  Simple yes, but she’s still the most beautiful girl in the room by far.

  Her blond hair’s been styled into large soft waves on one side and her big blue eyes light up her round face. Feels like they light up the whole room.

  Her large chest is rising and falling quickly, but I can see her thick, pebbled nipples through the fabric, which sees me letting out a low rumbling sound.

  A deep, animal growl as I start to make my way over to her. It feels like too many people are too close to her all of a sudden like I should be the only one here with her.

  Just her and me.

  Nobody seems to really notice, but I make my way over to her as quickly as I can, but making sure I have plenty of time to take in her sweet body and those eyes a little longer.

  Before I reach her, I stop for a moment, almost wanting to signal her with my finger, for her to turn around slowly for me.

  I could look at her all day and all night, and I’m already hooked.

  I want to see more. Those thick hips and thighs she seems to be pressing together are begging to be pried apart.

  One hand on her side, the other cupping that chest. I’m easily imagining this girl lifting those legs over my shoulders as I lay her back.

  The thought of my face between her legs is enough to make me growl again, and despite the crowded room, I can feel something pulsing to life.