My uterus tried to stand up and salute.
“Where are you in a hurry to, Dad?” Tasha asked with a casual grin, biting into her toast like this wasn’t the most awkward tension-filled room in the country.
“I need to be in Spain,” he said briskly, eyes still on me. “Something important came up. I have to catch the jet now.”
Jet.
Right.
Because this man doesn’t do cars or buses or economy-class living. He does jets and power and probably orgasm schedules.
He walked over to Tasha, leaned down, kissed her on the cheek, and muttered, “Text me if you need anything.”
Then, like the climax of a goddamn drama series, he looked at me again.
Just for a second.
But it was loaded.
He didn’t kiss me. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t say a word about what had happened last night—ab
