Let's Get Tempted: Loving my best friend's Daddy

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN FATE HATES YOU

ISABELLA

You're not coming, are you?

Camille's voice cracked through my phone speaker, equal parts accusation and disappointment. I shifted the device against my ear, staring at the suitcase on my bed. It was half-packed, like my commitment to this trip.

Of course I'm coming. The flight's tomorrow.

"You've been saying that for three weeks. Every time I call, you're 'definitely coming,' but your suitcase looks like it's been in the same spot since Tuesday."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. She wasn't wrong.

"Julien thinks I shouldn't go."

"Julien." She said his name like it was a flavor she'd tried once and hated. "What does Julien think you'll miss? Another dinner where he answers emails under the table? A weekend where he 'accidentally' schedules golf with clients instead of your anniversary?"

"Camille-"

"No, listen to me." Her voice softened, losing its edge. "Izzy, when's the last time you did something just for you? Not for him, not for work, not because it was the practical choice. Something that made your chest feel light because you couldn't believe you got to be there?"

I glanced at my window. Paris stretched beyond it, gray and drizzly, beautiful in that scripted way that made you want to write sad poetry or drink expensive wine.

I'd lived here for six years, and I'd stopped noticing either.

"The Moreau beach house," she continued, "is stupidly beautiful. Like, annoyingly so. White cliffs, water so blue it looks fake, and sunsets that make you believe in God. And my father's never there, so we have the whole place to ourselves. Three months, Izzy. Just us, champagne, and absolutely no men telling us what we should want."

I almost laughed and almost said yes, then reality crept back in.

"I have deadlines. And Julien will be impossible when I get back-"

"Julien will be Julien whether you're gone for three days or three months. That man has the emotional temperature of a houseplant."

"Camille-"

"Isabella Laurent."

Okay.... She just called my full name.

"I love you. You're my person. But if you let that emotionally constipated architect talk you out of the best summer of your life, I will fly to Paris and pack your suitcase myself. And I will bring the embarrassing lingerie you hide in the back of your drawer."

"I don't have embarrassing lingerie."

"You will after I'm done shopping for you."

I pressed my palm against my forehead, but I was smiling. The part of me that wanted a new scenery was beginning to win.

"Three months is a long time."

"Three months is nothing. Three months is a blink. Three months from now, you'll be back in this apartment, staring at that same gray sky, wishing you'd said yes. Don't wish, Izzy. Just say yes."

Fuck it. I'm doing it.

"Yes," I whispered.

"What was that? I didn't catch it."

"Yes, you insufferable woman. I'll come."

She squealed like a child on Christmas morning, and I laughed... really laughed for the first time in months.

Twenty-four hours later, I regretted everything.

The flight had been fine. The car service had been fine. But standing in the doorway of the Moreau beach house, with its white stone and impossible cliffs and beautiful waters, I felt overwhelmed.

"Told you," Camille said, appearing behind me with two champagne flutes. "Stupidly beautiful."

"It's a lot."

"It's just a house." She pressed a glass into my hand. "With better views than most. I told you, my father's never here. We have the whole place to ourselves. Total freedom."

Camille had been my person since sophomore year of college. She was sharp and blonde and carried her wealth like a sweater she'd forgotten she was wearing. She didn't flaunt it, but she also didn't understand why I checked restaurant prices before ordering.

I took a long sip of champagne, letting the bubbles settle my nerves.

The terrace stretched before us, white stone bleeding into golden sand that flowed into water the color of crushed sapphires.

"See?" Camille bumped her shoulder against mine. "Worth it already."

I nodded because it was. The air smelled like peace, which made me forget Julien's disappointment.

Then we heard the sound of a car engine.

Camille's eyebrows dipped into a frown. "That's my father."

"I thought you said he was never here."

"He's not. He wasn't supposed to be." She drained her champagne in one long swallow. "Shit."

The car came to a stop near our shed, and the driver's door opened. Then he stepped out.

For a moment, he was just a silhouette against the dying light. Tall. Broad-shouldered with a kind of stillness that suggested absolute authority.

Then he removed his sunglasses, folded them once, dipped them into his jacket pockets, and looked up.

Holy. Fucking. Molly.

Camille grabbed my hand, pulling me forward before I could process what was happening. Her fingers were cold. Or maybe mine were.

"Dad, this is Isabella."

Up close, he was sinfully devastating.

Dark hair touched with silver at the temples. Eyes so pale blue they looked like a winter sky. High cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and a mouth that looked like it smiled rarely. Let's not even talk about his height.

How can he be so fucking good-looking!?

Then he looked at me, and something in my body recognized him.

"Isabella." His voice was low and accented, wrapping around my name like it belonged to him. "Camille has told me everything about you."

I opened my mouth. But nothing came out.

There was a little twitch at the side of his lips, and the sight of it got me more tongue-tied.

Say something, Isabella!!

"Welcome," he said softly, "to our home."

Behind me, Camille laughed nervously. "Dad, you said you weren't coming until August."

"Plans changed." His eyes hadn't left mine. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, of course not. We're just-it's fine. It's your house."

"Mmm." He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was something he hadn't expected to find. "Isabella. How long are you staying?"

I finally found my voice. "Ninety days. If that's-if it's alright with you."

His smile deepened. Just slightly. Just enough to make my stomach drop.

"Ninety days," he repeated. "How fortunate for me."

In that moment, I knew I was cooked.

I just didn't know yet that three mornings from now, I'd open the wrong door.

CHAPTER TWO

CRACKS

All the years I've known Camille, she has adored her father, unlike most daughters. I heard him in almost every conversation, and among the list of the people she loved, he was number one.

But I had never met him until that moment he drove into the beach house.

Twenty-four hours in this house, and Alexander Moreau existed only in fragments, annoyingly so. A closed door at the end of a hallway, a car that appeared and disappeared, and Camille's casual mentions.

Dad's in Nice today.

Dad's flying back late.

Dad's already left for his run; you just missed him.

Just missed him. Like I was keeping track when I wasn't keeping track.

Except I absolutely was.

Lying in bed at midnight, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't stop my brain from wandering.

Did he always look that sinful, or was yesterday a special occasion? Are his eyes that blue, or was he wearing contact lenses? What's the size of his palm compared to mine? What would those lips taste like?

Stop it.

I grabbed my phone, scrolled to Julien's contact, and pressed call before I could think better of it.

He answered on the fourth ring. "Isabella? It's midnight."

"I know, I couldn't sleep."

There was a pause, and I could picture him frowning at his watch, calculating lost sleep hours.

"Everything okay?"

"Just wanted to hear your voice."

A longer pause. "I have an early presentation. Can we talk tomorrow?"

My chest tightened. "Sure. Go back to sleep."

"I'll call you tomorrow." A beat. "Love you."

"Love you too."

Forty-three seconds. That's how long my boyfriend of two years had for me. I stared at my phone until the screen went dark. Then I grabbed my robe and stormed to Camille's room.

She was awake, of course she was, scrolling through her phone in the dark, and took one look at my face before patting the bed.

"You okay?" She asked, popping a grape into her mouth from the bowl on her nightstand. "You look like a train ran right through you."

"Just tired."

"Bullshit." She sat up fully, pulling her knees to her chest. "This is me, Izzy. Talk."

I wanted to. God, part of me wanted to spill everything. The way I keep replaying his voice, the way my skin prickled every time I saw him, and the fact that I'd dreamed about him and woken up feeling guilty and hungry all at once.

But what was I supposed to say? Hey, I think I'm weirdly attracted to your forty-seven-year-old father? No big deal, right?

"I think Julien's mad at me," I said instead.

It wasn't even a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Camille snorted. "He's an asshole."

"You don't even know what happened."

"Don't need to." She popped another grape into her mouth. "With Julien, it's always the same thing. You reach out, and he pulls back. You need warmth; he gives you spreadsheets. The man has the emotional temperature of a houseplant."

I laughed despite myself. "You've called him that before."

"Because it's true." She tossed a grape at me. I caught it. "What did he do this time?"

"Nothing. That's the problem. I called because I couldn't sleep, and he made me feel like an inconvenience for existing."

"Mmm." She chewed thoughtfully. "You know what your problem is?"

"Enlighten me."

"You're too loyal. You've been with him since college, so you think you have to stay. But babe-" she grabbed my hand-"staying somewhere just because you've been there a long time? That's not love. That's a lease agreement."

What the hell is she saying?

"Also," she added, grinning now, "you need to meet the guys in this town. Julien won't stand a chance."

"Are you teaching me how to cheat?" I asked with raised eyebrows.

She ticked, raising her index finger and moving it sideways. "I'm teaching you how to be free. There's a difference."

My stomach flipped. "Camille-"

"I'm just saying. Ninety days of sun, champagne, and zero emotional constipation. It's going to recalibrate your standards." She squeezed my hand. "Just go to sleep, and tomorrow we can go men-hunting."

I went back to my room and lay there, closing my eyes and trying to sleep. Closing my eyes didn't work, so I opened them and stared at the ceiling.

At 2:47 AM, I gave up. I need a drink or something.

The hallway was dark and silent. Camille's door stayed shut as I walked past it, tiptoeing not to wake her light-sleeping head. I needed to move, to shake whatever this was crawling under my skin. Maybe I could do that with a cup of coffee.

The kitchen was dark when I pushed through the door. I felt for the light switch and found it. But when I turned it on, I froze.

The man that had taken over my thoughts like it was his birthright was standing at the counter, glass in hand and backlit by the moon through the window.

Alexander Moreau was in pajama pants, barefoot, and bare-chested. Silver at his temples catching the faint glow. And his eyes-God, his eyes-were exactly as blue as I first saw. It wasn't a lens, and it was even... Bluer.

Winter sky and midnight and something else, something that locked onto me the second I walked in.

The light was on now. We both knew I couldn't pretend I hadn't seen him. He didn't move, and neither did I. The silence stretched between us like we both knew something we weren't ready to say or admit.

Then his lips curved slightly into something that looked like a smile and a smirk mixed together.

And I knew I was already in trouble.

Eighty-eight more days, and I'd just walk into his kitchen at 3 AM looking like this.

His eyes dropped to my robe, paused, and lifted back to mine.

"Isabella," he said quietly, my name rolling off his tongue like a practiced music note.

I forgot how to breathe.

CHAPTER THREE

PLAYING WITH FIRE

I forgot how to breathe.

Alexander Moreau stood three feet away, bare-chested in the moonlight, and my lungs simply stopped working. It was like my lungs had decided oxygen was optional now that he was in the room.

His eyes hadn't left mine.

"Isabella," he said my name again, slower this time. "It's three in the morning."

"I know what time it is."

"Then what are you doing here?"

I should have lied and mumbled something about water and fled back to my room like any sane person would. But my mouth was faster than my brain.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Why?"

Because I can't stop thinking about you, and you've invaded my brain like a virus.

"I just..." I gestured vaguely. "Jet lag. New place. You know how it is."

"No." He set down his glass and turned fully toward me. "I don't. Tell me."

I crossed my arms over my chest, which only drew his eyes there for half a second before they snapped back to my face.

"You're staring," I said.

"So are you."

He wasn't wrong. I couldn't stop. I mean, he was a whole meal.

"Everyone stares at you," I managed. "Camille said you have that effect."

"Camille talks too much."

"She loves you."

Something flickered in his expression. That father love was so clear in his eyes it made me jealous.

"I know."

Silence hit the room, and I knew deep within me that I should go, but my feet refused to move. And again, my mouth worked before my brain did.

"You should put on a shirt."

His eyebrows rose, complete surprise crossing his face. I had no idea where those words came from.

"Should I?"

"It's distracting."

Oh God... shut up, Izzy.

"Noted." He said without making a move. "You should tie your robe properly."

I looked down. The sash had come loose somewhere between my room and here. The fabric gaped, revealing the thin material of my nightgown, the curve of my...

I yanked it closed so fast I nearly tripped as his smile widened.

"Now we're even," he said.

"That wasn't-I didn't mean to-"

"I know." He picked up his glass again, took a slow sip, and watched me over the rim.

I let out a slow breath to loosen the knot that was tightening in my lower abdomen.

"What are you doing awake? Couldn't sleep either?"

"No."

"Why?"

He considered me for a long moment, long enough that I felt it in my chest, that slow, assessing gaze that made me feel like the only person in the world.

"Business," he said finally. "Complicated business. A phone call I didn't want Camille to hear."

"Your ex-wife?"

His eyes darkened. "How do you know about lise?"

"Camille talks. Remember?"

"Right." He set down the glass again and crossed his arms over that ridiculous chest, which only made the muscles shift in ways that should be illegal. "What else has Camille told you?"

"That you're her favorite person, your divorce was brutal, you work too much, and you don't date enough."

"Don't date enough?" A genuine smile escaped his mouth. "My daughter worries about my love life?"

"She worries about you. There's a difference."

He studied me again, longer than I expected, and I had to shift on my feet to feel comfortable under his gaze.

"You're different than I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Someone quieter. Someone who'd look away."

"I looked away."

"No." He stepped closer. Just one step, but it felt like ten. "You stared. You're still staring. You've been staring since you walked through that door."

My heart hammered. "So have you."

"True." He took another step and moved closer, close enough that I could smell him-soap and something darker, something that made my knees weak. "But I'm old enough to know better."

"Are you?"

"Apparently not." His eyes dropped to my lips. Just for a second. "You should go back to bed, Isabella."

I should. I absolutely should.

"What if I don't want to?"

The words came out before I could stop them. Bold, stupid, and honest. Something shifted in his expression; the controlled mask cracked, and underneath it was hunger. Raw and barely leashed.

"Isabella." His voice had dropped. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Then tell me."

"You're my daughter's best friend."

"I know."

"You're twenty-four."

"I know that too."

"You have a boyfriend."

That seemed to strike a guilt chord, and I winced, something he noticed.

"For now," I whispered.

His jaw tightened. "That doesn't matter; none of it does. I can't have anything to do with you. It'll be-"

"What?"

"Complicated." He stepped back, putting distance between us. "More complicated than you want to deal with."

I should have let it go, nodded, smiled, and retreated. Instead, I stepped forward.

"What if I don't care about complicated?"

"Then you're naive."

"Maybe." I took another step closer. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Or maybe I just know what I want."

His breath caught, and I saw the smallest crack in that perfect control.

"What do you want, Isabella?"

The question hung in the air between us. It was heavy, electrifying, and terrifying at the same time.

What do I want? Him to break his restraint and do exactly what I've been thinking since I laid eyes on him? Have him on top of me and have me squirm beneath him like I wasn't his daughter's best friend?

What are you even doing, Izzy? You have a boyfriend, remember!

My head was swimming with different questions at once, and the last two were trying to be as loud as they possibly could.

Before I opened my mouth to speak again, he stepped closer, leaving no space between us. His natural scent invaded my nostrils, and my brain shut down again.

His voice was thick and dark with everything I wanted. "What do you want, Isabella?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but a door opened somewhere down the hall.

CHAPTER FOUR

DANGLING BY A THREAD

Camille's voice disrupted the whole air, seeping into my ears. "Izzy? Are you up?"

I jumped back so fast I slammed into the counter. The pain barely registered; all I could feel was the space between us now.

Alexander moved like water, calm and controlled, and by the time Camille's footsteps reached the doorway, he was leaning against the far counter, glass in hand with a perfectly neutral expression.

"There you are." Camille appeared in the doorway, squinting against the light. Her eyes bounced between us. "What's going on?"

"I couldn't sleep." My voice came out too high, so I cleared my throat. "Came to get water."

"Both of you?"

"Your father was already here." I forced a laugh. "Scared the hell out of me, actually. Walked in and there he was, all..." I gestured vaguely at his chest, then remembered he'd put on a shirt. Thank God. "You know."

Camille's gaze lingered on her father, then she yawned. "This house is huge, and you two manage to pick the same room at 3 AM. Typical."

"Great minds," Alexander said smoothly. "Your friend was just leaving."

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, for show, and headed for the door.

I didn't sleep.

At 7 AM, I gave up and dragged myself to the terrace. The sunrise was obscene, all gold and pink and purple, like the universe was showing off. I slumped into a lounge chair and pressed my palms against my eyes.

What do you want, Isabella?

His voice echoed in my head repeatedly. I knew what I wanted; that was the problem.

"You look like death."

I dropped my hands to see Camille holding two cups of coffee. She handed me one and collapsed into the chair beside me.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I asked.

"Woke up and couldn't get back." She sipped her coffee. "Why couldn't you sleep? Everything okay?"

No, everything is not okay. I think I'm obsessed with your father.

"Fine," I said. "Just jet lag still."

"Mmm." She was quiet for a moment before disappointing words left her mouth.

"My father's leaving today."

My heart dropped instantly to the pit of my stomach. "What?"

"Business in Paris. He has an emergency meeting with the foundation board. He'll be gone a few days." She shrugged. "Probably for the best; he's intense to have around."

He was just going to disappear for a few days?

Relief and disappointment tangled in my chest. " When?"

"This afternoon." She stretched. "Which means we have the house to ourselves again. Pool day?"

"Sure," I heard myself agree, but my brain was stuck on loop.

He's leaving. He's leaving, and I won't see him for days. That should be good, right? I mean, distance is good. Then why did it feel like losing something I never had?

I spent the day avoiding thoughts of him.

Pool. Lunch. More pool. Camille talked about her painter, I pretended to listen, and every time a car passed on the road below, my head snapped up like a trained dog.

You're pathetic, Isla.

At 4 PM, I heard the low sound of an engine and the crunch of gravel.

I ran to the window like a child deprived of freedom. But I stopped just before I got to the glass. I didn't need to look as pathetic as I felt.

He stepped out, phone pressed to his ear, leather bag slung over one shoulder. He was saying something in French, then he paused and looked up. Straight at me.

Even from this distance, even through the heat shimmer rising from the driveway, I felt the weight of that look.

He didn't wave-not like I expected him to. He didn't smile either; he just held my gaze for one endless second before turning toward the house.

___

"You came here for a vacation, and all you want to do is stay cooped up in this room?" Camille asked for the hundredth time because I refused to go with her to a party.

"That's not what it is. I'm just not in the mood for a party," I said for the hundredth time.

She hummed, squinting her eyes as she used her index finger to tap her chin like she was in a deep thought.

"Being too long in a relationship with Julien is beginning to rub off on you."

I rolled my eyes and just kept quiet. I had run out of answers to give to her.

"Fine. Soothe yourself. Marry your sheets."

Finally, she walked out, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I'd barely gotten two thoughts in when my phone began to buzz.

I picked it up, and it was... Julien?

"Hey, baby."

He sounded so foreign to my ears.

"Umm... hi, I didn't expect to see your call."

He let out a sigh. "I know. I just felt guilty for the way I wrote you off. I'm sorry, my love."

His words instantly placed a smile on my face, and I was reminded why I was still in a relationship with him. Reminded that he was all I needed.

"It's been barely three days, and I miss you already."

I hugged my pillow at his words, tucking my hair behind my ear. Julien and I spoke for the longest time. Twenty minutes! And we were still going.

Then my phone buzzed with an indication of a text message. I pulled my phone away from my ear with a frown on my face and placed Julien's call on loudspeaker.

The message was from an unknown number. My frown deepened.

Unknown number: I'll be back before you know it. Stay out of trouble.

I stared at the message and instantly knew who it was from. He'd gotten my number. From Camille? From somewhere else? And he texted me?

He sounded like we had done something when we didn't. We only exchanged about fifty words and stood close in a kitchen.

That was all.

So why the hell do I feel excited? And my resolve had flown through the window.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE WRONG WING

ISABELLA

Three days.

Seventy-two hours of pretending I wasn't checking my phone every five minutes.

Julien called twice more. Real conversations and not the usual forty-second check-ins. He asked about the house, the weather, and what I'd eaten for dinner.

Normal boyfriend things. Things I'd begged for over two years.

And all I could think about was a text from an unknown number.

"I'll be back before you know it. Stay out of trouble."

Stay out of trouble.

What kind of trouble? The kind where I couldn't stop replaying his voice? The kind where I lie awake at night imagining his hands? The kind where my boyfriend's "I miss you" landed hollow because my heart was already somewhere else?

I was already in trouble. Deep trouble.

Camille seemed to notice the change in my behavior.

"You've been weird all week," she said on Tuesday morning, sprawled across my bed while I pretended to read. "Is it Julien? Did he do something again?"

"No. He's been... good, actually."

That seemed to catch her by complete surprise as she pulled my book away from my face abruptly, staring at me with questioning gazes.

"Julien's good? Like, good good?"

"Yeah? Why are you surprised?"

She scoffed. "He's never been good. He has, one way or the other, been an asshole."

I hit the book on her head cautiously. He gave an "ow" and rubbed her forehead with her fingers dramatically.

"Then what is it?"

I stared at her, thinking about the odds of just telling her the truth and how her father's name had become a prayer I whispered to myself at night.

Oh God, Izzy. You're going crazy. You're going absolutely fucking crazy.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said instead. "Just restless."

"Then let's go out tonight. There's this bar in town-"

"I'm not in the mood."

She stared at me for a long moment. Then she shrugged. "Fine. But you're not moping here alone. I'm dragging you to the main house to watch movies; the TV in here is pathetic."

I didn't argue mostly because being in the main house felt closer to him somehow.

It was stupid and pathetic, but it was true.

We watched two movies and ate an entire bag of popcorn, and Camille fell asleep halfway through the third, head lolling against the couch cushions.

I stayed awake, forcing my eyes through the movie until, one way or the other, my eyes dulled to the sound of sleep, and I was lying next to Camille.

____

"Is this how you fall asleep anywhere?"

Sleep completely vanished from my eyes when I heard the voice after the light tap.

Alexander was back, and he was standing right in front of me.

My head snapped to Camille, who was still lying on the couch beside me, still in deep sleep.

"When did you get back?"

"A few minutes ago."

His eyes took in my form, and I suddenly became conscious of what I was wearing. I was wearing nothing but a shirt with no bra and panties on, and half of my ass was in view.

I immediately pulled down my shirt, feeling fluids in-between my legs.

Alexander bent, reducing to my height, and stared into my eyes. His large hands raised and rested on my thighs, lifting my shirt right back into the position it was in.

The touch of his hands sent a bolt of electricity to my spine and attacked every nerve.

I inhaled from his touch.

I thought he'd lift his hands after lifting my shirt, but his hands traveled to my ass, squeezing gently in his palm.

I bit down on my lips to stop the moan from escaping and glanced at Camille, who was still sleeping.

"This is what you want, isn't it?"

I was tongue-tied. I couldn't focus my brain to form a reply.

Just when I thought I'd finally freed my tongue of its bondage, I felt a tap on my arm.

"Izzy!"

I snapped my eyes open. I raised my head to see Camille standing over me, and I realized I'd been dreaming.

I hated her instantly for waking me.

"It's late; go to your room. The couch isn't the ideal place to stay."

I nodded my head, and she walked away. But I was no longer sleepy.

The main house was beautiful at night, all shadows and moonlight, and expensive art glowing faintly in the dark. I wandered through the living room, past the formal dining area, and down a hallway I hadn't explored before.

The doors here were heavier, with darker wood and brass handles that felt cool under my fingers.

At the end of the hallway, a door stood slightly ajar. Just a crack for me to see the faint glow of light inside.

Probably a guest room or a study.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside out of curiosity.

The room was massive, with dark wood and deep colors. It had a bed that could fit four people and windows that faced the sea, with moonlight spilling across the floor.

What is this place?

My heart slammed against my ribs as my mind cautioned me to walk away.

Then the bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out in slow waves, curling into the bedroom air. And through it was a silhouette.

Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and water still sliding down skin that looked like it had been carved by someone with very specific intentions.

Alexander stepped out, running a towel through his hair, completely naked with his dick bare for the whole world to see.

Then he lowered the towel, and our eyes met.

And the world stopped.

For five endless seconds, neither of us moved. He just stood there, naked as the day he was born, water dripping from his hair down his chest, down his stomach, and into his dick.

I couldn't look away; my body had apparently abandoned all sense of self-preservation.

Then slowly and deliberately, he reached for a towel on the rack beside him and wrapped it around his waist. And finally, he spoke.

"You're in the wrong wing."

Words had officially abandoned me along with my dignity.