We leave this bullshit day behind us, and my friend doesn’t mention my pissy-ass attitude.
Unfortunately, tomorrow it starts all over again.
I’ll be forced to face reality.
He’s back.
Shut up, Britney.
Her song plays over and over. Like a warning that the storm is coming. That storm comes in the form of size thirteen black Berluti calf leather loafers, a gray Emporio Armani wool suit, and a hazel-eyed glare fiery enough to melt glaciers.
Otherwise known as Dad.
He doesn’t knock. Nope. Why would he? He owns not only my apartment, but the entire complex. This one and about three other complexes in Hawk’s Landing, along with several lodges and entertainment venues. Dad may be the dean of Atlantic Pointe University, but that’s not where he made his money. Between Mom’s oil royalties and Dad’s commercial real estate business, I was born with the silver spoon shoved up my ass.
“Oh, hey,” I say, adopting a bored expression as Dad pushes through the front door with his phone pressed to his ear.
Britney stops singing from the coffee table the moment he cancels the call and shoves his phone in his pants pocket.
“Ashton,” Dad rumbles, infecting the air with his overpoweringly expensive scent. “You should answer when I call.”
“I was about to,” I lie, “but then you walked in. What’s up?”
I can’t help but rile my father. It’s a favorite pastime of mine. Mia says I’m an asshole, because for some lame ass reason, she likes the guy. I say I learned from the best.
Dad’s nostrils flare, a clear indication of how pissed he is at me, but takes a calming breath. Our therapist—yeah, we’re that fucked up in the Carter family—taught him that move. The only thing our therapist taught me was how to pretend everything is just fine so you can get the hell out of your situation quicker.
Which is exactly why I’m going to school for psychology, rather than business, much to Dad’s horror. I want to actually help people like myself, not fail at it like so many have done for me.
“Andrew will be here soon and I’d like it if you’d at least pretend you respect me. This guy is going through a lot, and I want to be there for him.” His dark brows furrow and his lips press together. “I don’t ask much from you, son, but I need you to behave.”
Wait…
He’s serious.
“Why?” I ask, trying to contain my laugh of disbelief. “Since when are you the good Samaritan of Hawk’s Landing? I thought everything revolved around money with you?”
Dad rolls his eyes, reminding me of myself. “Just don’t make it weird for him.”
“Weird…” I shrug. “Can’t promise anything there. I mean, have you met me?”
As if he’s just been reminded, he sweeps his gaze over my clothes. Earlier today, after a swim, I changed into a pair of old, holey jeans and a black vintage long-sleeved Led Zeppelin shirt. It’s a usual outfit for me, but Dad hates when I’m slummin’ it.
“I’d prefer it if you just stay out of his way and let him do what he came here to do,” Dad grumbles. “And, you know… don’t hit on him.” His face burns crimson.
A snort escapes me. “Now I’m interested. How hot is he that you’d be worried I’d embarrass you by—”
Soft rapping on the open door has my words disappearing from my mouth.
Fuck.
I get it now.
Dad knows I have a type and this guy is absolutely it.
Tall, muscular, a fucking dimple.
I’m stunned stupid as I stare at Andrew’s crooked grin, focusing for far too long on how nice and pink his lips are. Lips like those would taste pretty damn good, I can guarantee it.
Dad sighs upon seeing the look on my face. “Ashton, this is Andrew Thompson. He was the starting center for the St. Louis Blues. That’s hockey in case you weren’t familiar.”
Andrew’s eyebrow arches and a smirk plays at those sinful lips of his.
“Anyway,” Dad continues. “He’s been so gracious as to agree to fill Coach Garrison’s place since he’ll be out for the foreseeable future. I don’t feel right about him staying in some cheap, filthy apartment above his friend’s bar the whole semester until some housing opens up, so I’ve offered your spare room. He’ll be within walking distance to the ice rink, which will be nice as well.”
“Why’d you leave your hockey gig?” I blurt out.
The color drains from Andrew’s tanned face and he drops his gaze to the floor, the bill of his Blues cap hiding his striking blue eyes from me. “I’m not at liberty to discuss.” His gravelly voice has a hint of shame threading in his statement.
Interesting.
“Ashton,” Dad hisses. “I’ve assured him, and even wrote it into his employment contract, that he’s not required to discuss his reasons for leaving the NHL. The point is, we’re incredibly happy to have him. It’s an opportunity our hockey team has never had before.”
Ahhh.
Now I get Dad’s play with this guy.
Ex-hockey player to coach our university’s hockey team means championships won and a potential way to recruit new players to go to school here. There’s always an angle with my dad—one that has him smelling like a fucking rose.
“The room’s all yours. It’s technically a guest room, but I was using it to study,” I tell Andrew. “I guess I’ll have to work in my room until you leave.”
Dad shakes his head at me. We both know I don’t study, but he’s not going to correct me on it in front of this guy. Dad has become the master of choosing his battles with me.
“Great. I appreciate it,” Andrew says, tipping his head up to look at me.
Goddamn, he’s hot.
Blue eyes that are nearly electric with intensity. Lips that pout out just a bit but seem to be inclined to tip up in a smile. A neck corded with muscle and a lickable Adam’s apple. His shoulders are broad like Brayden’s—the fact
