The Risk (Briar U #2)(41)

Which means I need to make alternate arrangements until the process is complete.

AKA, I’m moving back in with my father.

It’s not ideal, but it’s the best option I’ve got. Despite Summer’s insistence that I stay at her place, I refuse to live in the same house as Mike Hollis. No way can I deal with Hollis’s personality and him constantly hitting on me for an extended period of time. A home is supposed to be a safe, sacred place.

The dorms are out, too. My friend Audrey isn’t allowed to have anyone stay with her for more than a night or two—her resident advisor is a stickler about that kind of stuff. And while Elisa’s RA is more lenient, she lives in a cramped single, and I’d have to crash in a sleeping bag on her floor. Possibly for two weeks.

Screw that. At Dad’s house, I have my own bedroom, a lock on the door, and a private bath. I can suffer through Dad’s bullshit as long as that trifecta is met.

He picks me up from Mark and Wendy’s, and ten minutes later we trudge through the front door of his old Victorian. Dad carts my suitcase and duffel into the house, while I shoulder my backpack and laptop case.

“I’ll take these upstairs,” he says brusquely, disappearing up the narrow staircase. A moment later, I hear his footsteps creaking on the floor above my head.

As I unzip my boots and hang up my coat, I silently curse the weather. It’s been the bane of my existence for more than a month now, but it’s officially crossed the line. I’m declaring war on the climate.

I go upstairs and approach my room as my father is exiting it. It jars me how close his head comes to the top of the doorframe. Dad is tall and broad-shouldered, and I heard that the hockey groupies at Briar salivate over him as much as his players. And to that I say ew. Just because Dad’s handsome doesn’t mean I want to think about him in a sexual context.

“You okay?” he asks gruffly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just irritated.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I swear, the last few days have been a nightmare. Starting from the interview on Friday and ending with tonight’s flood.”

“What about the follow-up interview yesterday? How did that go?”

Abysmally. At least until I pretended Jake Connelly was my boyfriend. But I keep that part to myself and say, “It was all right, but I’m not holding my breath. The interviewer was a total misogynist.”

Dad arches one dark eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Trust me, if I get hired, it’d be a miracle.” I shove a strand of hair off my forehead. “Anyway, I’m wet and my feet are frozen from wading around in the basement all afternoon. Do you mind if I take a hot shower?”

“Go ahead. I’ll leave you to it.”

I crank the shower in the hall bathroom, strip out of my damp clothes, and step into the glass stall. The warm water seeps into my bones and brings a shiver of pleasure. I make it even hotter, and it almost triggers an orgasm. I’m so tired of being cold and wet.

As I soap up, I think back to my arrangement with Jake. Was it a mistake? Probably. It’s a lot of effort to go to for an unpaid internship, but if I want to gain experience by working at a major sports network and be able to do it during the school year, I only have two options: ESPN and HockeyNet. And the former is even more competitive.

I dunk my head under the spray and stand there for as long as I can justify. When I can imagine my father lecturing me about running up his hot water bill, I turn off the shower.

I cocoon myself in my terrycloth robe, wrap my hair in a turban, and cross the hall to my room.

Because Dad bought this house after I’d already moved out, this bedroom doesn’t really feel like home to me. The furniture is plain, and there’s a noticeable lack of personal items and decorations. Even my bedspread is impersonal—solid white, with white pillows and white sheets. Like a hospital. Or a mental institution. At our old house in Westlynn, I had one of those four-post beds and a colorful quilt, and on the wall over the headboard there’d been a glitter-painted wooden sign that said PEACHES. My dad had it custom made for my tenth birthday.

I wonder what ever happened to that sign. A bittersweet taste fills my mouth. I don’t remember the exact moment that Dad stopped calling me “Peaches.” Probably around the time I got together with Eric. And it wasn’t just mine and Dad’s relationship that suffered. What started out as admiration for a talented hockey player turned into a deep hatred that exists to this day. Dad never forgave Eric for what happened between us, and he doesn’t feel an ounce of sympathy that Eric has been spiraling ever since. A real man admits when he has a problem, Dad always says.

I unzip my suitcase and pull out some warm socks, panties, leggings, and an oversized sweater. I’ve just finished dressing when Dad knocks on the door.

“You decent?”

“Yup, come in.”

He opens the door and leans against the frame. “You want anything special for dinner tonight?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I tell him, amused. “You don’t have to cook.”

“Wasn’t gonna. I thought we’d order a pizza.”

I snicker. “You know I’ve seen those meal plans you force the boys to follow, right? And meanwhile you’re over here ordering pizzas?”

“You’re home,” he says with a shrug. “It’s cause for celebration.”