He sighed. “Since we’re going to see your father. And if he owns a calendar, he would have figured out that I was sleeping with you while we worked together.”
“I had to face your family after all that, too. I’m sure Mina told Henry about the Bathroom Incident, and if Henry knows then Elliott knows. And if Elliott knows . . . oh my God, your mother knows we had sex in her favorite bathroom . . . when Joel was there on a blind setup to meet me.” I smacked my palm to my forehead.
“Yeah, well, my family practically walks around wearing Team Chloe shirts under their regular clothes so it’s a little different.”
We reached the door to the rental agency and I took his hand, stopping him. “Look, my dad knows who his daughter is. He knows I can be a little spirited—”
“Ha!”
It was my turn to glare. “And he knows I give as good as I get. You’re fine.”
He sighed and leaned forward to rest his forehead against mine. “If you say so.”
Dad let out an evil whistle as he circled the shiny black Benz now parked in his driveway, boots crunching in the snow. “Always figured there was only one reason a man would drive a car like this: compensating for something. Wouldn’t you agree, Benson?”
“Bennett,” he corrected under his breath, before smiling tightly over to me.
“It’s Christmas, Dad. All the four-wheel-drive vehicles were gone.”
Things didn’t improve at dinner, either.
As we sat around the table, my father stared at Bennett like he was trying to match him up with a face he’d seen on the news. “Bennett, huh?” he said, shooting a skeptical eye over his wineglass. “What kind of a name is that?”
I groaned. “Daddy.”
“My mother was a bit of a Jane Austen fan, sir. My brother’s middle name is Willoughby so I like to think I got off easy.”
Dad didn’t even crack a smile at that. “Named after a character in a romance novel? I guess that explains a few things.”
“Your first name, Frederick,” Bennett said, with a small smile. “It’s a good name, if you don’t mind me saying so. Frederick Wentworth is also the hardworking, self-made protagonist in Persuasion. My mother made me read all of Austen’s novels when I was in high school, and I generally do what my mother tells me.” He took a bite of his dinner, chewed, and swallowed before saying, “That advice also includes dating your daughter.”
“Hmmm. Well, be careful with her,” Dad said, glaring at Bennett from across the table. “My hygienist’s boyfriend is in the mob, and I doubt anyone would miss you.”
“Dad!”
He looked at me, eyes wide and innocent. “What?”
“Mark’s boyfriend is not in the mob.”
“Of course he is. He’s Italian.”
“That doesn’t mean anything!”
“Trust me. I’ve met him. Drives a black car with very dark windows. Mark called him Fat Don at the office party.”
“His name is Glen, Dad, and he’s studying to be a CPA. He’s not in the mob.”
“I don’t know why you have to be so damn argumentative all the time, Chloe. God only knows where you get it.”
At that point Bennett started laughing so hard he had to excuse himself from the table.
Later, after Bennett won my father over by letting Dad beat him at Monopoly—how anyone would believe Bennett Ryan lost a game involving money, I’ll never know—he snuck in from the guest room and climbed into my bed.
“You’re going to get us busted,” I said, already climbing on top of him.
“Not if you’re quiet.”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Can’t tell you how many times my dad busted me for sneaking out when I was in high school, and I was very quiet.”
“Can we not talk about your dad right now? It’s seriously distracting me from how hot it’s going to be to fuck you in your teenage bed. And Jesus, Chloe. Are these even considered underwear?” he said, twisting his hands in the tiny straps of my panties and pulling. Hard.
“Oh my God!” I whisper-shouted. “Those were new and—”
“You loved it,” he finished, grinning. “Just doing my part to uphold tradition.”
I wanted to argue but 1) he was right and 2) I was distracted as Bennett slid the torn fabric to the side and slipped a finger inside of me. He took my hip in his other hand, encouraging me to move over him.
“Like that,” he said, lips parted and eyes trained between my legs. “Fuck—take your shirt off.”
Ripped panties forgotten, I nodded, lifting my T-shirt over my head and tossing it behind us. He slipped in a second finger and I sped up, the bed frame squeaking softly beneath us.
Bennett sat, whispering “Shh,” against my mouth. “Sit up a little.”
I shifted onto my knees and watched as he pushed his pajama bottoms down his hips.