Off Limits : My Dad's best friend

POV: Ivy

The road twists as the city disappears behind us, swallowed by endless trees and the glint of summer sun on asphalt. I watch the landscape change through the passenger window, my chin propped in my hand, pretending I’m fascinated by every tree we pass instead of the conversation I know is coming.

“What are you thinking about?” my dad asks casually, eyes on the road.

I shrug. “Nothing.”

He chuckles. “You always think you can lie to me. You’ve got your mother’s eyes, Ivy, but not her poker face.”

That stings a little. Not because it’s untrue, but because everything about her still lingers like perfume in a closed room. She’s been gone for three years, and still, we orbit around her memory like satellites that never touch down.

He clears his throat, then slides into the topic he’s been dancing around for weeks. “So, what’s the plan now that law school’s done? I know I’ve said it before, but—”

I cut him off with a groan. “Dad. Please don’t do the ‘join the company’ speech again.”

“It’s not a speech. It’s a damn good offer.”

His voice is calm but firm—Jonathan Montgomery, king of calm but firm. He’s a brilliant strategist, the mind behind Montgomery & Blackwood Security. Everyone says he can close a deal without breaking a sweat, and I believe it. He’s always been composed, powerful. In control.

Which is exactly why I don’t want to work for him.

“I need to find my own thing,” I say, voice low but sure. “Not just do what’s safe. Not just... follow the plan you made for me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. I know he’s disappointed. But I also know he respects me. He always has. Still, I can feel the tension settle in the space between us like a storm cloud.

And then, like fate laughing in my face, he says, “Oh—I forgot to tell you. Aiden’s staying with us at the lake house for a few weeks.”

I blink. “What?”

“He’s going through the divorce, remember? That bitch of an ex took the house and the car. He’s rebuilding his own lake place, but it’s not ready yet. So I told him to come stay with us.”

I go very still. My heart stutters, then speeds up like I’ve just been dared to jump off a cliff barefoot.

Aiden Blackwood.

My father’s best friend.

My forever temptation.

He’s staying with us. In the same house. For the summer.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

“That’s... generous of you,” I manage, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my voice caught on generous.

He doesn’t. Or maybe he does and chooses to ignore it.

“He needs the break,” Dad continues. “Most of his assets were protected by the company structure, thank God. But still, the divorce hit him hard.”

Poor Aiden. Poor Aiden. My inner voice is already mocking me.

The image of him flashes in my mind—tall, broad-shouldered, always so put-together in his plain black t-shirts that still somehow clung just right. His dark brown hair a little messy when he ran his hand through it, those piercing green eyes that always seemed to see too much. The man is a walking wet dream.

I’ve had a crush on him since I was seventeen. The kind of crush that ruins you for all other men. Honestly, if I’m being truthful with myself, most of the guys I’ve dated have felt like knock-off versions of him. Like my subconscious was constantly trying to find a less-forbidden, less-dangerous version of Aiden Blackwood.

Spoiler: there’s no such thing.

And now I’m going to be sleeping under the same roof as him? For weeks?

My worst nightmare. And my biggest fantasy—all in one.

When I stepped inside the lake house, it hit me instantly.

His scent.

Woody. Spicy. Dark. It wrapped around the room like a spell, soaked into the air and into me. I could swear it had a touch of leather in it too—masculine, addictive, expensive. Aiden Blackwood smelled like a fantasy I wasn’t supposed to have. Like temptation bottled up and sprayed over bad decisions.

I’d always wanted to ask him what cologne he wore. But how could I, without giving myself away?

And then I saw him.

Standing in the middle of the living room with sunlight cutting across his body, Aiden turned toward me—and time slowed.

Black t-shirt, soft with wear, molded to his torso like it knew how lucky it was. Gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like a second skin. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just run a hand through it. Or maybe he’d just woken up. Either way, it made him look unfairly good. Raw. Real.

Holy hell, he got hotter.

I blinked, trying to force my eyes to behave. But they betrayed me, shamelessly dragging from the broad line of his shoulders to the subtle vein on his forearm that flexed when he adjusted his grip on a mug. My mouth went dry. And I wasn’t even subtle about it.

He looked up. Our eyes met. And I swear—I swear—his gaze flicked over me like a slow scan, pausing for a breath too long at my legs, then my chest.

Wait… did he just—?

He gave a small nod, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “Well, look who’s finally back. Been a while, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted. “Law school kind of took over my life.”

He stepped forward and reached for my suitcase like it weighed nothing. I couldn’t stop staring at his forearms as they flexed with the motion—muscle shifting under sun-kissed skin. My whole body tensed at the sight.

“Let me help you with your case,” he said.

Case. Bag. Yes. Words.

“Thanks,” I breathed, trying not to melt into a puddle right there. Mister Hot was officially in my personal space, and I was in trouble.

“Hey, Mister Blackwood…” I started, then corrected myself, “Aiden.”

He smirked slightly at that, like he noticed the slip. Like he enjoyed it.

“I hope I’m not screwing up any father-daughter bonding plans,” he said lightly, heading toward the stairs with my suitcase.

“No,” I said, too fast. “Of course not. You can stay as long as you want.”

I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, and I hated how shaky my voice sounded. His presence did that to me. Always had.

My dad appeared behind us, carrying the last of the groceries. “Don’t judge the wine on the counter. Divorce justifies morning alcohol.”

I glanced toward the cabinet and spotted the half-full glass of Chardonnay. I raised a brow. “Oh, I wasn’t judging. I was just thinking I’d have one too.”

Aiden’s lips tugged into something between a grin and a smirk. “Sometimes I forget you’re over twenty-one already.”

I turned toward him, slow. Deliberate.

And then I looked him dead in the eyes, letting the words hang between us like something dangerous.

“You shouldn’t forget that,” I said, dragging my tongue over my bottom lip as I reached for the bottle. “Not ever.”