My Bestie's Dad Likes Me Wet-Chapter 11 Warning Call

NOVA POV

I was a bundle of nerves, even after Grant stopped by later. While my heart was busy painting vulgar scenarios of how the night could go right, my head kept cataloguing all the ways it could go terribly wrong. And deep down, I knew,I probably wasn’t ready for any of it.

I wore my thickest sweater even though the heater was on, sweat beading down my forehead like I’d run a marathon. My oversized, fluffy pajama bottoms swallowed my legs, and my glasses were perched neatly on my nose, the one consistent accessory in my life.

And then, he was in my room. Simply put, the ball was in my court.

Grant sat at the edge of the bed, scrolling on his phone, stretching the silence like an overwhelmed hair tie on the verge of snapping. My nerves decided now was a great time to betray me.

"Did you know sloths can hold their breath longer than dolphins?"

No. No, Nova. Absolutely not.

Of all the things to randomly blurt out around Grant, why did my mouth have to choose this?

Sometimes I experience what I call a brain glitch, where my mouth spews content not approved by me or my brain. It usually happens when I’m either too nervous or when I’m with someone I feel... safe around. Familiar.

Wait. Did that mean I was comfortable with Grant?

No. Not comfortable, dumbass. Nervous.

But can I blame my stupidity on nerves? Maybe.

Grant’s hand stilled mid-scroll. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to mine, one brow arched.

The weight of his stare nearly knocked the air from my unstable lungs.

"...Excuse me?"

His voice was flat, calm in a way that felt almost lethal.

My cheeks flamed.

"Uh—I mean. Sloths can actually hold their breath longer than dolphins. Forty minutes compared to ten. Which is insane, right? Because dolphins are literally built for swimming, and sloths... well, they look like they’d drown in a puddle."

Silence.

I know. I know.

This was surprising to me too. I hoard random information in my head for later use, and apparently later use meant blurting it in front of a billionaire who probably didn’t care about sloths.

Who would’ve thought sloths could out-hold their breath compared to sea creatures?

My amusement was short-lived when Grant adjusted his cufflink, the faintest twitch of a smile threatening his lips.

"Of all the useless information you could have interrupted me with... that’s what you chose?"

Useless? My heart dropped.

But it wasn’t useless. Sloths really could go forty minutes. For real.

"I panicked," I whispered, my voice shrinking to a confession.

Grant leaned back on the bed, studying me like I was a puzzle no algorithm could solve.

"Noted," he murmured, and to my horror, there was a hint of a smile in his tone.

"Do you ever panic?" I asked quickly, locking my eyes on him, expecting him to laugh it off. After all, I was basically a basket full of clumsy contradictions.

"We all do."

He pocketed his phone, folding his arms across his chest as his gaze locked on mine.

"The way you compose yourself matters more."

"I compose myself well enough," I muttered, "but I always end up doing something clumsy or awkward."

My voice sounded whiny even to me.

"Go to the doctor. I’m not your therapist."

This man had the confidence of a cobra, and the precision of one too.

"Then what are you in my room for?" I shot back sarcastically.

Silence.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he let his eyes roam across the space, really looking at my room for the first time.

It might be his house, but for my temporary stay, I’d already personalized the room until it hummed with my presence. There’s nothing like the warm embrace of a space that feels lived in and safe.

Half the shelves were overtaken by my pen collections. Yes. Pens.

I have four major obsessions in life that I can’t help but hoard, but pens are my favorite. Each pen tells a story the owner abandoned once their ink or purpose ran out. I guess I identify with them. A little too much. So I care for them, give them a home, so they don’t feel used and discarded.

Fountain pens. Ballpoints. Markers. Fineliners. Even a quirky set of glitter gel pens shaped like cartoon characters that I refuse to part with. They’re not clutter. They’re me.

The red gel ink pen reminds me of late-night doodles I made when I was lonely. The sleek black fountain pen reminds me of who I want to be someday, unapologetic, elegant, and sophisticated.

Each pen in my drawers, bags, or perched in coffee mugs across the room is like a tiny diary of a life phase.

Grant’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Why do you keep so much clutter?"

"It’s not clutter," I said quickly. "They hold more than sentimental value."

Beside the pens, my too-small bookshelf was crammed with hardcovers and paperbacks. My novels spilled over in messy stacks, and somewhere in there I’d hidden my more... questionable reads. My eroticas, disguised under plain, boring covers that I hoped would fool any nosy onlooker.

Apparently, Grant was nosy.

He plucked the slimmest book from the shelf. My stomach sank. Of all the books, how did he manage to choose the filthiest one?

He flipped to the middle. My soul prepared to abandon my body.

The edge of his lips twitched.

"Suspended Arch... This position looks stressful."

He turned another page casually.

"Spiral Staircase. Looks like something I’d try."

His tone was calm, detached, as if he were reviewing stock reports instead of narrating pages from my secret stash of rare erotica collections of Sexual positions.

It was my fault. Who leaves such material where sunlight—and Grant—could reach it?

"Hm. The Mirror Grip. Note this one down for when I finally fuck you."

The words dropped with full confidence, no hesitation, no shame. Alpha male. Dom energy. A predator marking his prey.

Images flooded my head, of me, tied up, whipped, touched. My nipples tightened through the fabric of my sweater in a treacherous response.

But this wasn’t my lucky night.

Before I could process further, Grant tucked the book under his arm and stood.

"You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you? I’m sure you have several others." He smirked.

I shook my head furiously. This was a bad idea. A catastrophically bad idea.

"Or," he drawled, "you could stay with me in my room while I finish reading it."

Worse. Much worse.

I opened my mouth to reclaim my book, but the shrill tone of my phone cut through the tension.

My godmother’s name flashed across the screen. The woman rarely called. My heart sank.

"Mother,"

I answered, faking cheerfulness I didn’t feel. Whatever this was, it better be good.

"You abandoned me, Cherië,"

She launched into a melodramatic tirade.

"Living your life in New York City while I’m left here to suffer—"

"Interns don’t get paid," I cut her off sharply.

She sniffed. "It doesn’t mean you can’t take one or two extra jobs."

Extra jobs. That would wreck my scholarship and tank my grades, all so I could send her money she’d probably blow on pills.

Yeah. I’d take a hard pass

When I stayed silent, she cleared her throat. And right before I could hang up, her voice dropped low, almost conspiratorial.

"There’s a man sniffing around your past, Cherië. You better stay careful."