Elle flushed, her palms getting sweaty, her heart skipping in her chest.

As he opened the basement door, he was in the process of wiping his forehead with a white towel and stopped short.

“Well, hello. You’re up early.”

Basile Allaine was just over six feet tall, with thick dark hair, a face that always had the shadow of a beard no matter how often he shaved, and a now-much-less-dad-bod than before the Peloton bike purchase.

Elle tried to smile. “Just felt like getting a head start.”

“I like the discipline.” He looped the towel around the back of his neck. “If you want, we can get your sister up and I’ll drive you in? That way you won’t have to ride the bus.”

“The bus is good. I don’t want to make you late.”

Her dad frowned. “You okay, Bug?”

She’d been called Bug for so long, she had no idea where the nick had come from. And lately, it had been annoying her. She was sixteen now, and who wanted to be called an insect, anyway? Right now, though, she was hoping it meant he’d go easy on her.

Ties to her younger, cuter, much-less-likely-to-joyride-in-a-car self.

“What’s going on?” Her dad came over and pulled out a chair. “Talk to me.”

Elle spent some time looking at her nails. She’d painted them black last week, and the tips were already chipping.

“Whatever it is, we can work through it,” he murmured.

Which was what he always said.

She looked up. Her father didn’t have much of an accent anymore, but she’d been told by many who apparently knew that he looked like the Frenchman he was and would always be. And hey, he also somehow managed to smell good and be all put-together in his black nylon workout clothes even after he’d been pedaling in the basement for an hour. Which seemed French, she guessed.

He was forty-six, if she remembered right. Was that old? It sounded old.

“We need to talk about last night,” she said.

There was a jerk in his shoulders, and then he sat back. As his eyes dropped to the table, she felt an urge to cry. Somehow, he must have guessed what she’d done. Maybe by the tire tracks in the driveway or—

You were an adult when you took that car out, sweetie, and now you’ve got an adult-level problem.

As the random male voice shot through her mind, Elle hissed and put her hands to her temples.

“Are you okay? Elle!”

She batted away her father’s palms as he reached forward. “I’m fine. Just slept wrong.” When the pain faded, she sat back like he was. “About

last night. Dad, I know that you—”

“I should have told you a while ago.”

In Elle’s head, she finished what she’d been about to say: —don’t let me take your car out without permission and supervision.

Out loud, she said, “Tell me what?”

That he’d, like, installed security cameras somewhere and already knew she’d snuck the BMW out for a drive?

“About Megan.” He took the towel off his neck and pressed it to his face. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up, and I was worried about how you guys would feel.”

“Megan?” She pictured the woman who’d come to the door, all confident and perfumed, all… sexy. “Wait, the one from last night?”

“Yes.”