Page 26 of Daddy!

"Of course, you can, punkin."

"Really?" I couldn't help asking in disbelief.

He chuckled deep and low, and I clenched—literally clenched. "Yes. You just have to promise me that you won't drink and drive, nor will you let the bad influence drink and drive. If you guys have a hankering to go anywhere, anytime, whether you're drunk or not, I would be more than happy to volunteer my services as chauffeur."

"No drinking and driving for either of us. No worries there. We probably won't leave the house." I kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Daddy!"

"You're welcome, babygirl."

"He says yes."

"Hey, I heard that 'bad influence' remark!"

I relayed that message to Mane. He was less than repentant. "Good. I meant her to. She could stand to have a Daddy, too."

I don't know why, but that sent me into gales of laughter that Bette, in particular, did not appreciate.

Bette had been amazed to find out that, since that weekend—the one that I had been so sure wasn't going to last much longer than the length of time it took for one or the other of us to call it quits due to what I had said, Mane and I had been together just about as often as we possibly could. His work interfered sometimes, but overall, I was practically living at his place, much more so than before this very powerful turn in our relationship. And even pretty much twenty-four-seven, we clicked perfectly. The dynamic between us had always been strong, but this was incredibly potent, but also, surprisingly easy.

Despite the newness of it all, there were things that stood out to me already. If anyone had asked me before, I would have said it was the big things that mattered the most about a Daddy/daughter relationship—time spent together, rules, punishments—all of the usual stuff everyone craves from this type of lifestyle.

But the longer we did it, the more deeply entwined and profoundly intimate it became, and I started to realize that it was the small things that were the most meaningful to me.

Like the fact that he never missed the opportunity to remind me that I was his little girl, by word or by deed.

That he realized—with some kind of histrionic, theatrical horror—that his little girl didn't own any stuffed animals at all! He considered that a serious downfall on his part that he rectified the next time we were together by taking me to Build-A-Bear, as well as a small, regional toy store that had an abundance of stuffies in all shapes and sizes.

Thus, his big king sized bed now sported three stuffies that lived in a huddle between our two pillows when we weren't in bed. There was not one, but two, Build-a-Bears, a fairy bear named Arianna, a Naval Officer bear in dress uniform named Maverick—that he insisted was the fairy bear's Daddy—and a darling little lamb named Dolly that Daddy began to hand to me to hold onto whenever I was being punished. The poor thing always ended up soaking wet, having had to absorb copious amounts of tears.

He not only opened the car door for me, but he fastened my seatbelt, every time. And he volunteered to chauffer me anywhere and everywhere. He even drove—and accompanied—my friends and me on a pub crawl along Hampton Beach over the Fourth, as our designated driver, which was taking his life in his hands. He seemed to have had a good time, though, and my girlfriends were incredibly jealous of how attentive he was to me, even when strange women did their best to try to convince him to pay attention to them. He was a wonderful designated driver, and he actually kept track of everyone, doing a head count before we left each place to make sure we had everyone—that someone wasn't hurling in the bathroom—before we moved on.

He played silly, stupid games with me that I knew he would never choose to play—although I did kinda get him hooked on Mario Kart, and boy, did I enjoy beating the pants off him. At first, anyway. He got very good, very quickly, and I liked it even more when it was more of a contest.

Frozen chicken fingers weren't good enough for his little girl—he made them for me from scratch and froze them in batches.

I no longer had to deal with a lot of the pesky adult things everyone else did—he kept track of my prescriptions and doled them out to me daily, along with a multivitamin. As a matter of fact, he saw me taking some pills one day and he stopped me just as I was about to pop them into my mouth.

"Belay that, little one."

I turned to him, the pills halfway to my mouth.

"What are you taking and why?" he asked patiently, taking the pills and the bottle from me.

"I have a mild headache and I'm gonna take some Tylenol."

"Where does it hurt, baby?" he asked, immediately very concerned about me. I pointed to my forehead and back towards the crown of my head. "Poor sweetie! But you're too little to take meds without asking me first. If you're not feeling well, I want to know about it, whether it's cramps or a headache or whatever. I'll give you your pills and keep track of when you need them next. I want to make sure it gets better and I don't have to take you to the doctor."

After discovering I wasn't feeling well, he massaged my temples and set me up on the couch with my sippy cup and some Cheetos, with "I Love Lucy" on the TV to keep me quiet until my headache was gone.

Of course, I fell asleep, which I suspected was his aim, but when I woke, the headache was gone.

He did the grocery shopping—I could come, but trying to sneak "canny" into the cart was not a good idea, I discovered.

I barely had to carry a purse any more—he paid for everything. In fact, he liked it when I didn't—it made me seem even littler, he said. My phone fit in my pocket, and Mane got me a small, credit card sized wallet I could use to bring my license, my debit and credit cards, as well as a hidden hundred-dollar bill that he insisted I always keep on me and not spend at any other time but an emergency.

And, speaking of emergencies, he was horrified to realize that I had nothing in my car for emergencies—no collapsible shovel, no salt, no sand, not a fire extinguisher or a can of fix-a-flat, no emergency blankets, no hand crank radio or no energy bars to get me through until the St. Bernard arrived with brandy. He set one up for me, of course. I never did see that St. Bernard, though. I'd hoped that meant that he was getting me a puppy! Unfortunately, he put it all in one of those ginormous tubs and it took up an enormous amount of room in the back of my small car.

He had always checked in with me occasionally throughout the day, but now he did it quite religiously, especially if we were separated, asking if I was eating right—by his standards, not mine, of course—and how I felt, always asking if I had a good day and if people were being nice to me, which I thought was funny and touching.

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