Page 4 of Daddy's Pride

I clutch the steering wheel and concentrate on staying safe and reaching my destination. The bed and breakfast looked pretty, and I paid extra for a room with a sea view. I’m looking forward to a week of doing nothing. I need this break so badly.

I pass a faded wooden sign right but can’t avoid my front tire hitting the mother of all potholes. Bang! The car bucks and lurches. Hiss. A warning light appears on the dashboard. I’ve run out of fuel. I pull the car into a dirt lay-by to the backing track of the wheel rim thudding on the ground.

I grip the wheel and gently knock my head against it a few times, then sit upright and rub my hands over my face. Don’t panic. I check my phone. No reception. I can’t call for a tow. I could change the tire, but that won’t miraculously fill the tank with petrol.

I exit the car, lock it, and walk a few feet to the faded sign. It’s for an outdoor retreat centre, but a newer sign has been attached to the bottom, telling me it’s under new ownership and closed for refurbishment. Not to worry; someone might live on site.

The wooden gate onto the property is locked. I climb over it and walk down a long drive, checking my phone every few seconds to see if it’s got reception. It would be a nice walk if it wasn’t dark and the road wasn’t lined with thick trees. Animals scuffle in the undergrowth. An owl hoots to my left. Something tiny screeches farther away. My heart beats a thousand miles per hour as I pick up the pace. It’s fine. Axe murderers don’t lie in wait on private country roads waiting for people to break down. Sadly, my nerves don’t appreciate me telling them that.

I must have been walking for ten minutes. I turn a bend. A double-fronted house greets me. The downstairs lights are on. Someone must be home and awake. Thank fuck. My phone pings with text and voice messages. At least now I can call for help if whoever lives in the house is a serial killer.

I approach the house. I’d got used to the moon and stars, but the house lights are brighter, killing my night vision. No doorbell. I close my hand into a loose fist and rap my knuckles on the door. No answer, yet voices are coming from inside. I press my ear to the door. A pair of tinny voices—one male, one female—are talking about the latest political scandal. News readers? Someone must be home if a TV or radio is on. I knock again, louder than before. I hold my other hand behind my back with my fingers crossed. Please don’t let this be a serial killer’s house. Please.

The door opens, and a six-foot-three hunk of a man stares at me. The light comes from behind him, casting his face in shadow. The outline of his body is visible, and fuck, is he muscly.

Before I can stop myself, I whistle softly and whisper, “Hello, Daddy.”

Chapter 2

Miles

Did I imagine what he just said?

I must have. Boys don’t show up out of nowhere.

I ignore the thrill running down my spine and shake myself. I glance past the man on my doorstep but don’t see any sign of a car in the darkness. Mine is in the garage around the side of the house. I focus on the man again.

“Hello?” Why would anyone be here at night? Or at all. The activity centre closed a few years ago, long before I bought the place.

He smiles. “Hi. I need help.”

With his wind-swept, strawberry-blond hair, pale stubble, square jaw, high cheekbones, and grey-blue eyes, the stranger reminds me of a young Paul Bettany. That and the fact that he called me ‘Daddy’, even though he can’t have, makes him all the more endearing.

“Help?”

He grimaces. “You’re not an axe murderer, are you?”

I resist the urge to laugh. “Not last time I checked.”

“Good. Huh, but you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

This time, I do chuckle. “You need help?”

“Yes. I’m lost, have a flat tire, and have run out of petrol.”

“That’s a lot of things to go wrong.”

“Well, they say bad luck runs in threes, so hopefully, I’m due some good luck.” He flicks his gaze over me. “Like meeting a hunky saviour in the middle of nowhere.”

Maybe I didn’t imagine what he said. “Where were you trying to get to?”

“Scarborough. I’m travelling from Lancaster.”

“You’re way off course.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” He shivers and rubs his arms.

“Come inside. I don’t want you to catch a cold. How can I help?” I stand aside to let him into the warmth and shut the door.

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