Page 43 of Sexy Bad Daddy

His biggest rival, Greg Hanstrom, walks past and throws a disdainful look at Garrett’s bright yellow pants and shirt with psychedelic flowers splashed across his chest. Yeah, that’s right, buddy. Let him get into your head.

Garrett points his club at Greg and calls out, “Let me know if you want my tailor’s number.” The women in the crowd giggle and snap pictures as he flashes a lopsided grin. Abby bounces in place, waving her chubby little arm until she catches his attention. I make eye contact, and it’s all I can do not to slip under this rope and rush into his arms. I’ve watched enough golf on television recently to know it’s perfectly acceptable for girlfriends and wives to do that, but I’m just the nanny and the last thing I want is to add to the speculation already buzzing about our relationship. So instead, I lift my hand and give him a shy little finger wave.

He hands the club to Harry and strides toward us, and I hold my breath. In my head, he’s about to lift me off my feet, wrap my legs around his waist, and kiss me until I’m breathless, all while the paparazzi snap picture after picture and call out to him, wanting to know if I’m “the one.” And when he’s done kissing me, he’ll lift his head and announce to everyone…

“Hey, ladies. Nice dresses.”

I blink and the world comes back into focus, and Garrett’s standing here, smirking, two feet and a length of rope separating us.

“Pick her up,” he whispers, “so I can come closer without causing speculation.”

I lift his daughter into my arms while smiling up at him, and when he moves closer to hug her, I tighten my hold around her back to keep myself from leaning into him. All I can think about is that shower back at the hotel, the way his soapy hands slid over my body, how he caressed my breasts until I whimpered; how he fucked me from behind while stroking my clit, and I clung to the towel bar and wished the moment would never end, even as an orgasm tore through me, leaving me exhausted, sated, and already eager to do it again.

He shifts to whisper, “I can’t wait to tear that dress off you, later. Thinking about it’s giving me wood, so I probably should back away now.”

I fail not to be pleased by his saucy comments as he turns his focus back to Abby, asking her to wish him luck in this round. Instead, she says, “We saw Mommy.”

He freezes. Well, not literally, because this is real life and people don’t just freeze, and besides, it’s May and we’re in Dallas. It’s got to be at least ninety degrees already and the sun is beating down on us pretty relentlessly.

But he’s as still as a statue, the only movement the steady up and down motion of his chest, indicating he’s still breathing. He turns those glassy blues on me, and I flinch from the storm I see in them. I should have told Abby not to say anything, at least not until after the game. He doesn’t need the distraction, today of all days. He needs to earn every point possible to give him a proper ranking going into the FedEx Cup.

Look at me, almost sounding like I know anything about golf.

“Did she just say what I think she said?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“She’s over there,” Abby adds, stretching out her arm and pointing at the clubhouse in the distance.

Garrett’s gaze flicks up to the building and back to Abby. When he turns his focus to me, it’s even darker, a storm worse than any I’ve witnessed before. I swallow and resist the urge to step away from the fury in the depth of his eyes.

“Abby,” he says without breaking eye contact with me, “go stand with Harry for a minute. Tell him to show you my new club.”

“Okay,” she says, and she wiggles until I bend my knees to place her on the ground. When I stand straight again, Garrett clamps his hand onto my arm, like he’s afraid I’m going to follow her.

“You took her to see her mother?” he says, his voice so low it’s practically a hiss.

“I—what? I had no idea who she was,” I protest. Is he really accusing me of deliberately taking her to see the woman who gave her up? She’s his kid. I would never do something like that without his knowledge, even if I had known Morgan’s identity. And I still wouldn’t, now that I do. I can wish all day long that Morgan might be able to maintain a relationship with her daughter, but ultimately, she gave that child to Garrett and it’s his decision whether she gets to play a role in Abby’s life. Not mine. Not even hers, not anymore.

“She just said, ‘We saw Mommy.’ Or did I not hear her right?”

I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “Maybe you shouldn’t have invited us to this tournament,” I suggest icily.

His gaze darts to the clubhouse again. “I didn’t realize she still worked here.” He says it quietly, almost like he’s talking to himself.

I’m suddenly conscious of the people standing all around us, fully aware that they are observing, trying to listen. One guy is holding up his phone, pretending he’s looking at something on the screen, but I know damn well he’s either taking pictures or, more likely, videoing this exchange.

“Look, why don’t you go play, and we can talk about this later? When we’re alone.” I’d prefer to deck Garrett right now for thinking so little of me, but the media doesn’t need any more fuel for the simmering flames of speculation surrounding our relationship.

His gaze latches onto my face. I’m not even sure he’s aware we have an audience. I suppose when you’re a celebrity and yet you have to concentrate on your game, you learn how to tune out the crowd. Unfortunately, that’s a very bad practice at the moment.

“Don’t get any fucking ideas in your head,” he says. “She’s mine.” He finally storms away, snatching the club from Harry’s hand before patting Abby on the head and sending her back my way, all without turning around to acknowledge me.

“Daddy’s mad,” she says when she returns to my side.

I lift her into my arms and say, “Yeah, well, sometimes people get mad over dumb things. He’ll be fine. He just needs to lose himself in the game for a while.” And realize what an ass he was just now. Or maybe I’ll remind him, later, when we’re alone and can hash this out without worrying about phones with cameras and speakers and instant uploads to social media accounts.

“Trouble in paradise?” a husky, feminine voice says beside me. I want to scream. Fiona is as sexy—or is it slutty?—as ever in a slinky, white dress that shows no panty or bra lines … because she isn’t wearing any.

“We’re fine,” I say to dismiss her.

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