Page 31 of Daddy's Princess

I push up off the ground and brush myself off. “It’s okay.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The guy looks me up and down, assessing me. There is no heat to his gaze, like when Oliver’s eyes traveled up and down my body. He’s looking me over as if expecting some kind of grievous injury is hiding just out of plain sight.

“I’m fine. Buddy and I were just making friends,” I squat down in front of the dog and scratch him behind the ears, “Weren’t we, handsome?” I continue petting Buddy telling him he’s a handsome boy and a good dog. I’m completely oblivious to Buddy’s owner being there until he bends down and picks up my forgotten sketchbook.

“Wow, this is amazing.”

“Thanks.” I stand and reach for the sketchbook, but instead of handing it over, he starts flipping through the pages. “Umm, can I have that back?”

“These are crazy good,” he says enthusiastically as he flips to yet another page in the book. “Did you really do all these?”

I just nod my head, feeling completely uncomfortable with this stranger’s praise. My sketchbook isn’t like the pieces I do for show. They are more like a look into my soul as an artist. Some people write out their thoughts and feelings, I draw mine. Each of those drawings holds a piece of me in them, and I feel extremely exposed, having them casually on display.

When he finally has seen it all, he turns back to the sketch I was working on when Buddy launched his slobbery attack. “I’m sorry about this.” He turns the sketchbook toward me and indicates the dark line that bisects straight through the picture.

“It’s no big deal.”

Buddy’s owner doesn’t seem to think so because he scoffs and turns a hard look on his four-legged companion, who is happily laying between us chewing the rim of his frisbee. “If you say so. I’d be thinking about having dog meat tacos if Buddy had ruined my art. Well, if I were even half as artistic as you.”

I laugh at that. “I was just passing the time. It’s really no big deal. Besides, it’s not Taco Tuesday. If it were, all bets are off for you, Buddy.”

The guy throws his head back and laughs a full-on belly laugh. Once he has himself composed, he holds out his hand to shake. “I’m Nick, and you’ve already met my furry friend Buddy.”

I shake his hand with a smile. “Sugar.”

His eyes light with amusement. “Like sugar, Sugar? That’s a highly unusual name.”

“It is. My parents made the mistake of offering to let my brothers choose my name. They were ten, eight, and five at the time. My mother was horrified, but my dad said it suited me because I was such a sweet baby.”

“Well, it seems to suit you just fine since you’ve sweetly given my big oaf of a dog a free pass on tackling you.”

“He is pretty forgivable.” I squat down and pet Buddy again, rubbing him behind his ears. “You’re a handsome boy, aren’t you?”

“Why yes, yes, I am,” Nick laughs, striking a pose.

I’m momentarily distracted from petting Buddy by Nick’s antics. Buddy decides he’s not done with my attention and knocks me back on my butt, trying to get more pets. Buddy is licking me over and over, and I’m giggling like crazy, feeling lighter than I have in a long, long time.

I manage to sit up, but before I can stand, Buddy crawls into my lap like he’s a proper lap dog. He’s not, but I don’t fight it. I’ve always loved dogs but could never have one because my mom thought they were dirty, stinky beasts.

By the time my phone rings, I’m laughing at Nick’s story about how he met his boyfriend. Apparently, Buddy is quite the matchmaker. I look at the phone screen, and it’s an unknown number, so I ignore the call. It instantly rings again with the same unknown number.

“Do you need to get that?” Nick asks curiously.

“It’s probably just a telemarketer.” I shrug, sending the call to voicemail.

Once again, my phone rings. “Maybe you should answer it. It could be your very own Nigerian Prince ready to sweep you off your feet if you’d just wire five hundred dollars for his airfare.”

I’m mid-laugh when I answer the phone. “Look, Prince Timbucktu, I’m not buying what you’re selling. My social security number has not been compromised. I don’t have chronic pain. I donate to my local shelter. I don’t have a credit card, so my APR is of no consequence. And my phone number is not suspended—obviously…”

“Are you quite done, Miss Larson?” Oliver’s deep, growly voice washes over me like a warm spring rain. I’m instantly on edge. My stomach dips, and my core clenches.

Nick is laughing hysterically beside me but seems to sense the shift in my mood because he straightens up and gives me an ‘everything okay’ look.

“Sorry, Mr. Titan. I um… thought you were a telemarketer.”

“You left work.”

“I… um…” I look at Nick as if he will have some kind of excuse that isn’t me having left work because I called my boss daddy and practically fucked him in the elevator after lunch. “I felt sick after lunch. I… um… I didn’t want to get anyone else sick.” I say lamely.

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