Page 50 of Big Daddy

I glance over my shoulder, attempting to see through the blinds to get an eyeful of Quincey, but I can’t spot him. “Lame. I went to trivia night as Luke’s wingman and drank too much.”

“Ahh,” she teases, “you shouldn’t have blown me off then.”

For whatever reason, her teasing angers me. Maybe it’s all the anger I have directed at myself getting pointed her way, which is so fucked up, I realize. Still. “You blew me off twice last week.”

She sighs. “For work. And I know, I know. I was just teasing.” A knowing pause drifts between us. “You okay, Win?”

I swallow, peering back into his office one more time. Still, my view is blocked by the wall of men in suits surrounding him. “Yeah, I’m good. Just tired.”

“Ahh,” she says softly. “I was hoping we could catch up soon. This week I’m booked, and next I’m slammed. But in two weeks,on Thursday. I have dinner at 9 but before that? A glass of wine and girl talk?” she asks, her tone weighted with guilt. Guilt I already felt ten-fold, but now? I bring my hand to my collarbone and check my rapid pulse, taking a deep breath.

“Okay, Thursday in two weeks,” I say, just as a door clicks closed quietly behind me. His scent hits me before I turn and see Quincey standing there, eyeing me with his usual intensity.

“Perfect. But I’ll call you tomorrow because I have big news. Thursday is just so we have something on the books,” Brielle says. “I miss you.”

“Miss you too. Call you later, I gotta go.”

My black patent heels swing out from under me as Quincey grabs my chair, spinning me to face him. In a crouch, he peers around my chair to see if anyone has noticed the aggressive coach stance he’s taking with me. A moment later, his focus is on me. “Thursday in two weeks?” He glances at his wristwatch, gold and fancy, but with a complicated face. “You see Dr. Wilder this week.”

I spin back to face my computer, even though I’d rather look at Big Daddy. Still, he needs push back. All alpha males do or they get out of control.

“Take it easy, stalker.”

“I pay the bill,” he deadpans. “That’s how I know when the appointments are. I would be a stalker if I showed up.”

I type on my keyboard, inputting a client’s name on a blank form pulled up on my screen. I do my best to ignore him.

His hand comes down on my shoulder. The hangover was gone after a coffee the size of my body and a bagel from the cart. Still, I play it up, bringing my hands to my temples. “Don’t jostle me, Mr. Parker,” I say, using his professional name as my insides clench. All day I’ve been hearing him call himself Big Daddy.

God, it was wild.

Holy hell was it hot.

“Who are you meeting with next Thursday?” he questions.

I spin to face him, hands on hips even though I’m sitting. It looks ridiculous, but he gets the meaning. “Your daughter.”

He rises and walks into his office, eyeing me, sending me the sign he wants me to follow.

With an eye roll, I follow him in, my nerves bunching at the sound of his door being locked. I plop down in the chair across from his desk as he sits on the edge, his junk angled toward my face. Normally I’d like that.

But the guilt is starting to get to me.

“Come home with me so we can talk about things,” Quincey says quietly, but not shamefully quiet. Moreso, tender quiet. My pussy weeps, and I wish, for once, she could be on the same page as my brain.

“We should talk, you’re right,” I agree, because while I found sobriety and shook my massive hangover today, I also crashed headfirst into reality. “I overheard Pen telling Kennedy that he was going to bring his wife and daughters to the company party in a month.”

Quincey looks annoyed as he shrugs. “What does this have to do with you coming home with me?”

“What’s the point? We can talk here. Why drag it out?” A rush of fear surges to my mouth but I bite my lip, holding back. I don’t want to end things, but the longer it goes on, the more I stand to lose. “Let’s just agree it was fun but a mistake, make a pact to never mention it again, and as soon as I have my degree and a job, I’ll start making payments back to you for the car lease, this outfit,” I say, plucking at the satin ivory blouse Big Daddy had delivered last night. “I will repay every penny; we don’t speak a word of this to Brielle and we both just… let the secret die with us.”

His face is unreadably still and impassive, tossing around the nerves in my stomach. Trying to lighten the mood, I slipinto brat mode, which serves as an emotional shield as much as anything. “I mean, the secret will die with you first, of course,” I smile, not feeling it, not meaning it. “You know, because I’m young and you’re… not.”

He ignores my ageist jokes.

Hell, I don’t even view him as an old guy. I just love teasing him.

Or, I did.

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