Page 19 of Big Daddy

She’s hesitant, and that angers me even more. “I asked you a question,” I remind her, loosening the knotted tie at my throat as I now pace the worn strip of carpet behind my desk.

“Why? What are you gonna do, storm over here and spank me for being onFeetFans?”

We both fall silent at that remark, and I have to grip my erection a moment to calibrate. “Send me your fucking address, Winnie.”

Her silence sets loose a string of panic in my brain. The idea that I cannot see her today—right this fucking second—makes me want to flip my desk and scream, goddamn it. “I can get it from Brielle, you know.”

“Oh yeah? And what would be the reason you ask your twenty-six-year-old daughter where her twenty-six-year-old best friend lives? Hmm? Answer me that, Quincey,” she says, drawing out my name like a piece of bubble gum stretched from her lips to fingertips. It’s fucking irritating and sexy, and does nothing for my aching cock in my hand. I grip myself harder, tugging once over the Italian wool slacks.

“I’ll tell her that I gave you money under the condition that you don’t sell photos of your feet, and I caught you in a lie,” I say, waiting for her to call my bluff. But as much as I know she won't, she knows I won’t either.

“Okay, cool. And after you tell her all that, remind me how you’re gonna break the news that you figured out I was lying. Are you gonna show her screenshots of myFeetFansaccount? You know, the one you looked up? Hmm?”

Fucking. Brat.

I grab my wallet and stuff it into my back pocket. Snatching my keys and suit jacket, I march toward the door, yanking it open so hard it hits the wall. The door stop was fucking toast two months into this office being established.

Kennedy is at Pen’s desk, so I don’t bother speaking to her. She eyes me as I tread to the elevator, and as I step in, she appears.

“Out for the day?” she asks, out of breath from trailing me.

“Just… out,” I say, giving her zero answers. I don’t care. I can’t think of my schedule right now because all I can think of is Winnie fucking Collins.

“Are you… are you leaving work right now?” Winnie asks, whisper-yelling at me through the line. Now I have her attention.

“Where do you live, Winnie?” I ask, knowing it’s the last time I’m gonna be nice about it. I smash the down button several times before the lift finally sinks twenty-seven floors, bringing me to the parking garage.

She stays quiet. The doors open and my personal doorman is there, waiting. Ken must’ve tipped him off. I usually call but today I’m clearly tied up.

“Mr. Parker,” the doorman says, taking my keys from me. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Have my driver on standby as well, please,” I tell him, refocusing on Winnie as the young man disappears into the parking garage to retrieve my car.

“I live with a lot of other people,” she says quietly, almost shamefully. “I don’t have my own room. I have nowhere private.”

I hate that. I hate that so much I could fucking scream. “Why are you sharing an apartment with so many people? You’re in grad school. You should have your own place by now.”

“Think about why you called me,” she snaps back, salty and sharp. “I have no spare money and tons of debt. I live like this to save money, asshole.”

“I’m sorry,” I retort so quickly it nearly surprises me. I struggle apologizing to Brielle, to Pen, to anyone really. But with Winnie, there it is. Immediately. Zero hesitancy. “It’s… unsafe.”

She snorts. “Isn’t it the opposite? I mean, if someone is gonna break into our apartment, they’re gonna have to murder like four other people before they even make it to the room I sleep in. By then, I’ll have woken up and slipped out the window with a knife between my teeth, you know, just in case.”

“Jesus Christ,” I groan, unfortunately having the gift of an imagination. “That’s not funny.”

“No one’s laughing, Big Daddy.” She pops a bubble with her chewing gum. “I’m not telling you where I live.”

A question rolls around in my mouth but I never ask it, because I think it will make her feel bad and apparently, I don’t want Winnie Collins to feel bad.

“Tell my driver. He will pick you up. We need to speak.”

“What? Your driver is picking me up? Why? No! No, I’m not doing that,” she says, proverbially folding her arms over her chest.

“Yes, you are. Or I will call Brielle. I’ll tell her everything.”

“Don’t threaten me,” she balks.

“Don’t make me,” I defend.

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