Page 3 of Big Daddy

My chest goes hollow as reality settles heavily in my veins. I just lost the one gig that was keeping my rent, tuition, loans and insurance paid. Howard’s fetish for my beautiful feet and fancy sandals was my entire fucking income.

I’d have to work three jobs to cover my bills the way that Howard did. That was two grand a month for Christ’s sake. I’ve tried to make that much at other jobs, and it’s nearly impossible. Not to mention, I was just getting to the point where I could afford healthcare luxuries, like maybe even an appointment with a shrink.

Not now.

“Fuck you, Howard!” I shout, tears unexpectedly leaking from my eyes. I stare at my bare feet as I drag them through the shag carpet in Brielle’s apartment. I come here a lot because my place sucks. I live in a room with two others, but in the entire apartment, there are seven people. Do you know how disgusting it is at age twenty-six to still be living like its fucking summer camp? It’s crowded and gross and honestly, most of the time it smells like an old Cup o Noodles fucked a Hot Pocket and gave birth to our apartment.

I swipe at the tears, but they start falling faster than I can wipe them away. Sinking into Brielle’s couch, I tip my head backand let my fears go, sobbing uncontrollably until my head aches and my eyes burn.

I met Howard in person once. I was at Rise & Grind, the place where Brielle and I always study. He saw my feet in Adidas slides, chipped pink polish and all. He passed me a card when Brielle was in the restroom, and as much as I’d like to say I didn’t even consider his offer, I called him the literal second I was alone.

I’ve been broke most of my life. Seriously. Social programs, grants, coupon clipping, deal day, loans—all of those things have gotten me this far. But as I finish my graduate degree, I’m up to my eyeballs in loan debt, but I can’t land a high-paying job until after graduate school.IfI do at all.

The sobs start up again. With a tissue in my hand, I’m just about to blow my snotty nose when the deadbolt twists, and the apartment door is pushed open.

“Who the fuck are you?” I shout-cry at the older man who steps inside, carefully closing the door behind him. Wearing a tailored charcoal suit, a crisp white dress shirt and royal blue tie, he looks like he fell out of an ad for the mature Men’s Warehouse or some shit. Or maybe a blue dick-pill ad or something. Then again, the piping on that suit is immaculate, and the fade on his haircut is perfection. His jaw is trimmed and shaved neatly, and he fills the apartment with a masculine, heady scent.

Okay, maybe he fell out of a Gucci for grandpas ad. Either way, the sharp dressed intruder eyes me.

“I might ask you the same since you are clearly not Brielle.” He lowers bags to the floor, bags I didn’t notice until now. Grocery bags.

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me the moment the door opened, but all of a sudden, I realize exactly who he is.

I swipe beneath my nose and again under my eyes, glaring at him. “It’s not a good time, Big Daddy.” I nod toward hisgetup. “Nice suit. Got the Men’s Warehouse discount card, or what?” Now that I know it’s Brielle’s father, I know for sure that suit probably cost more than Brielle’s shoe collection, but insinuating his suit is off-the-rack is too much fun.

“This is a custom-tailored suit. The fabric was flown in from Italy,” he snarks, his sharp glare directed my way, pointing and prodding me. “And not a good time? You don’t even live here.”

A sob leftover from Howard erupts from me, but I wipe my tears away. “Neither do you,” I hiccup.

He glares at me while I wipe at my eyes and blow my nose using the hem of my oldOne Directiont-shirt. “Why are you watching me blow my nose? That’s weird. And gross.” I wave him off. “Hurry up with whatever you’re doing and go.”

He stands there in his stupid fancy suit with his dumb chiseled jawline and coif of hair that screamsI trade millions without a second thoughtand has the audacity to stare at me. It’s annoying, especially when I just want to cry and wallow alone, damn it.

“You know, the longer you stand there, Big Daddy, the more I’m starting to think how fucking weird it is that you come into your grown daughter’s apartment with a key. What if she was here? What if she was fucking someone? Hmm?” I give him a pointed glare back as I continue fighting my tears. “You’re weird. And overbearing.”

“Weird and overbearing?” He blinks at me, then nonchalantly dusts the front of his suit jacket with his very large, very strong, very capable looking hand. “This, coming from a squatter.”

“I amnota squatter,” I retort powerfully, pointedly, even though I’m actively crying and ignoring it. It’s hard to cry and be powerful, but I amsopulling it off. I think. “I am your daughter’s best friend on the entire planet.”

He collects the bags and moves to the kitchen, putting them on the counter. “Winnie.” Our eyes lock from across the apartment, and I see recognition flash in his eyes, then something unreadable, since I just met him. After that? Back to a dead-eyed bossy businessman.

My stomach drops, leaving behind an unexpected whoosh of adrenaline. That look. It was a split second, but I saw it.I felt it.

Well fuck, another plot twist for the day.

Big Daddy saying my name makes my stomach do some sort of floppy thing.

He’s just wearing a nice suit and being an asshole—something I and millions of other misguided women respond to. Big Daddy is not attractive. Not at all. It’s just the six two build in the fancy suit and the snarky ‘tude.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing my eyes to the TV where a muted episode ofThe Price Is Rightplays. “I’m Winnie.”

He unloads the bags in silence, and I swear to God, he’s watching me. I can feel his eyes sweep over my legs and face, and I hate that my skin flushes and my body heats. When he’s done filling Brielle’s cupboards and fridge, he walks toward me, standing at the foot of the couch.

“You are so desperate for me to pay attention to you,” I huff, sitting up, finally paying him attention.

He narrows his eyes. “You are unwell,” he says, his words a cross between a statement and a question.

I roll my eyes. “Brielle didn’t tell me you’re a real Sherlock Holmes on top of being a massive tight ass.” I get to my feet and snatch the remote from the table, turning the TV off. “Yes, Big Daddy,” I say, squaring off with him, my bare toes pressed to the tops of his shiny leather shoes. “I am unwell.Well peopledo not cry midday in sweats while watching shitty reruns. Well done. Gold star. Now leave.”

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