Page 32 of Big Daddy

I sip my drink, trying to find a reason why I should actually have a right to be mad. I can’t be mad. Winnie is my daughter’s best friend, and where and how she lives is none of my business.

Just because she makes me lose control when I’m around her does not mean that she is mine, or my responsibility.

It doesn’t matter where she lives.

I repeat that a few times before I place the empty cup of espresso on the coffee table and snag my phone from my pocket.

Guy?

That’s his name

I worked that part out on my own.

Another one of the random men you feel so comfortable living with?

Dots appear, and I reread my message as I wait for her reply. It’s a bit condescending, and perhaps that wasn’t the best play. I recognize that I need control, and with Winnie, that’s hard toachieve, since she’s just a girl I know. Not being able to flex my control makes me grouchy.

My phone rings and I’m not able to even say hello after accepting the call, because Winnie goes off immediately.

“What part of me being poor do you seriously not understand? Honestly, Big Daddy, I’m starting to want to give you the world’s biggest titty twister then kick you in your big balls!”

“You didn’t mention Guy last night,” I hedge, defending my condescension when I should probably just apologize.

“No, I didn’t. I also didn’t mention Kasen, Luciano or Noah, either. You asked me pointedly about Dante, so I answered about Dante.” She lets out a little sigh, and despite the fact I’m not even partially done with this conversation, a small part of me worries that she’ll grow fatigued of my overbearing nature. The same way my daughter has.

“I told you I don’t have a lot of money. We live in San Francisco. That means I have to live with eight other people to make it work. This is why I didn’t want you to see where I live. It’s not something I’m massively proud of. Okay?”

My heart thuds as my eyes lift to the second-floor balcony overlooking the living space. Rooms upon rooms, empty. Completely fucking empty. Brielle has been invited here many times but I can’t say I blame her when she turns down the visit. I’m not exactly thelet’s split a pizza and catch updad one is excited to visit.

“Move in here.” As soon as the three words escape me, I regret them. Not because I don’t want Winnie to live here—I do, but the idea itself is fraught with problems.

How would Winnie explain that to Brielle? Does Brielle ever visit Winnie’s apartment? How would I explain it to anyone at the office if they learned my young secretary is also some sort of pseudo roommate?

What exactly would the long-term plans for that be? Have her move in and then what? Stay forever?

It’s a horrible idea. Awful. Terrible. Stupid. Incomplete. Horrific.

Yet, I press on.

“You can have any room in the house. Your own bathroom. Access to a home gym, a home spa, a place to park your vehicle, private mail, a pool—everything you need safely behind an iron gate and security code.” My heart thrashes loudly, but I tell myself it’s the shot of espresso tearing through me. Not nerves.

Winnie sighs. “Big Daddy, we hardly know each other. I can’t live with you. And I think we’re forgetting the designer heel wearing elephant in the proverbial room.”

“I’ll tell her. I’ll call her and tell her if that’s what you want,” I say, realizing how love-bombing and obsessive I sound. This is behavior I advise my female clients to look out for, and here I am, committing the cardinal sin of being too goddamn eager.

“You can’t call her and tell her that! She doesn’t even know we know each other!” Winnie harrumphs, sounding both irritated but also intrigued. “It won’t work. It can’t happen. It’s too complicated.”

I don’t know how to play this, but I know I have to get what I want. I scratch at the side of my jaw. “You’re always at my daughter’s apartment. Can I deduce she does not visit your place often?”

“You can deduce that, yes,” she replies, haughty. So haughty my dick gets fat and the familiar tingle of desire rolls down my spine.

“So, in theory, she may not have to know until we decide to make that public knowledge,” I continue, getting to my feet and back in the kitchen. I need more espresso for how out of pocket this morning is going already.

“Did you justweus? We are not awe. I’m me and you’re you and that’s all!” she protests, and her efforts make my lips twitch with a tiny, imperceptible smile.

“Quit with the semantics. You can live here rent free. Save your money, build your nest egg for your future.” I drum my fingers along the counter as I wait for the second espresso to brew.

There’s a pause where I pretend I’m not holding my breath.

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