Page 6 of Dating the Daddy

I smirk, feeling a challenge in those words. “What are these requirements?” I need to know what I’m working with here.

“Dinner, conversation, a spark between us.” Her voice drops. “I’m very picky, and I’m not sure you can meet my stringent standards.”

Fucking double ouch. “Challenge accepted, Fairy. But I warn you…” My voice drops as my cock joins the game, “I play to win.”

“Game on, Steele.” She hangs up, leaving me… hungry. I should feel triumphant; after all, I’ve got my first shot in my plan to unmask her. But all I’ve got is this damn ache. An awareness, electric and humming right under my skin. Dammit to hell. I might be in deeper shit than I thought.

My eyes shootopen to the echo of my own frustrated groan. Dammit. Another night, another round of restless thrashing thanks to dreams about a faceless, sassy fairy with an angel’s voice. Not that I’d ever admit it to anyone, especially her. The matchmaking fairy must be casting spells in her spare time because there’s no other rational explanation for why she’s haunting my sleep.

After the sound of her voice did insane fucking things to me two days ago, I decided to change tactics and wait a few days before I try to contact her again. Another shitty goddamn idea of mine. How the fuck can I miss talking to someone I don’t even know?

I roll out of bed, the morning light stabbing at me through the gaps in the curtains. An overzealous bird chirps somewhere outside, making me grit my teeth. Coffee. I need coffee. Strong enough to kick me back to life and maybe douse the remnants of last night’s misadventures in X-rated dreamland.

As the brew trickles into the pot, I rake a hand through my hair, feeling every bit the grumpy bastard I've always been pegged for. But today, there’s an extra bite in the ass, a phantom whisper of the ethereal voice I just can’t shake. Of course, the universe isn’t about to cut me any slack. Right on cue, my phone buzzes against the counter. It’s my pain-in-the-ass younger brother all wrapped up in matrimonial bliss thanks to the fairy’s infamous matchmaking.

I swipe to answer, already bracing myself for whatever domestic details he’s itching to share. “What do you want, Asa?” I grouse.

His chipper voice only aggravates my foul mood. “Hey, dickhead! I haven’t heard from you in a few days, so I wanted to make sure you’re still alive and kicking.”

I snort, taking a long, fortifying sip of coffee. “You should be too busy with your new wife to piss me off.”

“Oh, it’s way too much fun fucking with you,” Asa purrs smugly. “And Leslie is still recovering from this thing I did with my tongue last night?—”

“For the love of all that’s holy, spare me the details!” I bark, cutting him off before I’m subjected to any mental images I’dneed a lobotomy to erase. “Why don’t you worry about keeping your wife satisfied and leave me the fuck alone?”

The little shit chuckles, unfazed by my outburst. “You’re just scared shitless. Admit it! There’s a rumor running through town that the matchmaker has the last Steele sibling in her sights after she worked her magic for Caroline and me.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” I snap, suddenly defensive. “I’m going to be the matchmaking fairy’s first failure.” Why does that thought make my heart squeeze? Goddamn it. I need more sleep if I’m going to deal with this bullshit.

“Famous last words,” he teases, all brotherly affection and mischief. My grip on the phone tightens as I contemplate what it would take to strangle someone through a wireless connection.

“I swear, Asa, if you keep this up, I’ll hang up on you.”

He pauses for a beat, letting the threat dangle. “Alright, alright,” he concedes, probably smiling to himself. “Just thought you might want to know. People talk. They say the matchmaker has a way of seeing who we really are and what we really need.”

“People say a lot of crap,” I retort, though there’s an uncomfortable twinge of longing zigzagging up my spine. The fairy seeing the real me… It’s too laughable to entertain, yet the thought needles at me.

“You never know.” Asa chuckles again, unfazed by my prickly demeanor. “You might be missing out on something great.” He hits the nail right on the head. Way too goddamn close for comfort.

“Whatever,” I grumble, my patience wearing thin. “Go make breakfast for your wife or something.”

“You know, she really loves when I stick my?—”

And that’s when I hang up, cutting him off mid-sentence. I drop the phone onto the counter with more force than necessary, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. As if I’m the kind of guy who’d be led around by the nose by some matchmaking fairy. It’s about as likely as me sprouting wings and joining that early rising, chirping little bastard outside.

Yet… damn it all, if Asa hasn’t planted the seed of doubt. The kind that wraps around your sanity, leaving just enough room for uncertainty to seep in. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake it off, telling myself to remember why I’m doing this. To expose the matchmaker. But the memory of her voice curls through my mind like smoke, teasing, taunting.

I decide I need more than coffee and a good long run to clear my head and silence these traitorous whispers. Maybe then I can shake the lingering memory of her voice and the tugging awareness that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to this matchmaking magic than I gave it credit for. But for now, I grit my teeth against the threat of the matchmaker and lace up my sneakers, determined to outrun whatever infernal spell she managed to cast on my stubborn, unwilling heart.

I'm hauling ass down the trail, sneakers pounding the dirt with a steady rhythm that should drown out the chaos in my head. But even as the miles disappear beneath me, I can't shake the relentless whisper of the matchmaker’s voice, echoing in the space where my steadfast grumpiness usually resides. Running used to be my sanctuary, but now, it’s just another battlefield. By the time I loop back around to my home, I’m drenched in sweat and still pissed the fuck off.

I swallow curses along with a bottle of water, trying to calm my racing heart before stepping under the shower. Scalding water pelts my skin, steam curling into the air, and I let it wash away the physical exhaustion. But the mental strain persists like it’s got a personal vendetta, and there’s no soap strong enough for that grime.

Suit on, tie knotted without much enthusiasm, I stomp into the office late and with a storm cloud practically tattooed to my forehead. The air is thick with anticipation, or possibly fear, as my team catches sight of me. They’re a good bunch, capable and resilient, but they know better than to cross me when I’m on the warpath.

“Morning, Mr. Steele,” ventures Clary, one of the newer interns, with more courage than sense. She’s halfway through stacking a column of files when she clocks my mood and promptly decides retreat is the better part of valor.

“Morning,” I grunt back, which in my circle is practically a ‘hello, sunshine’. I barrel past, pretending not to notice when they keep a wide berth like I’m a bull making a beeline for a red flag.

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