Page 12 of Hey, Daddy

I grew up in an influential family that never wanted for anything.

When I finally cut myself off from my dad, I immediately found a job that would allow me to do what I wanted for a living without having to pay to do what I loved—shop.

I’d lucked out.

First I’d become an Amazon Reviewer that got paid and got sent free stuff.

I’d then applied to become a mystery shopper and got paid to go into people’s businesses and buy things.

Further, I’d started up a blog at just the right time, and people followed me for the “must haves” and “it” items.

I even got paid for content now.

Not that I was what I would consider an “influencer.”

Truthfully, I didn’t like to get behind a camera and never would.

The notoriety of having your baby sister go missing and having your dad the leader of the Russian Bratva made it almost impossible to stay anonymous.

And, to be completely honest, I didn’t want to be in the spotlight.

I wanted to live my life unimpeded by the challenges that my brothers’ and father’s life choices afforded me.

“Busy today,” Shasha said as he pulled into the Whataburger.

“It’s Wednesday,” I pointed out. “Today is the day that all the old men meet and bring all their old, restored cars. You’d probably like going out and admiring them.”

“Hmm,” he said as he came to a stop right in front of the door that led inside. “You need your bodyguard.”

I rolled my eyes. “I already told you, I’m not doing it.”

His lips thinned as he grumbled something under his breath.

I got out, blew him a kiss, and headed inside.

He watched me go with a glower on his face, and I nearly laughed.

I walked inside and waved at all the old men, then made a quick turn to head to the bathroom first before ordering.

I’d just finished up and was walking out of the bathroom when I ran face first into a hard, muscular body.

“Ooomph,” I grumbled as I was almost forced right back into the bathroom.

The door kept me from doing that, though, and the hands belonging to the muscular body shot out and caught me up before I could ping pong between the two hard surfaces.

“Walk of shame?” a deep, husky voice asked.

I shivered as my gaze lifted to see…

The man from the bar.

I allowed my eyes to study what I could—the man was holding on to my hips after all.

Bending over sideways, I checked out his jeans and boots, then looked back at him. “Me, walk of shame? No. I stayed with my sister last night and didn’t have a change of clothes. What about you? You’re still in the same thing, too.”

His lips turned up at the corner. “Work.”

He didn’t elaborate, which gave me ample time to feel the obvious protrusion that was tenting the front of his jeans where he was pressed against me.

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