Page 159 of Daddy, Sir

It was right then that I knew this was the man I wanted in my life forever, and that I would do anything I could, anything it took, anything in my power to make it happen.

Chapter Seven

Zeke

I frowned, humming to myself as I fixed dinner for myself and Lola two nights after our talk that had ended in a therapy spanking, and led to my exhausted babygirl crying herself to sleep in my arms. She’d been different since then. Not in a bad way, but there was just something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe I was just in my head because I’d laid it all out there and there’d been no immediate resolution, no jumping up and down and declaring ourselves to be in a relationship, then sealing it with a kiss. To be clear, I hadn’t expected any of those things, but the waiting did make the second-guessing worse.

The timer for the lasagne went off and I glanced at the clock. I’d timed it for right when Lola would be finishing up her weekly online therapy session. I cocked my head, listening for the door opening and the sounds of her making her way to the kitchen, but all I heard was her loud, tinkling laugh. I smiled to myself, picturing her head tossed back, her mouth open, her cheekspinkened with joy. Lola laughing was my favorite sound. I hadn’t expected to hear it as her therapy session was coming to a close, but laughter was the best medicine, after all. I slathered a loaf of fresh french bread with a thick layer of garlic butter, topped it with fresh herbs and parmesan cheese, then slid it into the oven and started working on the salad while the lasagne rested. When I looked up from chopping a tomato, she was sitting on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, a smug smile on her face as she watched me.

“Oh, hello,” I said, startled by the fact that I hadn’t heard her come in.

“Hi, Daddy.” The smile on her face was different than usual. There was a hint of a secret in it, and a bit of mischief in her eyes as she looked at me.

I turned to look at her fully and cocked my head to one side. “How was therapy?”

“It was good.” Her tone had an air of nonchalance in it that was unusual, but again, I couldn’t place it.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I asked, because clearly something was up.

She smiled and shook her head. “I’ll tell you later, over dinner.” She sniffed the air, taking a large whiff. “What is it? It smells delicious. I could smell it all the way down the hall.”

“It’s my famous lasagne,” I joked, pointing to the Stouffer’s box on the counter. “Lasagne, garlic bread, and salad. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Famished.” She hopped off the barstool. “Can I help with anything?”

I scrunched my brows at her, and looked at her more quizzically. I never asked for her help in the kitchen. I didn’t want to give her any sort of reason to reattach to all the stupid lies she’d been told growing up, especially when it came to me. It was a conversation we’d had several times, and she was wellaware of my strong feelings on the subject. I was more than capable of fixing dinner for the both of us, and even enjoyed doing it. Cooking for two was much more satisfying than cooking for one.

“Please?” she asked. “You’re not forcing me. It doesn’t mean anything bad. I’m just hungry, and I have a lot of nervous energy. I want to help.”

I frowned. She was definitely acting weird. But her helping if she wanted to wasn’t a big deal, I supposed and really, most of the work was done. “All right,” I conceded. “You can set the table.”

“Thank you.” She looked at me funny for a full minute, then came up behind me and pressed her body against mine in an unsolicited hug, squeezing my waist and laying her face against my shoulder blades. It was the weirdest hug I’d ever received, but it warmed my heart in ways I couldn’t explain. Usually it was me hugging her, and generally only after I’d disciplined her, as a form of aftercare.

This was spontaneous, and with no comfort or ritual attached to it. It clogged my throat with emotion and made my eyes sting. I wanted it to go on forever, and I already missed it as she bounced away, opening cupboards and getting out dishes and flatware for the table.

I finished making the salad, and when I brought dinner to the table less than ten minutes later, she was sitting there waiting for me.

All at once, the sight of her there at the table filled my head with visions of a future filled with her laugh and family dinners, white picket fences, a family dog and 2.5 kids. I sucked in a breath and pushed the images away, because there was no need to put that kind of pressure on either of us.

I dished her up a plate, and then myself, and we ate in companionable silence until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“You seem different tonight,” I started. “And you said you’d tell me about therapy over dinner. I’m ready to listen if you’re ready to talk about it.”

Her smile lit her face as she set her fork down across the edge of her plate and folded her hands in her lap. “I want to be your girlfriend,” she said. “I want to be in a relationship with you.”

I blinke, and cupped my hand to my ear, half certain I hadn’t heard her quite correctly.

She just grinned. “I told my therapist about….” She blushed. “The other night.”

“Oh?” I arched an eyebrow, and listened with rapt attention. “What did she have to say?”

“She asked me what I was waiting for.” Her grin, which had already been big, stretched from ear to ear. “She said I’d gotten through the hardest parts of deconstruction, and while it would be an ongoing journey, that I had the tools now, and it sounded like I’d found a partner who would be more than willing to implement them, as well as a few of his own. She said to take it slow, but?—”

I couldn’t wait a second longer, couldn’t sit there calmly listening when every cell in my body wanted to celebrate. I jumped up and rounded the table, pulling her up into my arms, lifting her off the ground, and twirling her around joyfully.

She squealed and laughed. “Daddy!”

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