Page 18 of Daddy Down Under

Ocean firmly shook his head. “Nope, not gonna happen. You can either go commando or wear a pair of mine, but those are going straight into the trash. Also, you have your underwear dry-cleaned? What the fuck?”

I threw up my hands. “I don’t know, okay? Angie, my housekeeper, takes care of all of that. I put my dirty things in the hamper, and they appear clean in my closets again. That’s all I know. When I was packing, I was low on underwear, so I brought those.”

“You know what you didn’t bring?”

“Sweatpants?”

“Sweatpants. Or, for that matter, anything other than formal clothes. Not a T-shirt or pair of shorts in sight. Or pajamas.”

“I sleep naked,” I offered. “And I packed for a business trip, not to play tourist or go sightseeing.”

Ocean let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t work for me, so we’ll have to get you some new stuff. But first, you’re going to take a nap.”

I wanted to protest, if only because I should. If I let him keep bossing me around, I’d never get the upper hand back. Why that was important was a little hazy at the moment, but that had to be the tiredness talking. When I opened my mouth, all that came out was a huge yawn.

Ocean’s expression softened, and then he pulled back the covers. “Come on, loverboy. You look like death warmed over.”

All my obligatory objections died on my lips when I saw the tender look in his eyes, and so I surrendered. It seemed stupid to keep fighting it when a nap was exactly what I wanted and needed. I unhooked the towel and sent it to the floor, then padded over to his side of the bed and slid between the cool sheets that were probably three thousand thread count Egyptian cotton or something. Ridiculous, but they were buttery soft and cool against my skin.

“Before I tuck you in, I need two things from you. Which credit card can I use to shop for you? And I need the number for your assistant.”

My eyes were already drifting shut. “Any credit card in my wallet is fine, Oliver is in my phone, and the access code for that is one-zero-one-nine-two-nine.”

Ocean tucked the covers around me, and I was too exhausted to even open my eyes. He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Sleep well.”

“Will you still be here when I wake up? It feels like a dream, meeting you and having you here.”

My speech was slurred as if I were drunk, but I couldn’t let myself sink into sleep yet, not when I had this weird sense it had all been a dream.

“I’m not going anywhere, Cash. I promise. Go to sleep.”

And so I did.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In which Ocean plays twenty questions with me, and I want to answer none of them. Luckily, he still rewards me.

I awoke slowlywith the classic grogginess that came with a midday nap. It didn’t take me long to orient myself, even though the curtains had been pulled shut, only soft light spilling into the room. But the man to my left was an instant reminder of where I was and what had happened.

He was asleep, his face turned toward me, and I carefully rolled onto my side so I could watch him. I hadn’t even noticed him slipping into bed beside me, a testament to how wiped I had been. God, he was beautiful. His ridiculously long blond lashes were fanned out, and the softest snores drifted up from those sinfully lush lips. His hair was a hot mess, sticking up in every direction, but it only added to his appeal.

I wanted to see him naked. The AC in the room was on, and we’d both taken shelter from the cold draft under the covers, so I could only see one toned arm he’d slung over the covers. He was probably tanned all over, except for his ass, and the mental image of those white ass cheeks made me smile.

We were about the same height, just over six feet, but where I was naturally slim, he was much more toned and developed. I’d never surfed, but I imagined it took considerable skill and effort. With as many hours as he spent surfing, it had to be quite the workout. No wonder he was in such excellent shape.

What made him make that insane offer to stay with me for four weeks? I didn’t understand it. With anyone else, my first thought would’ve been that they were after my money, but not with Ocean. He’d grown up with it and didn’t seem to care much about it. I would’ve never given him access to my credit cards otherwise. His father had betrayed me so deeply that fifteen years later, the wounds were still bleeding, yet I instinctively trusted Ocean. And I wasn’t someone who gave that level of trust easily.

But if not money, what was Ocean getting out of this? He was hot enough to have his choice of men and old enough that his age wasn’t an issue either. So it couldn’t be about sex, and I wasn’t so conceited that I figured he couldn’t do better than me. Sure, it must be nice for him to have a free roof over his head and an opulent one at that, but even with the free food thrown in, it didn’t seem enough.

My adoptive father, the man who had lovingly raised me and who I considered my dad in every way, had been in sales his entire life until his retirement a few years ago. He’d excelled at closing the deal but even more in doing it in a way that made both parties feel like they’d gotten a great deal. And he’d taught me it was never about selling a product to someone. It was about identifying what they would get from it, what the benefit was that would speak to them the most. Once he figured that out, he adapted his sales pitch and spoke to their needs.

That advice stayed with me through college, where I’d gotten a degree in math, followed by an MBA, and then my career. I’d started on the lowest rung of the corporate ladder, but my instinctive grasp for numbers combined with my analytical skills had rocket-launched me into the top of the firm Preston and I had worked for. After our falling out, I started my own firm and never looked back.

My father, now retired and slightly obsessed with his vegetable garden and how to keep the rabbits and deer from devouring everything he grew, was exceedingly proud of me and never failed to tell me so. My parents had a gorgeous home in the Catskill Mountains of New York, about a two-hour drive from the City. At least twice a month, I made the journey to spend a Sunday with them. My mom would cook something she knew I loved, and I’d bring an expensive whiskey to share with my dad while we talked about the Yankees, the Jets, and life in general.

They’d never had an issue with me being gay, had never so much as shown a hint of disappointment. The only thing my mom said on occasion was that she didn’t like that I was still single. She wanted me to find a long-term partner, a husband even. I long ago stopped trying to convince her I wasn’t husband material.

“Are you going to keep staring at me?”

---