Page 44 of Born Daddy

Mr. Franklin set the cup on the blond laminate surface of the rectangular table, then fished a handkerchief from his pocket to swipe at his skin. Tate hadn’t seen anyone use an actual handkerchief since the one foster home he’d only been in for two months. The couple who’d taken him in when he was only eight-years-old had seemed ancient, but the man had always used handkerchiefs. That was one of the few homes he’d been in where he’d wanted to stay, had been happy. But unfortunately, the handkerchief man had died soon after his arrival.

Tate massaged his temples. He needed to focus, but his mind continued to wander to every random thought that jumped into his head.

Mr. Franklin took a noisy sip of his drink. “Any of those detectives come in here while I was gone?”

“No.” Tate thought he would’ve peed himself if they had.

The attorney continued to sip, sip, sip—the obnoxious, repetitive sound grating on Tate’s nerves.

“Good. What about that cop friend of yours? Think he’ll show up? Remember, the clock is ticking and eating its way through your deposit.”

Mr. Franklin drained his cup, then tossed the light-as-air receptacle toward the small office wastebin. It didn’t come within a foot of the trashcan. The attorney ignored it as he continued.

“Maybe we should go ahead and get this show on the road.” Mr. Franklin swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’ll be here with you. And anyway, if they had enough to arrest you, they probably would’ve done it by now.”

“Probably?”

Tate scrubbed his face with both hands. Instead of peeing, now he wanted to hurl. No way was he saying anything until Rogan arrived. Rogan would protect him. Not that he could stop him from being arrested, Tate wasn’t that delusional. But somehow, he knew that Rogan would go to the ends of the Earth to make sure he was treated well, that everything that could be done to help him was being explored.

He glanced sideways at his attorney, who was digging in his ear with one finger as if mining for gold.

Nope. He needed Rogan. He wasn’t about to allow this man to be the only thing between him and being fucked for life.

A small commotion could be heard in the hallway and Tate recognized Rogan’s voice. He shot to his feet, ready to bolt to the door then froze. Rogan was arguing with someone, demanding to be let in to see Tate. However, Tate didn’t recognize the other voice, the one who was telling Rogan he didn’t belong there. Detective Sullivan couldn’t be behind the dispute when he was the one who’d called Rogan and asked him to come to the station.

Tate wrung his hands, not sure what to do. He glanced over his shoulder at his attorney, who seemed to be debating whether whatever commotion was going on outside the room was worth getting out of his chair for. Right as Tate lunged for the door to get to Rogan before he was thrown out of the precinct, it burst open, Rogan shoving his way in with the mystery yeller on his heels.

Tate launched himself into Rogan’s arms, not caring about anything else, only that Rogan had come for him. Rogan clutched him back, holding him in a strong embrace. Tate wished he could be in Rogan’s arms forever. He inhaled his masculine scent, a natural aphrodisiac combined with a tinge of sandalwood. Rogan’s strength, the way his body wrapped around Tate’s, the loud thump of his heart next to Tate’s ear—everything about the moment was ideal.

Except they weren’t alone, and they were in a fucking interrogation room.

“I’m sorry, Rogan. I’m so sorry.”

Rogan peered down at him with a creased brow and brushed back Tate’s hair with one hand. He still hadn’t released him, however. Tate remained in Rogan’s embrace. Tate also ignored the continued commotion surrounding them. He was aware that his attorney, the yeller, and now Detective Sullivan were hashing things out, but all that mattered to him was Rogan.

“Why would you be sorry, honey?”

“I’m always bothering you over every little thing.” He lowered his eyes. “I made a promise to myself I wouldn’t bug you until Sunday, and that didn’t even last a day.”

“Hey.” Rogan tucked a finger under Tate’s chin, encouraging him to lift his head. “Didn’t I tell you to call me if you needed anything?” He glanced around the room and grunted. “I’d say this qualifies.”

Tate chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose it does.”

The moment Rogan became self-conscious of them touching, Tate felt it. Rogan’s body tensed, the solid muscles going tight against him. Then, Tate’s stomach fell as Rogan’s arm slid away from his waist. Tears filled Tate’s eyes, an irrational reaction to the common sense move Rogan had made.

But how could Tate be blamed for how overly sensitive he was? For how much he needed the comfort of touch now more than ever? He glanced up at Rogan who gave him a soft smile then a squeeze of his hand—so brief—Tate wondered if the gesture had been real. Tate swallowed his emotions down before he lost control as Rogan moved a few inches away. Still close. But not close enough.

Rogan cleared his throat, then raised his voice, interrupting the still-heated argument.

“Special Agent Phillips. I apologize for coming at you like I did. Now you’ve heard from Detective Sullivan, too. I didn’t insert myself into the situation. I was asked to come down here.”

“It’s my fault. Don’t blame Rogan.”

Tate surprised himself by speaking up. The way all heads whipped around to face him likely meant he’d surprised everyone else as well. Detective Sullivan crossed his arms as he regarded him.

“All I want to know is whether you’ll speak with us now.”

Agent Phillips held up his hands, waving them with palms out. “Hold on. I’m still not comfortable with Officer Steele’s presence here. If he’s not a part of the investigation, then I don’t understand why the subject insisted he be called in.”

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