Page 11 of Daddy Marc's Gem

The question caught Foster off guard. He stared at their joined hands while collecting his thoughts. “I guess... the idea of giving someone that much control over me.” He met Marc’s eyes. “With Edward, he took control without asking. He dictated everything—where we lived, who my friends were, even what I wore sometimes. And in the end, he still left me with nothing.” His shoulders slumped. “Of course, I’m the one who let him do that.”

Marc regarded him with a pained expression. “That wasn’t dominance, Foster. That was abuse.” His voice was gentle but firm. “True dominance is a profound responsibility. It’s not about taking; it’s about holding. Holding space, holding boundaries, holding you safe.” He squeezed Foster's hand. “A good Daddy earns the right to guide his boy through trust and respect. It’s never taken by force or manipulation.”

Something shifted in Foster’s body, a tiny knot in his stomach loosening. “I never thought about it that way.” He licked his lips. “The difference between taking control and being given it.”

Marc's eyes softened. “It’s a crucial distinction. One that many people misunderstand.” He released Foster’s hand. “I want you to know that whatever you decide about us, I’m glad we had this conversation.”

Foster nodded, mourning the loss of Marc’s touch. “Me too. And I really am looking forward to Friday.” He fumbled with his keys. “I’ll probably have more questions by then.”

Marc’s smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

As Foster drove home, his mind replayed their conversation in fragments. The way Marc had described being a Daddy—creating boundaries, offering praise, providing a safe space—didn’t align with the intimidating images Foster had conjured. Instead, it sounded... appealing.

Foster swallowed hard, gripping the steering wheel. What was he getting himself into?

Chapter Five

Three days had passed since his dinner date with Marc, and he hadn’t heard a word from him. Not even a text. To be fair, the ball had been left in Foster’s court. Too bad he had no idea how the game was played.

He idly petted Dolly, carding his fingers through her fur as he relaxed on the couch. His feet were propped up on an embroidered footstool, and Dolly was dozing with her head in his lap.

Foster heaved a sigh, and Dolly lifted one eyelid open before letting it drop again. She was familiar with his melancholy, so it didn’t faze her much these days. She’d been a lifesaver when Edward had marched out of their lives. He didn’t think he could’ve held it together without her by his side.

But anxiety had managed to worm its evil way into his gut, filling his heart and head with doom over the possibility of having a relationship with Marc.A Daddy. His shock from the grand reveal at the park had probably made Marc have second thoughts. Then when they went to dinner and he’d said he still wasn’t ready to discuss Marc’s lifestyle, that had probably been the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. Before they parted ways, Marc said maybe they could get together again sometime.

Not exactly an enthusiastic statement.

Did I come across too judgy? Or not interested in being more than friends? Was I too boring?

As usual, he had no idea. The amount of cringe he was capable of in social situations had no limits. Maybe he'd done orsaid something so obnoxious, Marc didn’t want to risk being out in public with him ever again.

“I know, Dolly. I know,” he said as if she were privy to his inner thoughts and understood every word. “I’m overreacting. Making up problems that aren’t there.” He scratched behind her ear. “And anyway, we barely know each other. No big deal, right?”

His heart clutched. That might be true, but he’d never experienced such an instant connection with a man before. Something about the strong and compassionate man spoke to him in a way no other had. If only he weren’t so skittish about Marc’s lifestyle. Yet, would it be the right thing to do, force himself to go along with Marc’s needs when he wasn't sure they matched his own? That’s exactly what he’d done with Edward.

He sighed, chewing the inside of his cheek, a terrible habit borne from his ever-present anxiety. Once again, stray thoughts of what having a Daddy in his life might be like wandered into his mind. The way Marc had explained what his role would be if they were together, the more appealing it became. After all, he wasn’t exactly doing so well on his own. If it wasn’t his anxiety, it was his inability to make a decision. Or, his low self-esteem. He’d been so desperate for a connection, so needy, that he’d fallen into a trap with Edward.

Marc would never treat me like that. Yet, how would he know for sure if he didn’t give him a chance?

“What do you think, Dolly? Should I call him?”She yawned in response.

His stomach dropped at the idea of calling Marc. He couldn’t decide what would be worse. Marc telling him he wasn’t interested or being ghosted. Marc didn’t seem like that sort of guy. One of the attributes that had reeled Foster in was how kind Marc was. He had a gentle spirit, exuded nothing but concernand compassion. Foster remembered the way Marc looked at him, his warm eyes filled with patience and understanding.

He reached for his phone, then set it down again, his heart racing with indecision. What would he even say? ‘Hi, I've been obsessing over you and wondered if you’re still interested in being my Daddy?’ He cringed at the thought.

Dolly stretched and repositioned herself on his lap, her warm weight an anchor to reality. Outside, rain began to patter against the windows, casting shadows across his small apartment. The antique clock on the mantel—one of the few treasures he’d kept from his grandparents’ shop—ticked steadily, marking the passage of yet another lonely evening.

His phone buzzed, nearly causing him to dislodge Dolly from his lap. He patted her head. “Sorry, girl.”

Reaching over her fluff, he snatched his phone off the end table. Disappointment washed over him that it wasn’t Marc. He drew his eyebrows together, not recognizing the number that had no name attached.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice responded. “Hello. Is this Foster Olsen?”

He had no right to be irritated with this person, but he couldn’t help himself. “Yes, it is. Who am I speaking to?”

“Chloe Sharp. I run the holiday market in Boston. I had a cancellation, and I’m going through interest forms. I see here that you have vintage decorations and other antique decor for sale?”

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