Page 1 of Tame Me Daddy

Chapter 1

The wheels of the Greyhound bus droned beneath me, a mechanical lullaby that—try as I might—I couldn't surrender to. It was three days since I'd fled home. Three days of holding myself together with nothing but stubborn will and fear. I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass and watched as strip malls and suburban sprawl gradually gave way to stretches of scrubby fields and open sky. Everything I owned sat in the backpack by my feet and the single suitcase stowed overhead. Not much to show for twenty-three years of life.

My fingers curled around my phone, its battery hovering at thirty percent. The screen glowed with unanswered texts from my sister, Amber. The only family member who hadn't completely shut me out.

"Are you ok? Please tell me where you're going."

"Mom's a mess. Dad won't talk about it."

"I don't care what they say. I love you no matter what."

I thumbed the edge of my phone case, picking at a loose corner. I hadn't answered Amber yet. Didn't know what to say. How do you explain to your nineteen-year-old sister that your parents found your secret collection of pacifiers and plush toys? That they'd read your private journal full of thoughts about wanting to be taken care of, about age regression and your "little" side?

My throat tightened. The memory of three nights ago crashed over me like a physical wave.

"What the hell is this?" Dad had stood in my doorway, holding my baby-blue journal. The one I kept locked in my desk drawer. The one with the little silver key I wore on a chain around my neck.

Except the lock had been broken. My privacy invaded.

"That's private." My voice had come out small, already regressing under stress. A bad sign.

"Private?" He'd flipped to a dog-eared page. "'Today I bought a new sippy cup. It's pink with glitter. Nobody knows how much I need these things. How much I need to feel safe and small sometimes.'" His voice had gone from confused to disgusted. "What is this sick stuff? Are you some kind of pervert?"

Mom had appeared behind him, holding my favorite stuffed bunny by one ear like it was contaminated. In her other hand, a pacifier designed for adults. Her face had been worse than Dad's—not angry, but devastated. "Where did we go wrong with you, Cherry? What happened to our little girl?"

The irony might have made me laugh if I hadn't been breaking apart inside.

"It's called being a 'little,'" I'd tried to explain, words tumbling out. "It's not sexual, it's not—it's just how I cope. It makes me feel safe when everything gets too much."

"Safe?" Dad had thrown the journal at my feet. "You're twenty-three! You want to act like a baby? Drink from bottles? This isn't normal!"

"Please, just let me explain—"

"No." His hand had cut through the air. "Not in my house. This stops now, or you find somewhere else to live."

I'd looked at Mom for support, but her eyes had been wet with tears, her head shaking slowly. "It's not right, Cherry. It's not natural."

Three hours later, I'd been on my friend Lydia's couch, sobbing into her spare pillow, everything precious to me hastily shoved into a suitcase and backpack. I'd left behind the nursery furniture I'd saved for months to buy, hidden beneath my bed in flat-packed boxes. Left behind the custom onesies. Left behind the life I'd built in secret.

For two days, I'd searched job listings from Lydia's laptop, looking specifically for live-in positions. Something, anything to get me out of town, away from the whispers that wouldinevitably follow. What if my parents told the neighbors? What if word got around?

The Warwick Ranch listing had appeared like a miracle. "Ranch hand needed. Experience with animals preferredl. Accommodation provided." The salary wasn't much, but I wouldn't need much. I'd grown up helping at my uncle's small farm every summer until high school. I knew animals, knew hard work.

I'd called immediately, hands shaking.

"Warwick Ranch." The voice had been deep, masculine, with a hint of Texas drawl.

"I'm . . . I'm calling about the ranch hand position?" My voice had wavered despite my attempts to sound professional.

"Name?" Direct. No nonsense.

"Cherry Morgan."

"Experience?"

"Six years helping on my uncle's farm. Mostly horses and a few cattle. I'm good with animals, sir. I work hard."

A pause. "Why Warwick?"

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