Page 36 of Daddy Next Door

Getting messy? My mind raced through possibilities. Cooking class? Painting? Jell-o fight?

I glanced back at my abandoned work file, then at the phone, then back to the screen. With a resigned sigh, I saved my progress and closed the design program. There was no point pretending I'd accomplish anything significant in this state.

My closet door squeaked as I pulled it open, surveying the neatly organized sections: work clothes on the left, casual in the middle, and dressier options on the right. A small section at the far end held what I privately thought of as my Little clothes.

What qualified as date-appropriate but messy-tolerant?

I pulled out a pair of dark jeans. Practical for mess, but too casual? I held them up, then tossed them onto the bed as a maybe.

Next came a burgundy wrap dress that always got compliments. I loved how it hugged my curves, but the dry-clean-only tag immediately disqualified it.

A floral skirt with a simple top? Too spring picnic.

Black pants and a nice blouse? Too work-like.

The pile on my bed grew as I discarded option after option. This shouldn't be so hard. It was just clothes.

But it wasn't just clothes. It was the first impression of me he'd get in this new context. Not as the neighbor who watered his plants. Not as the surprised intruder in his private space. Not as the woman who sat on his couch asking questions about DDlg. But as someone he was dating—someone who was both an adult woman and, sometimes, his Little.

I pushed aside a row of blazers and spotted a flash of blue fabric I'd almost forgotten about. Pulling it out, I held up a cornflower blue dress with subtle white polka dots. The material was soft cotton with just a touch of stretch, the cut modest but feminine with a slight flare to the skirt that hit just above my knees. It had pockets—actual functional pockets—and a neckline that showed just enough collarbone to be intriguing without being revealing.

I'd bought it on impulse last spring and had only worn it once. It had felt too playful for work events but not quite casual enough for everyday. Now, I realized it occupied a perfect middle ground—pretty enough for a date but washable if things got messy.

I slipped it on. The fabric skimmed over my curves without clinging, the waist hitting at just the right spot to be flattering. I twirled experimentally, watching the skirt flare slightly in the mirror.

Pairing it with comfortable flats—no sense in heels if "messy" was the operative word—I assessed the overall effect. Not bad.

I checked my phone: 4:18. Nearly three hours until he'd arrive. Enough time to actually accomplish something on that restaurant logo and still have time for a shower.

Back at my desk, I found myself able to focus in a way that had eluded me earlier. The prospect of the evening ahead didn't distract me now—it energized me. My fingers moved confidently over the keyboard and trackpad, adjusting colors and kerning with renewed precision.

By 5:30, I'd made enough progress to email a draft to the client. Not my final version, but enough to show I was on track. I closed my laptop with satisfaction, took off the outfit I’d planned out about 20 hours in advance, and headed for the shower.

Under the warm spray, I allowed myself to speculate about the evening ahead. What did Ethan have planned? Something creative, clearly. Something that required getting messy. The thought of prim, always-put-together Ethan with paint on his hands or flour on his shirt made me smile.

I shampooed my hair, thinking about how carefully he must have considered what I would enjoy.

As I wrapped myself in a towel, I caught my reflection in the steamy mirror. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright. I hardly recognized myself—this woman looked excited, anticipatory, almost glowing.

I dried my hair, applied minimal makeup—just enough to enhance but not mask—and slipped into the blue dress again. With nearly an hour still to go before seven, I tidied my already-neat apartment, fluffed the couch pillows, and rearranged a stack of magazines three times.

When my phone chimed at 6:50, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Almost ready for our adventure, little star?

I took a deep breath before replying.

Just adding shoes! Excited to see what you have planned.

I slipped on my flats, and grabbed a light cardigan in case the evening turned cool. Then, at precisely 7:00, my doorbell rang. I took one last deep breath, grabbed my purse, and opened the door, my body humming with an anticipation I hadn't felt in years—if ever.

***

Ethandroveusacrosstown, his profile calm and confident in the glow of passing streetlights. He refused to tell me where we were headed, answering my increasingly creative guesses with nothing more than a small smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. I gave up when we turned onto Maple Street, settling back to watch the familiar landscape of my town transform into something new when seen through the lens of anticipation. When he finally pulled into a small parking lot beside a converted brick warehouse with "Crafted Earth" painted in flowing script above the door, I couldn't help the surprised laugh that escaped me.

"A pottery studio?" I asked, turning to him.

He switched off the engine. "Too predictable?"

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