Page 21 of Winning Brynn

When her face softens at my vulnerability, I fake a cough and break eye contact.

Whether she can sense my discomfort or simply doesn't care about what I said, she changes the subject. "Where is my little ladybug anyway?"

"She's in bed."

"At six p.m.? Isn't that a bit early?"

"Well, I couldn't take her out today like I normally would, because we were waiting for you, so there was a lot of frustration on her part."And mine, I want to add, but I'm being passive-aggressive enough as it is. "And you know how babies express frustration? By crying. And crying. And crying. And crying."

Brynn, at least, has the good grace to look ashamed.

"Turns out, crying tires the poor girl out," I continue. "So, yes, Brynn. It is six p.m., and Salem is in bed."

"Point taken." And just when I think I've won the argument, she just can't help herself but add, "To be fair, you really didn't specify a time."

"Jesus Christ."

"And it's Saturday. My first official day is tomorrow, so it's not like I was late for that. I didn't realize moving my stuff in needed its own time slot, and if it did, you really should have told me sooner. To be honest, I thought you'd be pleased that I didn't show up early, since you can't bear to spend longer than ten minutes in my presence. But today isn't even a real work day. This is basically just orientation."

I shoot her an unimpressed raise of my brows. "Finished?"

Mutely, she nods.

"Great. Get your shit sorted then meet me in the living room in fifteen minutes."

Holding her hand to her head in salute, she stands to attention. "Sir, yes, sir."

Fuck my life.

Why did I think this was a good idea?

Sixteen minutes later, Brynn saunters down the hallway, her eyes scanning the great room like she owns the space.

With the exception of the extra bedroom, my apartment mirrors Alex's floor plan. The living area is open-plan, with the kitchen off to the right, separated from the dining room by a large marble island, and the living room is to the far left.

We both have the same floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Space Needle, Elliott Bay, and even the peaks of the Olympic National Park on a clear day. The view is the best thing about living in this building, and best believe, we pay the price for it.

But the interior design of our apartments couldn't be more different.

Where Alex's place is all stark white and glossy blacks, perfect for a bachelor who hosts monthly sex parties, mine is softer. Over two thousand square feet of contemporary lightwood mixed with classic touches, my home was designed with the purpose of raising my daughter in a space that feels comfortable and safe.

The fact that I admitted this to Brynn makes me feel physically sick.

Because, though it may not seem like a big deal to a normal person, the idea of someone seeing through the walls I've built around my soul is terrifying.

Sure, I didn't tell her about my mom, but she heard the plain earnestness in my voice, and that's enough to send me reeling.

It’s taken years of feeling rejected by my father to learn how to protect my heart. I’ve built walls a mile high and turned myself into a cold, standoffish asshole to keep people from getting too close. And I'll be damned if I let an Instagram model who refuses to wear appropriate clothing be the one to break them down.

"What's on the agenda tonight then, Daddio?" she asks, cocking her hip with a hand on her waist.

Fuck my life.

"Daddio?"

"What?" She bats her eyelids. "You don't like being called Daddy."

"And you thought ‘Daddio’ would be better than, I don't know, my actual fucking name?"

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