Page 10 of Hero Daddy

I imagined his expression, though—that slight furrow between his brows when something displeased him—and found I couldn't bear the thought of causing it. Not after he'd been so patient on the phone. Not after he'd saved me in the park.

Before my courage could evaporate, I pushed open the door and stepped inside. A small bell chimed softly, announcing my arrival.

Inside, the reception area was surprisingly calm and modern—polished concrete floors, a minimalist wooden desk, and a seating area with clean-lined furniture. The walls were white, adorned with just a few framed black-and-white photographs of what looked like historic martial arts masters. Everything was immaculately clean, without a speck of dust or a magazine out of place.

The air smelled faintly of clean sweat and disinfectant, underlaid with something woody—perhaps incense or essential oils. It wasn't unpleasant, just unfamiliar, a reminder that I'd stepped into a different world.

No one sat at the reception desk. From deeper within the building came the sound of rhythmic thuds and an occasional sharp command—a man's voice, though not Chad's, calling out counts or corrections. The sounds made me feel small and a little out of my depth, my stomach tightening with the familiar sensation of being somewhere I didn't belong.

A glass display case near the desk caught my eye. Instead of trophies, it contained a small but impressive collection of military memorabilia—medals, patches, a folded flag, and what looked like unit insignia. Chad's military past, carefully preserved but not ostentatiously displayed. I leaned closer, trying to make sense of the emblems and ribbons, each item meticulously arranged and labeled with small typewritten cards.

Just as I was contemplating whether I should sit or maybe text Chad to let him know I'd arrived, a door opened at the far end of the reception area. I straightened instinctively, my heart performing an uneven stutter-step in my chest.

Chad emerged, and the air in the room seemed to shift, rearranging itself around his presence. He wore a plain black,perfectly fitted t-shirt that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders and dark gray athletic pants that hung just right on his powerful frame. His feet were bare, showing strong arches and a small scar across one instep. His hair was military-short, not quite a buzz cut but close, emphasizing the clean lines of his skull and the strong angle of his jaw.

He looked even more formidable here, in his own domain, his body moving with a fluid economy that spoke of absolute confidence in his physical capabilities. He wasn't a tall man—probably only five-ten or so—but his presence filled the space in a way that height alone couldn't account for.

My mouth went dry. In the days since the park, I'd begun to wonder if I'd exaggerated his impact in my mind, built him up as something more than he was because of the circumstances of our meeting. But no—if anything, my memory had understated his effect.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips—just a slight softening at one corner of his mouth—but the subtle change transformed his face, warming the steel in his gray eyes. That look of gentle approval sent a surprising warmth cascading through me, from the top of my head all the way to my toes, which curled involuntarily inside my sneakers.

"Miss Matthews," he said, my name a low rumble in his chest. "Glad you made it."

He moved toward me with that same contained power I remembered from the park, his slight limp barely noticeable in the fluid precision of his gait. He stopped a respectful distance away—not so close as to be intimidating, but close enough that I had to tilt my chin up slightly to meet his eyes. The faint scent of sandalwood reached me, the same scent that had lingered on his jacket.

"I'm not late, am I?" I asked, suddenly worried that I'd misunderstood our arrangement, that I was inconveniencing him.

Chad shook his head once, a decisive movement. "You're right on time." He glanced at the delicate watch on his wrist. "Two o'clock exactly." The tiny smile returned, suggesting that my punctuality pleased him.

That small hint of approval shouldn't have mattered so much. I was twenty-seven, looking for self-defense training, not seven, looking for a gold star. Yet I felt a ridiculous flutter of pride at having met his expectations.

I became acutely aware of how I must look to him—a slightly overweight, unremarkable woman in workout clothes that had never seen a workout. My hand rose self-consciously to my ponytail, checking that it was still neat.

"I wasn't sure what to wear," I admitted, gesturing vaguely at my outfit.

Chad's eyes performed a quick, professional assessment, sweeping from my ponytail to my sneakers in a glance that felt thorough but not invasive. "What you have on is perfect," he said. "Practical. Nothing loose that can be grabbed."

The simple practicality of his assessment eased some tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. He wasn't judging my body; he was evaluating my clothing for functionality.

"The academy is impressive," I said, glancing around at the pristine reception area.

"Thank you, ma’am." That slight note of pride in his voice made me glad I'd mentioned it. "I built it from scratch after leaving the service. Took three years to get it where I wanted it."

The mention of his military service reminded me of the display case. "Those are yours?" I asked, nodding toward the medals and patches.

A shadow passed briefly across his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Yes," he said simply, offering no elaboration.

I sensed a boundary and immediately stepped back from it. "It's a beautiful space," I said instead. "Very . . . peaceful."

That earned me another small smile, this one reaching his eyes, creating tiny crinkles at the corners that made something in my chest squeeze pleasantly.

"Control begins with environment," he said. "A chaotic space creates chaotic thinking. I wanted somewhere that promotes focus and respect." He paused, then added, "I'm glad you appreciate it."

There it was again—that subtle note of approval that made me stand a little straighter, like a flower turning toward the sun. It was ridiculous how much I responded to it, how much I wanted more of it.

Chad gestured toward a doorway at the far end of the reception area. "Shall we?" he said, not quite a question, not quite a command. Something in between that expected compliance but invited it rather than demanded it.

I nodded, suddenly unable to trust my voice.

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