Page 33 of Wild Daddy

Something dark flashes across his face. "Six years old?"

"They wanted me to focus on developing my intellectual potential instead of—"

"Instead of being a kid." He sits up and pulls me into his lap, arranging me so I'm straddling his thighs. "Well, we're going to fix that."

"I don't know how to play." The confession feels embarrassing. "I don't remember."

"That's okay. Daddy's going to teach you." He reaches for his backpack and pulls out a small object I can't identify. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to." His voice has that firm edge that makes my stomach flutter. "Trust me."

I close my eyes, hyperaware of his hands moving around me, the warmth of his body, the way the morning air feels against my bare skin.

"Open your mouth," he says softly.

Something small and sweet touches my tongue. I bite down and taste honey and nuts and dried fruit.

"What is it?" I ask, opening my eyes.

"Trail mix. I make it myself. Even coat it with my own maple syrup." He holds up another piece. "Not because you calculated the optimal protein-to-carb ratio, but because it tastes good. Callit breakfast, until I get us back to camp and cook something more substantial."

"That's silly. You make syrup?"

"It is silly and yes, I do. I’m not just here for looks you know, I have depth." He deadpans as he feeds me another piece, watching my face carefully. “I like putting things I make in your mouth.”

Eating without calculating feels revolutionary, like I'm breaking some fundamental rule I've been following my entire life.

"Now what?" I ask.

"Now we see what other rules we can break." He stands up and starts getting dressed, but slowly, like he's in no hurry to rejoin the real world. "Tell me something you always wanted to do but couldn't because it wasn't academic enough."

"I..." I think about it while I pull on my clothes, still damp from yesterday's rain. "I always wanted to learn to skip stones. I saw kids doing it at a lake once and it looked like magic."

"Perfect." He shoulders his pack and holds out his hand. "There's a stream about ten minutes from here."

The stream is clear and shallow, with smooth rocks perfect for skipping scattered along the bank. Cade finds a handful of flat stones and demonstrates the technique—low angle, good spin, follow through.

His first stone skips seven times across the water before disappearing beneath the surface.

"Show off," I mutter, picking up my own stone.

My first attempt plunks straight down into the water with all the grace of a brick.

"Here." He moves behind me, his chest pressed against my back as he adjusts my grip. "Feel the weight of the stone. Don't think about the physics of trajectory and water tension. Just feel it."

"But the physics are important for—"

"Marley." His voice is patient but firm. "No thinking. Just feeling."

I try again, focusing on the sensation of the stone in my hand instead of the calculations running through my head. This time it skips twice before sinking.

"Better," he says. "Again."

We spend an hour by the stream, and with each attempt, I feel something loosening inside me. The need to be perfect, to understand everything, to analyze every action before taking it.

By the time I manage a five-skip throw, I'm laughing like I haven't laughed in years.

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