Page 71 of Off-Limits Daddy
I leaned out the window. “You bring that pretty attitude of yours, or do I need to drive back home?”
He rolled his eyes, but his smile deepened. “Depends. You bring snacks?”
“Get in the truck, boy.”
He did, and the second the door clicked shut, the world shifted just a little. Like it always did when he was close.
We didn’t talk much on the drive. Just the occasional joke, the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling. Fifteen minutes out of town, I turned down a dirt road lined with weathered fencing and patches of dry grass.
Ari leaned forward, peering out. “This is where you’re taking me to die, huh?”
“Friend of mine owns the place,” I said. “Told him we’d be quick. Said to leave a bottle of beer on the fence post in exchange.”
He laughed, low and warm, and I watched the tension drain from his shoulders as the first sunflower patch came into view—wide-open, golden-bright, stretching far enough to feel like the sky had dropped down to kiss the earth.
I parked and killed the engine. Ari was already opening the door, bouncing out before I could grab the blanket.
I followed, basket in hand, eyes on him as he spun in a slow circle, taking it all in.
“You gonna draw or just dance around like a Disney princess?”
“Both,” he said. “Now get the blanket, Daddy. I have a kingdom to command.”
I shook my head, but I was grinning.
And I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Ari led the way, scanning the field like he was hunting treasure. Sunflowers stretched tall all around us, their wide golden faces tilted toward the sky. He finally slowed near a gentle rise where the stalks grew thick, but the view opened wide enough to glimpse the rolling hills beyond.
“Here,” he said, already pulling the blanket from my hands and tossing it across a patch of flattened grass.
I set the basket down, then crouched to smooth the corners while he kicked off his sandals and dropped into a sprawl with all the grace of someone completely at home in his own skin. The sketchbook came out fast—he always moved like that when inspiration hit. Quick, decisive, like the idea was already halfway formed and he just had to catch up to it.
He didn’t ask me to sit beside him. Didn’t need to.
I dropped down next to him, stretched my legs out, and leaned back on my elbows, content to let him work. A few bees buzzed lazily nearby, but the heat kept everything slow and quiet.
“What’re you drawing?” I asked.
“The field,” he murmured without looking up. “Maybe you. Haven’t decided yet.”
I smirked. “Let me know if I should flex.”
He didn’t dignify that with a response. Just kept sketching, tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking between page and horizon.
A few minutes passed. Then?—
“Okay. Shirt off.”
My brows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“I said shirt off, Daddy. Unless you’re scared.”
I scoffed but reached behind my neck to tug the fabric over my head. The air hit my skin like a slow exhale. “You just want to ogle me.”
He gave me a once-over that was anything but subtle. “Obviously.”
Then he adjusted his position, pulled one knee up and angled the sketchbook toward his thigh like he was building something serious. I’d been looked at a lot of ways in my life—by coworkers, by people needing help—but never like this. Not with this kind of focus. Like I was something soft and worth studying. Like I mattered.
