Page 88 of Off-Limits Daddy
Sage smiled back—wide, bright, and full of something like peace.
“You’re a real one,” he said. “Took me a while to figure out what he saw in you other than the guy who was his brother’s best friend, but I get it now.”
He gave my foot a light shove under the blanket. “Get some rest. You’ve got a whole future to chase.”
Then he paused at the door, one hand on the handle, glancing over his shoulder.
“Oh, and Reid?” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “If you’re gonna keep calling my little brother baby in that bossy-ass voice, at least admit you’ve been a Daddy in denial since you were twenty-two.”
I groaned, tossed a hand over my face. “You’ve got five seconds to leave before I make you detail my truck. Inside and out.”
He laughed, easy and bright. “Love you too, Reid.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and quiet settled over the room again. Not heavy. Not hollow. Just... right.
My head throbbed faintly, and my ribs would probably bark at me for days. But none of that mattered.
Ari loved me.
And I was finally free to love him back—for the world to see.
TWENTY-SIX
ARI
Steam curled from the French toast as I carried the tray down the hall, balancing it with one hand and nudging the bedroom door open with my elbow. Warm maple and cinnamon drifted ahead of me, sweet enough to earn a grumble from Daddy before I even crossed the threshold.
He was propped up on a mountain of pillows, hospital bracelet long gone but the don’t-you-dare-fuss glare alive in his eyes. His hair was a mess—just enough to make him look human and rumpled and mine.
“You’re fussing again,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep and something deeper.
“You’re damn right I am.” I placed the tray on the nightstand, then moved to fluff the pillow behind him because it had shifted half an inch to the left and that would not do.
Daddy huffed. “My head’s not broken.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said, ignoring him as I adjusted the blanket around his waist. “And yet, your ass is on doctor-mandated rest, so you can hush.”
His hand lifted toward the tray.
I smacked it lightly. “Nope. Bedrest includes your wrists.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is now.” I angled the tray across his lap just so, added a cloth napkin like we were at a café, and set the fork where I knew he’d reach for it first. “Try me again and I’m calling your doctor and telling her you’ve been difficult.”
He didn’t smile—not fully—but his mouth twitched in that way that said he wasn’t all that mad about being babied. Or about being mine.
“Bossy little brat.”
“Grumpy oversized patient.”
He gave a soft grunt of approval. “Still got that mouth, huh?”
“Still got that concussion, huh?”
That earned me a long look. Then he picked up the fork and broke off a corner of the toast. His brows lifted after the first bite.
“Cinnamon vanilla?” he asked, chewing. “Trying to sweeten me up, huh?”
