Page 91 of Shortcake
I was partially avoiding the hard conversation, and partially trying not to ruin Harper’s favorite night of the week—book club night.
Addy pushed onto her toes and lightly brushed her mouth to mine. “It’s your daughter. You choose when and how you talk to her. Just remember, the longer you wait, the harder it’ll be.”
“You know, for a woman who isn’t a parent, you’re annoyingly right about parent things…alot.”
She pulled me back in for a hug, her body vibrating as she chuckled. “I know. And you love that about me.”
I rested my chin on her head, my own defeated chuckle rumbling between us. “You’re right. I love you…”
Well, fuck. That wasn’t what I meant to say.
Or was it?
Because if I wasn’t mistaken, I heard Addy’s little gasp of pleasure—the same gasps I could elicit from her when licking my ways up her thighs—with those three words.
But when I looked down into her eyes, I wasn’t met with happy tears or heartfelt stares. There was sheer terror in her eyes.
I cleared my throat. “I love that. I love that about you,” I said, trying to backpeddle the words. But it was too late.
Reluctantly, I pulled back from Addy’s arms. “I should um, shower and get ready for my night shift,” I said.
“Yeah. Yeah.” She tucked a piece of red curly hair behind her ears and looked to her feet. “Let me know how it goes.”
I put two fingers to my forehead and saluted her.
I fucking said I love you, then saluted her like she was a general and I was a private.What the hell is wrong with me?
She didn’t seem to notice much, though. She was whiter than the roll of paper towels perched next to her on the counter that she kept staring at.
Yep. My daughter claiming Addy as a stepmom? Not terrifying. Not terrifying at all.
But Conrad Meyer saying I love you?
Nightmare fuel.
Fucking great.
ChapterSeventeen
Conrad
Monday evening after work, I climbed the steps to Harper’s bedroom slowly. Like a painful walk to the guillotine.
I had to tell her. I knew Addy was right about that. Harper was a big girl and after all we’d been through together, I owed her honesty.
So why was it so fucking hard?
Because she’s still my little girl. It didn’t matter that she was only two years shy of being an adult in the eyes of the government. To me? She was still my little turkey who danced on the tops of my feet, gagged at brussel sprouts on her plate, mocked my love of Clint Eastwood movies, and had epic Disney song battles.
It didn’t matter if she was sixteen or sixty. She would always be my baby girl. And while it shouldn’t matter in the long run whether or not my daughter approved of me having a love life, I’d be fooling myself if I said it didn’t.
Of course it mattered.
Harper came first. Always.
With a final deep breath, I lifted my closed fist to her door and gave it a light tap.
“Come in!” Harper called out.
