Page 103 of Santa Daddies
I rather doubted he’d take the time to write out a request to go through my clothing and toys to donate what no longer fit or things I thought another person might enjoy. Especially since I’d already started that and had two boxes ready to be taken to the local shelter.
He made it even more random when he didn’t assign me a designated chore every day, which would have made it easier to track. When I’d asked Daddy what was next, he’d either show me the newest item on the paper list or just give me a Cheshire cat grin that made goosebumps pop out on my body. He was a huge fan of anticipation and an expert at keeping me on edge. I was probably getting all worked up over nothing.
Face it, you want a poem.
I didn’t bother to try to convince my inner self that wasn’t true. The fact that my nipples were already tightening when I wasn’t the least bit chilled, was proof enough that she was right. A furtive glance to the side showed me that while his eyes were on the road as he drove, Santa Daddy was well aware of my quandary.
“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”
“Every moment,” he confirmed with a chuckle. “I’ve never kept it a secret that it brings me great pleasure watching you squirm.”
I huffed but bit the inside of my lip to keep from smiling. “You know that sounds a bit weird, right?”
“Hmmmm. Let me check my meter”—he paused for a count of three and then shook his head—“nope, it didn’t shift a single millimeter.”
I was glad his eyes were ahead so that I could roll mine. His so-called “care meter” was something he’d used to teach me that as long as the two of us were okay with whatever we chose to explore, he didn’t “care” what anyone else might think and neither should I.
“How about yours? Feeling any seismic shifts?”
“No,” I admitted. “But if I had a heart-attack warning system, the needle on that meter would be sweeping about like crazy.”
My comment had his eyes sliding to me. “The game isn’t meant to stress you out, babygirl.”
“I know! And it doesn’t, but not knowing what’s going to happen is making me crazy. In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw a gray hair when I was brushing my hair tonight.”
He chuckled. “What’s with you and gray hair? While I love the color of your hair now, I promise, I will still adore it if it’s gray or even if it’s all gone and you’re as bald as a billiard ball.”
I huffed again, but knew he spoke the truth. This man was honestly too good to be true. When he loved, he loved unconditionally and with his whole heart. He’d go into battle and fight to the death to defend those he cared for. He was a saint.
And me?
Well, I was nowhere near sainthood. I was that squirmy Little going nuts trying to figure out his devious and deliciously naughty plans.
“Besides, if you want to stop stressing, all you have to do is unfold the paper and read the piece.”
“What a great idea! I wonder why I didn’t think of that?” I gushed.
“Careful, little girl. The game isn’t meant to stress, but it also isn’t permission to be rude.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, acknowledging that the gushing had sounded a bit more sarcastic than complimentary. “Do you want me to read it now, Santa Daddy?”
“That’s up to you, babygirl. Now or when we get home, the results will be the same.”
“Confident much?” I snarked and quickly added, “kidding!”
“Kid away, Santa Daddy is not only good at making lists, he is also very good at keeping count.” He shot me another look and then flipped on the signal before turning a corner.
I was about to ask what he was counting, but I wasn’t stupid. I looked down at the paper slip and realized I’d been twisting it until it was no longer the smoothly folded note it had been. Tracing across it with my fingertip, I tried to erase the creases I’d created. Why didn’t I just open it and read the words already?
Because you love anticipation as much as your Daddy but just don’t want to admit it.
Taking a deep breath, I made myself stop fidgeting and simply live in the moment. Anticipation aside, I also wanted to be alone in case the words didn’t live up to those of the first slip. I’d made such a big deal about his poem that if he’d simply penned something like, “get naked and spread them,” while I’d still be tingling as much as if he’d growled them at me in the deep voice I so loved, I might not be able to hide a little disappointment in not having the challenge of deciphering this note as I had the first.
“Marcie?”
“Hmmm?”
“Babygirl, we’re home.”
