Page 46 of Part-Time Daddy

“What about our plans for little time tonight?”

“We can later,” I answer. “But first, I want to spoil you. So, dinner…come sit.”

“Damn, baby bat,” he exclaims as he follows me into the kitchen, his nose twitching as he sniffs the air. “If dinner tastes half as good as it smells, I’m in for one hell of a treat.”

Glee fills my soul, a wide smile splitting my face. “Sit, please, Daddy.” I guide him to the table, watching with anticipation as he looks over the fancy tablecloth and small tea-light candles burning in the center.

Once his butt hits the cushion, I run to the fridge and grab his beer. I’m not a fan of the taste of hops, but Daddy likes it. Popping the cap off with the opener, I place the chilled bottle in front of him.

“Relax here. I need to put a few finishing touches on the plates, and dinner will be served.”

Daddy lifts the beer, tilting the neck back for a long pull. As I step away, he snags my hip with his large hand and pulls me closer to his side. Wide-eyed, I watch him swallow the liquid and wait for him to speak.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but thank you, baby bat.”

Smiling, I lean forward—now that he’s sitting and right at my height—and press a lingering kiss to his lips. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for anything, sweetheart. Being your Daddy is my pleasure.”

“And serving you tonight ismine.” I grin at him. “Now hands off, let me feed you.”

Daddy’s eyes flare under my words, but he releases me. Scampering back to the stove, I lift the steaks from the cast iron pan on the stove and plate them. Pulling the casserole dish from the oven, I scoop a generous portion onto each plate, garnishing the potatoes with fresh chives. Finally, I use the tongs to add the asparagus, tilting them on each plate to finish the fancy presentation.

Double-checking I’ve turned off all the burners and the oven, I untie my apron and carry our plates to the table. I raise an eyebrow at Daddy’s almost-empty beer bottle. “Another?” I ask as I set the plates on the mats.

“I’d love one.” His eyes drop to the plate. “Oh, baby bat. You remembered.”

The hint of awe in his voice is exactly what I was after. I do a little shoulder jig under his praise as I grab him another beer and one of the flavored seltzers for myself. “I’d never forget the things you tell me, Daddy.”

Dean’s still staring at the plate as if something magical is about to happen.

“It’s safe to eat,” I tell him, setting the refreshed beer in front of him. “I promise I didn’t poison it, and Icancook when I have time.”

He blinks at me when I sit across from him, arm stretching the distance of the table to silently ask for my hand. When my fingers land in his palm, he squeezes me hard. “Tanner, this is by far the most thoughtful thing anyone has done for me. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” My face is going to split in half if I smile any wider. “Now, eat up. I’m dying to know what you think, and we have other treats to get to before the night’s over.”

Dean releases my hand and places his in the center of his chest, clutching his shirt. “More treats? I don’t know if my heart can take it.”

“Eat, you silly man,” I say, pointing my fork at him.

Finally, he does as asked. Fork and knife in hand, he delicately cuts a bite-sized piece of beef and puts it in his mouth. Words aren’t needed. The chest-deep rumble, backfilled with a moan, tells me everything I need to know.

“Fuck.” He moans again, forking a potato into his mouth. “This is better than my nonna used to make.”

Okay, I admit: the words are good too.

Dean’s praise warms the center of my chest. “I’m glad you like it. I just hope your nonna won’t be coming for me because you said it’s better.”

Daddy smirks. “Don’t lie to me. I know damn well a visit from beyond the grave is on your bucket list.”

He’s got me there. “True. Can you blame me? It would be awesome to communicate with the dead. Though you have to admit, someone like Edgar Allan Poe or Bram Stoker would be much cooler than your great-grandmother scolding me through a medium.”

“There you go with the horror writers again,” Daddy says through a laugh.

“I like what I like.” I shrug. “What about you? Who would be at your table?”

Chewing another bite of his dinner, Daddy thinks over his answer. “Jimmy Hendrix, for sure. But I think I’d also like to meet Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson.”

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