Page 13 of The Daddy She Needed

He dropped the sugar packet, now wadded up into a tiny little ball. “Bikes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. But moving on. I know you prefer smooth peanut butter to crunchy.”

She nodded. True.

“And I know you’re absolutely terrified of wetas.”

“They’re scary!” she shuddered. “Hideous things.”

“They’re harmless.”

She shuddered again. “That’s what you think.”

“I know how you have your coffee, know you hate Brussels sprouts.”

“Well, that’s easy,” she said. “Nobody likes Brussels sprouts.”

“My mother does.”

“Ew, seriously? Why? They taste like feet.”

He chuckled again, his low, rumbly laughter washing over her, making her smile. “Now when have you ever eaten feet?” There was a distinctly scolding lilt in his tone, making her tremble with desire. His voice had always been able to do wicked things to her insides.

“I know you like dragons. I know your favourite scent is vanilla. I know…”

“Okay, okay,” she interrupted him. “So you have a good memory. But I was a different person back then. I’ve changed.”

“I’m sure we’ve both changed. It was fourteen years ago, after all. But that doesn’t mean we can’t give each other a chance.” He paused then, just for a second, then raised one eyebrow at her in question. “You do still like dragons, right?”

“Of course! I will never not like dragons.”

“That’s good. Because…” He smiled at her as he leaned sideways a bit, moving his hips enough so he could tug something out of the pocket of his jeans. “I saw this in a shop on my way here this morning and I couldn’t resist.”

Her heart pounded as he placed a little bubble-wrapped package on the table in front of her.

“Go on, open it!”

Slowly, she reached forward.Should I be accepting gifts from him already?But she pushed the doubt away. Lots of gentlemen brought their dates flowers on their first meeting, and this wasn’t exactly a first meeting. Not really.

Catherine picked up the package, held it to her ear, and shook it.

“What is it?”

Jason winked. “You’ll have to open it to find out.”

So she did.

It was taped up well, and the fingernails that she’d bitten short were hopeless for unsticking the tape, so she brought the package to her mouth and ripped at the plastic with her teeth, tearing a hole in it. Inserting a finger into the ragged hole, she tugged the bubble-wrap away and pulled out a tiny purple sparkly dragon with a gold-tipped tail.

“It’s gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “I love it!”

“To add to your collection,” Jason did. “You do still have your dragon collection?”

Catherine shook her head sadly. It was one of the things Steve had refused to let her bring, when they’d bought the house together. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. It had seemed a good idea back then for them both to start afresh. For all their ornaments, all their furnishings, literally everything inside their house, to be things that they had acquired together. Brand new. They’d had the money, after all. They didn’t need old things in their new home.Let the past go, Steve had said. It had been his mantra, almost, as he’d systematically erased all her history. The only thing he’d let her keep had been her photographs. Some of her photos, anyway. All the ones with males in them had had to go. Steve wanted to be her everything.

* * *

Jason couldn’t take his eyes off Catherine as he watched her open the small gift. He’d been torn on whether or not to give it to her, concerned that he was overstepping the very fledgling boundaries they were establishing, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to resist. The little dragon had caught his eye as he’d walked past the corner gift shop on the way to the café and he’d known instantly that Catherine would love it. She’d been obsessed with dragons, once, and her collection had been huge. He didn’t understand why she had parted with her dozens of precious dragons; the Catherine he’d once known would have taken them to her grave.This Catherine is different,he reminded himself.

When he’d watched her use her teeth to open the wrapping, it had been all he could do to resist the urge to reach out and smack her fingers—punishment for biting her nails—just as he’d used to do when they were young. She’d bitten her nails plenty as a kid, but she’d finally broken herself of the habit by painting nasty-tasting liquid on them. She’d taken good care of her hands ever since. At least, she’d used to. Things had obviously changed now, though.

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