Page 3 of Broken Daddy

I’ve never had a woman apologize for touching my crotch. But then, this whole night has been…unusual.

Gen wets a white cloth with vinegar and starts dabbing.

“Great. Now I’m going to smell like vomit.”

She makes a face at me, and I can’t help thinking once more,This is the woman Russ wants me to hire as a personal chef?

Her attitude was hot that night in the restaurant, but now I’m finding it frustrating. Or maybe I’m just overwhelmed by the string of facts I’ve discovered in the last hour. Part of me is mad at myself for not recognizing her, but then, the last time I saw her, she was just a kid.

When Russ asked me to hire his sister temporarily – a few weeks before I ran into Gen at The Black Fig - my initial response was hesitant. But Russ insisted Gen was well-trained and a high-ranking chef in New York with a Michelin star restaurant under her belt. The same restaurant she’d just been let go from unexpectedly.

She’s not what I expected, though I have vague memories of seeing her when we were all younger. A little brunette girl running around in a dress, barely worth a glance, as Russ and I were consumed by football and dating. Gen has to be almost a decade younger than me. And now she’s gorgeous.

Not that Russ is a bad looking guy, but his sister definitely inherited all the looks. Her fingers are long, delicate, and her chocolate brown hair falls perfectly to frame her face. From this angle, I have a perfect view of the swell of her breasts in the tight dress. Her height, confidence, and that saucy grin are all what attracted me to her that night in the restaurant.

My dick twitches in interest.

I reach out and grab her wrist. Maybe a little roughly…she looks up at me in surprise, her lips parted.

“Get up.”

I see the urge to question my authority flit across her features, but she only snaps her mouth shut and stands. She mustreallyneed this job.

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, that isn’t going to make menotlook like an ass at my own gala, is it?”

It wasn’t my intention to be so abrupt, but the last thing I need is to get hard in her hands right now.

Brushing off my jacket, I lock eyes with Gen. Hers are a stormy gray; I can tell she wants to argue, and a sick part of me would welcome it. No one puts up much of a fight anymore. It’s just me and my daughter at home, and at work, my word is final.

But this isn’t the time to pick a fight, or to keep her on her knees, no matter how delicious she looks there. I physically shake the thought from my head, turning away from her and striding toward the double doors that lead to the main gallery, leaving Gen behind.

Her brother and my best friend, Russ Walker, is waiting on the other side.

“Everything good?” he asks, gaze darting down to my crotch and the spreading dark stain. I roll my eyes as he suppresses a grin.

“Great.” I’m texting my driver to bring me a new pair of pants. He’s resourceful and will figure it out; I’m willing to bet he keeps an extra pair somewhere in the car.

“I swear she’s not normally like this. She’s just nervous.”

She’s nervous because a week ago I was making her come, and now she’s probably as thrown off as I am,I’m tempted to blurt out. But the last thing I need is to ruin one of my very few friendships.

With a sigh, I fight the urge to run a hand through my hair. Normally I’m not quite this stylish, which is why I’m so irritated this suit is ruined. Especially on a night like tonight, when I need to look like the owner of Ironside—not some booze-drunk wino traipsing the streets of New York City.

“What exactly is her deal again?” I ask tightly.

Before Russ can answer, Gen herself steps out of the kitchen. Her lips are tight, but her face reveals nothing as she glances our way before walking out into the gallery, head held high.

“It’s weird you two have lived in the city for years and never heard of each other. She was the head chef at The Black Fig.” I nod vaguely, as if the name is unfamiliar to me. “She recently had a…revolt occur.”

I cock an eyebrow. “A revolt?” That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement.

Russ grimaces. “I don’t really know the details. But trust me, Nate, helping her out for a few months will be worth it. A win-win, really. She gets job security while she figures things out and you get…”

“Canapés?” I ask, snatching one off a tray moving past us.

I’m not particularly concerned with cuisine. Despite the insanely large amount of money my construction company pulls in every year, I live a modest life. Partly because I don’t want my daughter to grow up to be a spoiled brat. Russ rolls his eyes.

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