Page 4 of Broken Daddy

“No. Steady meals. Home-cooked meals. I don’t know, I was thinking Eva might want something other than Dino Bites at some point.”

Giving him a sneer, I pop the canapé in my mouth and consider the offer. It’s not like I don’t have the money, and Russ is right—Eva’s nanny used to cook for her (us, when I was home) but she graduated from college and moved abroad somewhere.

A personal chef and regular meals would add some sense of stability to her life. Recently, her teacher has noted she’s been acting up a bit at school. Nothing crazy but…they’re concerned.

It might also be because I missed picking her up two days last week.

“I’ll think about it.”

Russ doesn’t look thrilled, but nods, accepting the answer. Then it’s back to work. The gallery he works at, Fog, partnered with my company to host the annual gala. It’s a sort of thank-you to our clients and a night off for the rest of the guys, letting them schmooze and drink high-end alcohol.

I scan the room, taking in the night’s theme. Architecture, appropriately. All forms of it—massive oil paintings, collections of photography, hand-drawn maps of the city. All gorgeous. All uninteresting to me.

A text from my driver comes through, letting me know he’ll meet me at the side door. I skirt the room and prop the door open, reaching out to accept the bundle. “Thanks, Steve.”

And just like that, he disappears into the night.

Now I only need to figure out where the hell to change. The bathrooms are tempting, but they’re on the other side of the gallery. I’d have to walk through the entirety of the crowd, soaked in wine and smelling like vinegar.

A quick glance around reveals a short hallway lined with small, dark offices. I dip into the nearest one and move into a corner, belt jangling as I undo it.

My pants are around my knees when I hear the gasp. And that already familiar voice. “Shit. Sorry.”

I stare in surprise at the woman in the shadows.

Gen sits on a desk, legs crossed at the ankles, navy blue dress blending in perfectly with the darkness. When I squint, I see she has a hand over her eyes.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re waiting for an opportunity to catch me with my pants down.”

It comes out as a dry joke, one that gets Gen’s attention as she parts her fingers, brows knit.

“I—definitely not—”

She winces, seeming to realize it’s partly an insult, and a slow smirk creeps across my lips. She doused me with wine earlier, by accident, of course. But it would be interesting to see her squirm.

Since we’re past embarrassment now, I move closer to flick on the desk light and shuck my pants easily. Gen’s eyes drop to my boxer briefs, widening before her gaze darts away.

“Usually, I make a woman work for it more than this,” I say in a low voice.

She raises a brow. “You didn’t make me work very hard that night in the alley.”

“Watch it,” I warn. “Wouldn’t want your brother to come in and catch you eyeing the goods.” The tension breaks as I chuckle darkly, Gen realizing this has been a bit of a twisted joke. “Don’t worry, he’s making the rounds again. Trying to sell that atrocity called a sculpture.”

Her lips quirk up at the corners. So she agrees; a giant steel gingerbread house is absolutely ridiculous.

“You think he’d be upset?” I ask, curious. “If he found out you and I…”

I’m not sure where the question comes from. Uncharacteristically, it tumbles from my lips as I carefully unfold the new pair of pants, eyes noting the carefully ironed seams.

Gen looks at me quickly, up and down. Just a flicker, but I catch her do it, see her lips part again.

“I—” she coughs out delicately, putting her hands firmly in her lap. “I don’t think he’d be supportive of…you’remucholder than me—”

“How old do you think I am?” I’m curious, because I’m also not quite sure how oldsheis. Butmucholder? That hurts a bit.

Gen’s eyes move over my face. I have an idea of what she’s seeing—sandy hair starting to gray just a little bit here and there. Crow’s feet at the corner of my eyes, but last I checked, they were still a decently bright green. I don’t look dead yet.

She shrugs. “You must’ve been in high school when I was—what, six or so?” I met Russ and Gen the year they were adopted by the Walkers – officially.Finallyout of foster care and settled down somewhere, by the same family, which was lucky. People didn’t usually want teenagers. But Russ was always a good kid. Better than me, at least.

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