by L. Nicole
SUGAR DADDY SWEETHEART
L NICOLE
Copyright © 2021 by L. Nicole
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: This book contains sexual situations, violence and other adult themes. Recommended for 18 and above.
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Blurb
1. Jack
2. Brandi
3. Jack
4. Brandi
5. Jack
6. Brandi
7. Jack
8. Jack
9. Brandi
10. Jack
11. Brandi
Epilogue
Afterword
Keep In Touch
Also by L Nicole
A special thank you to Rose Holub, Leslee Nevill, and Jill Baker. Without you I would have given up.
Thank you so much for your support and for holding my hand.
—Me
BLURB
Jack Clayton is a billionaire recluse.
There are rumors he's in the witness protection program or even a hired killer.
Jack knows what they’re saying, but he doesn’t care.
He’s happy living life on his own terms.
That is until he meets Brandi Kelly.
Brandi is sweet as sugar and as pure as the driven snow.
Plus, she’s way too young for him.
Jack has no business thinking about all of the dirty little things he’d love to do to her--and he knows it.
So, he gives her a chance to walk away.
When Brandi refuses?
All bets her off.
CHAPTER ONE
JACK
I TURN the shower faucet off and stretch the kinks out of my back. The scars don’t hurt. They’re just evidence of the hell that I’ve been through. My muscles are another story. Even the hot as fire water doesn’t completely loosen them up these days. It seems to be getting worse with age. Right now, I’m feeling every one of my forty years.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I step out onto the bathmat and wipe a hand over the steamed mirror. The image reflected in the mirror doesn’t seem to match the man I am. The scars on the inside can’t be seen in the mirror. They’re much harder to deal with. It’s the internal scars that haunt me, giving me PTSD that no matter how hard I try, I can’t fully conquer. Nightmares wake me up at all hours of the night. Memories of the burning shrapnel that rained down on my unit in Afghanistan, but most of all, it is the pain from the loss of my brothers. Ones that I couldn’t save because my injuries were too severe.
I still wonder why I survived, and they didn’t. It’s not fair, and the guilt I feel over that never goes away.
Pulling the towel away from my body, I rub it over my wet, shaggy hair. I need a trim, but it can wait—besides, I can’t remember where I left the scissors after cutting my fishing line last week. I prefer cutting my own hair if it irritates me. I don’t have to deal with people that way, and with my face, it’s not like I’m going to win a beauty contest anyway.
I run my hand over my face. There’s stubble there but not a full-grown beard. I could shave it, but right now, that seems like too much effort. It’s just me, not like I need to turn myself into some pretty boy for a woman.
I quickly brush my teeth and get dressed, picking out my jeans and white t-shirt without thought. Most men wear a t-shirt under other shirts for warmth. I’ve found they’re comfortable, and I’m fine with just wearing them out wherever I go.
Besides, it’s economical.
You can get a pack of eight shirts for under twenty bucks. That thought makes me snort.
I just finish buttoning up my jeans when my cellphone rings. I’m tempted to let it ring, because I don’t recognize the number. It could be my agent, however. She’s always calling on strange numbers. She very seldom calls on her office phone.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Clayton?” a voice returns. It’s a woman’s voice, and you can tell she’s trying to sound friendly and professional—which sets off warning bells. My father always taught me that people who tried to change to fit a role usually couldn’t be trusted. I’ve found that to be true time and time again.
“Who wants to know?” I mutter.
“Um, well, this is Nancy Gardner with The Banner News.”
“Never heard of you, and I don’t want a subscription.”
A nervous giggle filled the phone’s receiver. I roll my eyes. “No, sir, I’m not calling about a subscription. I’m the office manager here. We’re a leading newspaper in Colorado, and I was hoping to set up an interview with one of our reporters for an upcoming issue. I’ve heard about your—”
“No,” I growl. “Hell, no. And don’t call me again.”
I click the cell off and quickly add the number to my blocked list. There’s nothing on earth I detest more than women who are trying to hound me about my work and then giggle in my ear.
And it’s usually always women who call. I don’t know if it’s the lure of my success or what, but it never fails.
And it annoys the fuck out of me.
I all but stomp out of the house and jump into my truck for the ride to town for supplies. The sooner I get this over with, the happier I’ll be. I head out, not bothering to turn the radio on. I’m used to my own company, and I don’t need sound to fill up the silence. I do, however, mentally make a list in my head of what I need to buy in town. Groceries and a few things from the hardware store top my list, but I should probably swing by the pharmacy and get some more of that liniment I like to use for my back. It’s not like it’s miraculously going to stop hurting.
The hardware store, McKenzie’s, sits beside a little diner on the corner of Main Street and Valley Road in Sweetheart, Colorado. I don’t know what drew me to this place. The town mostly gets on my nerves—it’s as if they’ve all overdosed on Cupid or something. There’s Budding Hearts—a flower shop. A beautician’s shop which is called The Hair Up Here—which is just one of the reasons I cut my own hair. The place’s décor with purples and pinks, glitter and feathers… Shit, if I stepped one foot inside my balls would shrivel up and die.
My gaze moves over the stores one by one. There are a few new ones up and running. Over by A Plus Realtors, is a new shop that catches my eye. The owner has painted the exterior’s brick white, making it stand out. I’m too far away to read it, but at least it’s not pink—which seems to be the color the residents of Sweetheart prefer, so I kind of dig it.
I’ve been buying supplies at McKenzie’s since I moved out west. I’m a loner, and I don’t talk to anyone in town for the most part. I guess that’s intrigued some of the locals. It’s even spurred some wild rumors. Some people in town even think I’m a damn super spy like James Bond. I swear, people have too much time on their hands.
Sloan McKenzie greets me with a wave of his hand and a grunt. I do the same, which may explain why we get along. Then, I turn and head to the back of the store in search of fencing supplies. I grab a new post hole digger and a pair of pliers. I pass the section of the store that contains boots and clothing and grab a pair of gloves. My last pair had worn thin and ripped while I was cutting fencing. It caused the wire to stick into my skin and wrap around
my hand when the tensioner snapped. That injury sidelined my writing schedule for almost three weeks.
I carry my goods to the front of the store and place them on the counter while McKenzie finishes up with a customer. I briefly glance over at the counter and one of my novels—my latest one to be exact—is lying on the counter while a man pays for it, along with a fifty-pound bag of salt he purchased.
I frown, I have a graveled driveway, but some salt might help my steps from being so iced over. My attention goes back to the man when I hear what the woman in front of me is saying.
“That’s all Walter wants to read,” she says with a disgusted shake of her head. “I’m telling you, the kind of mind that can think up that stuff has to be as maniacal as the criminals he writes about.” Walter is apparently her husband, and from the look he shoots her, he’s not very happy about that fact.
Just one of the reasons that life is better on my own.
“You might be surprised,” McKenzie tells the woman with a knowing smile. “I hear that guy lives in Colorado somewhere. You might just run into him one of these days.”
“I doubt that. All those celebrity crazies live in New York or California,” the man harrumphs. “Ain’t no sissy boy writer gonna live out here,” he adds. McKenzie laughs, and I shake my head. “Anyways, we best be getting back before the snow sets in. Let’s get going Maude,” he orders, hoisting the bag of salt over his shoulder.
“See you next time, Walter,” McKenzie calls out as the couple leaves.
“Have a good one.”
Once the door closed behind him, we look at one another and then burst out laughing.
“Oh, boy,” I mutter. “Not one of my fans, I take it?”
McKenzie rings up the tools. “I guess not. But what does he know? Some woman in here the other day said she thought you were an escaped criminal living out there by yourself. Another one said she heard you were a government spy. Lord help you if they ever connect you with being the author of these books,” he laughs, motioning toward one of my books lying nearby.
“Hey, I need about 400 treated fence posts and enough wire for three-strands. I’m going to start out small with just an acre this time. I’ll keep the leftovers for spring. Do you think you can get that delivered out to my place this week?” I ask him, looking out the window at the gray clouds moving in low. Snow would be coming in soon.
Damn…!
My eyes zero in on a sexy as fuck redhead across the road. She’s filling out a navy-blue sweater with all the curves of a country back road. Jesus, the minute I see her, my cock goes hard as rock.
“Who is that?” I ask, hiking my chin toward the girl.
“Oh, I forget what her name is. Amber? Jasmine? Something like that,” he says with an uninterested shrug. Then again, he would. I’ve never seen him show interest in any woman—or man for that matter. “She’s kind of quiet. Talks to Pepper every now and then at the diner. She just opened that herbalist shop. All kinds of stuff like homeopathic remedies, organic soaps and shampoos. Girl crap.” He exhales out, sounding bored, as he pushes a bill across the counter for me to sign.
I sign my name haphazardly, my thoughts—and gaze—going back to the woman. “I wonder if she would have anything for my headache.”
McKenzie raises his eyebrow. “I doubt she’s selling anything for the kind of headache you got, buddy,” he jokes. I look at him, realizing I’ve been unable to stop looking at the girl since she caught my eye, and McKenzie has my number.
I give a self-depreciating laugh as I leave. She looked young as hell—way too young for me. Still, when I step out into the cold January wind and toss the hardware purchases into my truck, I find myself walking across the road to the shop. It’s the building I was admiring earlier, and when my gaze lifts up, I finally read the sign above the entrance.
Pure and Sweet.
Shit. I shake my head, giving out a laugh, even though there’s nothing to laugh about. The woman I saw might be sweet as sugar, but no one is pure in this day and age. The door is propped open by a bucket. I frown. Maybe she thinks that will encourage people to shop with her, but in this cold-ass weather, it’s not exactly smart. I step across the threshold of the shop, chastising myself silently for being here.
A wall of heat smacks me in the face.
“Shit!” I growl. “It must be over a hundred degrees in here!” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. The redhead stands on a ladder with a screwdriver in one hand and a small flashlight in the other, appearing to be hanging a smoke detector.
“I apologize. I hoped opening the door would cool it down a little. My furnace is possessed by some demonic force from hell,” the woman answers. Her voice is soft and sweet and instantly wraps around my cock.
Damn it.
It would have been better if she sounded like a truck driver named Ernie, with a four-pack-a-day habit and smoker’s cough to boot. She offers me a sexy but shy smile, and for a minute, I’m starting to feel possessed.
God, what I wouldn’t give to see those full lips of hers wrapped around my cock.
“It’s probably the regulator,” I reply, knowing a little bit about heating and cooling units. When you’d rather not have people around you, it pays to know how to do shit on your own. “Want me to take a look?”
“Um, well, that would be great, but I hate to make you go to any trouble,” she bites her lower lip, and the action goes straight to my poor, tormented cock. This woman is doing a number on it and has no idea.
“No trouble. We can’t have you roasting the town’s population, can we?” I joke, stiltedly, trying to force my wayward dick to behave before he rips out of my jeans. I reach up for her arm, helping her off the ladder. Jesus, everything about her is perfect. Her breasts are so big I could bury my face—or my cock—in them easily. She’s got an hourglass figure that makes me want to grab her by the hips and mark them as I’m fucking her.
And her ass….
It should be illegal. I’m pretty sure the things I want to do to it are.
“Thank you,” she whispers as she gets down. I stand there and stare at her, hypnotized by her sweet face, full lips and sparkling green eyes. Her hair reminds me of burnished copper, beautiful and wavy. It’s pulled up in a ponytail by a clasp, but I’d lay odds that when she lets it down it would fall to the small of her back.
It’s the kind of hair a man can tangle his hands into.
“Jack Clayton, at your service.”
She smiles at me again, and I notice her lips are glossy. No fake color, just wet, shiny perfection that will haunt my dreams.
“Brandi Kelly. Pleased to meet you.”
Our gazes lock for a second that seems to last much longer. “Where’s your furnace?” I ask, my voice hoarse, my balls hurting.
“In the basement. Follow me.”
In that moment, I figure I’d probably follow that gorgeous redhead anywhere on earth.
CHAPTER TWO
BRANDI
I SIGH—A completely lustful sound, that thankfully was quiet, as I watch Jack work on the furnace. He’s so big and masculine. He’s the type of man I picture when I’m reading romance novels. I force my mind to think about the heating system instead. This was another one of those things I should have had checked before I bought the building. Real estate has proven to be an enigma to me. Of course, if I was completely truthful, I picked this property because of the apartment space on the top floor. It was open and airy and had so much room that it felt like a house.
I’ve learned my lesson, but it’s a little too late. I’ve spent most of the money from my mother’s life insurance to secure this place. My mom has been gone close to a year now, and I feel like I’ve been spinning my wheels trying to reestablish my life. Most of the time, I feel like I’ve paddled out into the ocean and am slowly drowning. I’ve lived in Sweetheart all of two months now, and not one thing about it has seemed to go smoothly. Preparing the shop has turned into a renovation nightmare, ordering supplies
is even worse. Heck, suppliers act as if this small town doesn’t even exist. And worse, I haven’t made a single sale yet.
Now, the furnace has gone berserk. It’s probably bad form to accept the help of a total stranger. I should have said no, I suppose. He probably regrets his offer if the way he seems to be cursing my furnace is any indication.
I probably shouldn’t stare, but when he drops down on all fours, his jeans tighten and caress his backside as he moves to get into the tight corner by the furnace. He is sexy, although not in the classical sense. He’s more rugged—all man. His face shows character and there are scars on his arms, along with one or two small ones on his face, that tell stories I want to know.
Eventually, he comes back around and stands up. Breath stutters in my chest, and I find myself licking my lips. What would it be like to have this man’s complete attention, to be the woman who was blessed to feel his arms around her as they fell asleep? I’ll never find out, but I want to.
“You have a contactor stuck on and I think maybe a bad relay. McKenzie probably has parts. I’ll be back shortly,” he announces, heading for the steps leading up to the shop, without so much as sparing me a glance. I wring my hands nervously, feeling horrible I’ve put him out.
“What if I make some coffee while you’re gone?” I offer.
He gives me a smile that makes my tummy flutter. “I wouldn’t turn a cup down,” he says.
I follow him up, and I’m not a bit ashamed to admit that I keep watching him walk away until he gets completely out of my sight. Then, I walk back to the small workroom I keep. Luckily, it’s much cooler. I have a window opened in here, plus it doesn’t have a heating vent in this room either. Looking through my coffee supplies, I skip over the hazelnut and French vanilla offerings and grab the blue can of Colombian. I don’t know for sure, but I’m almost positive Jack is the kind of man who wouldn’t be caught dead drinking “sissy” coffee.
