Dark Daddy Valentine

by Tilly Pope

  Her mouth drops open. “I, uhm, I’m not sure. I just need some sleep. And you’re making too much noise!”

  Sleep. Huh. Pretty sure she needs a hangover remedy stat. I might as well call this. Because I’m too interested to find out where this will go next. I gesture to John.

  He ambles my direction, his expression confused.

  “I need you to call this off.”

  “Right now?” He seems stunned and I can feel him deflating.

  “No loss of wages. I’ll pay up for the day. I just need to give my friend here some peace and quiet. We’ll start up again tomorrow at ten am.” I’m staring at her and she nods, her wide blue eyes stunned. It’s as if she can’t believe I’m doing this for her. Her wavy blonde hair tumbles forward as she lowers her chin a bit.

  “Are you sure, boss?” I know Don’s dreams of a bonus are slipping away before his very eyes, but I’m not an asshole. I’ll pay the promised bonus if I’m the reason the goal can’t be met. If they continue to impress, I’ll reward them.

  “I’m sure.” Confirming is just a formality at this point.

  He glares at the young woman staring at me, but I don’t give a damn what he thinks or how he feels.

  “You’re really calling them off?” Victory and confusion shine bright in her lovely blue eyes and I nod.

  “For the day. They’ll be back tomorrow at ten am.” It’s a warning and a promise. She better not pull something like this tomorrow.

  “Okay.” She nods her head, her wide eyes on me. And I know I have her. Hook, line, and sinker. But what am I going to do with her? Throw her back?

  “Thank you.” She seems grateful and I nod my head at her as the construction crew pulls out for the day.

  I don’t give a damn, as long as they hurry up. I’m going to focus on this new woman and try to figure her out. She’s hot, sure, but she’s missing key markers I look for in potential mates. Key markers that might just disqualify her from my bedroom.

  She seems off balance and I wonder what that means. As her arms tighten around herself, she draws attention to her ample breasts and I wonder if it’s a ploy to draw my attention. I’m not an idiot. I know how most women think. And the way she barreled in here, attitude blazing and expectations clear, I can only imagine what kind of woman she is.

  But she seems genuinely surprised that I called off the crew. So maybe I misjudged her.

  I turn to her. “Hair of the dog? Bloody Mary?”

  She stares up at me, her wide eyes filled with confusion. So I take some pity on her. I’m not an asshole after all.

  “I can tell you’re hung over.” I leave out the part about watching her stumble in drunk at four am with her roommate. They’d been responsible; they’d come home in a cab. And alone, too, I might add.

  No one-night stands like I used to do far too often when I was younger and had just come into my money. And I can only imagine how much easier it is for beautiful young women to come home with random guys at the end of the night.

  “It’s one pm.” A hint of a smile toys at the corners of her lips.

  I lift a shoulder. “Bloody Mary is my hangover remedy.” I’m not calling her out, but I do want her to know that I know she’s hung over. And I called off my guys anyway. I know she’s not sick. But like I said, I’m not an asshole. As long as this is a onetime thing—the part where I lose money and call off my guys, at least—I’m fine accommodating her needs.

  “Oh, really?” she smiles at me and I can tell she’s considering my offer. Her eyes fly across my face and over my features before skipping down my chest, my arms and tracing down toward the front of my pants.

  I know exactly what she’s thinking—would she fuck me?

  And I know the answer. Even though she hasn’t answered, I know she’s going to tell me yes. Maybe she’s more my type than I was willing to give her credit for.

  Sure, some markers are missing. But not all of them. And as she flips her hair and glances at me out of the corners of her eyes, I’m struck. She’s like a sweet Tinkerbelle, but feisty. There’s an attitude to her petite frame. A go get ‘em and give ‘em hell attitude I find cute, endearing and scary as fuck all at once.

  Something inside tells me that, if I’m smart, I’ll run like hell before I lose control. Something else counters that she’s exactly what I need right now.

  I offer her my hand. “I’m Kane.”

  She takes it, her blue eyes sparkling. “Stacy.”

  I file her name away for later. Stacy. I like it. It’s as spicy on the tongue as her attitude. I’m going to have fun with her. And she has no idea.

  But she’s going to find out.

  And soon.

  3

  Stacy

  And here I expected to bring home some hot construction worker. Maybe.

  Okay, in all honesty, I didn’t really expect that to happen. More like I’d hoped it would happen. Instead, I find a super-hot older man offering me a Bloody Mary.

  But there are a few things wrong with this idea.

  1. He’s my… our neighbor.

  2. He’s older than I am. If I had to guess, I’d say mid-thirties. At least ten years older than me, if not more.

  And 3. I’m a hot freaking mess.

  There’s something strangely intoxicating about him. Nothing I can quantify or measure, but it’s there. I can feel it. Smell it in his spicy, warm, masculine cologne that reminds me of man and whiskey. I can feel it in the heat rolling off of him. Bells are ringing in my head. Warning me that if I get tangled in his web, I won’t come out whole—or the same—afterwards.

  But it’s too tempting.

  “A Bloody Mary?” I wrinkle my nose at him. I’ve never had one, but I know its tomato and something. I’m all for fruity drinks or shooting straight whiskey, tequila, or rum. A Bloody Mary is neither fruity nor a straight shot, so it’s never even entered my mind.

  Until now.

  He nods and leans in closer as if imparting some great secret to me while we watch the crew pack up to leave. “It’s a hangover miracle cure. For me, at least.”

  The guy is hot. Short, dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. A traditional handsomeness that screams old money and danger. I’d guess him to be Italian and the easy way he stands with his arms crossed and his gaze seeing everything tells me there’s more to him than meets the eye.

  And I want to know what that is. What better way than taking him up on his offer?

  But do I want a Bloody Mary? My stomach recoils a bit at the thought of more alcohol and I belch slightly. The taste of stale alcohol and bile warn me not to drink much more. But I’m bulletproof and alcohol proof. Maybe even fireproof. I mean, I’ve never tried, so it’s not impossible.

  “That sounds great.” I blink at him, praying I’m not a total mess. I didn’t even glance in the mirror at myself. I half-heartedly washed my face, but I know how after an all-nighter partying, the bags under my eyes must be atrocious. So I just hope I don’t look like death reincarnate.

  And who knows? Maybe his hangover remedy has some validity to it. It’s not like I’ve tried it and can say for sure it works—or doesn’t.

  Without warning, he slips his hand in mine. Our fingers lace so naturally my breath catches. He’s warm and calloused in just the right way and my stomach twists up in knots, but not sick ones this time.

  He leads me up the front pathway to his oversized wooden front door and I follow, almost like I’m in a trance.

  Along his neckline the dark, close clip of his hair screams precision. This is a man that knows what he likes. What he wants. And he’s leading me into his home like a lamb to slaughter. Okay, maybe that’s an over-the-top description, but can I really say it’s an incorrect one?

  He glances over his shoulder at me and says, “Want some toast? Something to eat? Advil?”

  I lift a shoulder. For some unknown reason, I trust the guy. If he says it’ll work, I’ll try it. Inside his incredible home, I find he’s simply larger than life. He not only
fills the space, but he commands it too.

  “Thank you for this.” I’m not just thanking him for the offer of a Bloody Mary and the possibility of a hangover cure, but for being a nice guy. He actually called off the construction workers.

  I wonder why he called them off. Just to be nice to me? Yeah, I don’t think so. I bet he wants to fuck.

  “You’re very welcome.” He gives me an easy smile over his shoulder. He seems genuine, so maybe I’m just overthinking.

  His full lips drag my attention to them and I wonder what they’d feel like on my mouth. The thought of fucking him heats me up. My cheeks sting and I can’t help but wonder what kind of lover he’d be.

  Something flutters low in my belly and I study the line of his broad shoulders, the corded curve of his neck, the careful cut of his hair. He’s not a small guy. He’s not Jason Momoa or the Rock, but he’s tall. At least six foot plus.

  We move through his kitchen and I’m in awe of his home. It’s been modernized, unlike Viv’s. And it’s freaking beautiful. But we keep going and find ourselves at the fully stocked bar. He’s quick to step behind the handmade, beautiful wooden slab of the bar top. A moment later, he’s making drinks with a skilled hand and shoves a celery stalk into a glass of thick, red drink and shoves it toward me.

  “Cheers.” He lifts his glass, but I realize he put all the extras in mine and his looks like straight whiskey.

  “Cheers.” I lift my glass and touch the rim of mine to his before taking a sip. It’s actually really, really good and my stomach doesn’t even seem to mind as he swallows all of his in one gulp.

  “I’m not always like this, you know.” I lift my eyes to his.

  “Like what?” He seems confused as he lowers his glass onto the wooden slab.

  I watch the easy motion of his hands and imagine those long fingers inside me, scrubbing my g-spot as skilled as he makes cocktails. I bet he’s an awesome lover. My cheeks sting red hot and I take a nibble of the celery. It changes the taste of the drink and I take another sip.

  “I’m not like a party animal or anything.” It’s the truth, not that I expect him to believe me.

  “And?” There’s something so easy in the way he says it I feel comfortable talking to him.

  I stare into my drink. “And what? Anyway, I have to work tomorrow.”

  He settles down on a stool on the opposite side of the bar and leans in close to me. His beefy forearm draws my attention and I stare as he speaks. “So what do you do?”

  With that, he reaches over and pours himself another.

  “I work at the Blue Lagoon Spa. I have the day off today. Wanted to sleep before your construction crew woke me up.” I sip on my Bloody Mary and continue, “We got so drunk last night. Like, wasted.” Why am I telling him this? “Viv and I do this thing where we pretend we’re only into each another. Just to keep the creeps away. If they think they can’t score, they don’t bother.” Saying it out loud makes it sound so sleazy.

  “Ah, the lesbian couple. Keeps you from coming home with strangers.”

  He sounds…oddly proud.

  “Exactly.” I nod and take another sip of my drink. I’ve decided I like the Bloody Mary and I might have to have another one. As my bravery grows, I wonder if he’s judging me.

  “So you went out, got wasted, acted like lovers so guys would leave you alone. All because you don’t know what you’re doing with your life.” His summation nailed my night so perfectly all I do is nod.

  Yep. I’m a hot fucking mess.

  “I’ve done worse. So I’m not judging.”

  I jerk my head up and stare at him.

  But he’s not done talking. “And I saw you ladies get in at four am. You took a cab home. Which is pretty damn responsible.”

  It’s my rule. I refuse to drive to the clubs just to remove the possibility of driving drunk. “Thanks.” He sounds prouder of me, and it’s a strange feeling that’s making me all warm and fuzzy inside. Like… turned on warm and fuzzy. What is wrong with me? Am I so desperate for positive attention that I’m going to gush on anyone that doesn’t put me down?

  Confused, I finish my drink and set the heavy glass down. With my fingers wrapped around the glass, I spin it on the bottom rim, watching the last drop of thick, tomato-y liquid slowly travel to the edge.

  “I’m proud of you for being so responsible.” His thick, gravelly voice tugs my attention from the last drop of drink. I meet his dark gaze and am instantly caught like an insect in a spider’s web. Heat bubbles up in me and my lips part.

  His gaze lowers to my lips and then drops lower. I realize my robe is gaping open and I push my chest forward instinctively. A flash of heat fills me and I wish he’d do more than look.

  Sucking in a hot breath, I feel heat fill my cheeks as he drags his gaze back up to meet mine.

  “So, uh, what’s with the construction?” I need to bring attention back to the fact that we’re strangers before something else happens. Because the way he’s staring at me has me breathless and turned on.

  “They’re working on an addition.” His nonchalant attitude tells me there’s more to the story than he’s letting on.

  “What kind of addition?” I glance around the place. If it’s anything like Viv’s place, it doesn’t need anything added.

  He deftly dodges my question and picks up my glass. “Another?” He arches a challenging eyebrow at me.

  I stare at him, then nod. It’s not upsetting my stomach and I like it. Why not? “Yes, please.” I’ll drink whatever he gives me.

  “So what do you at work?” he asks, artfully steering the conversation away from the construction. I recognize his ploy, but I’m just hung over enough—or drunk enough—to let it slide.

  “Nothing much, just make sure the clientele have what they need. Clean up, do laundry. Just a basic go to for everything.” I meet his dark stare and snort-laugh. “I’m not a trust fund baby. I moved in with my BFF Vivian after her grandma died and left her the house.”

  He leans forward, I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Do you have what you need?”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I need him to either fuck me or send me packing. My stomach clenches. I change the subject quickly. “So what do you do?”

  “I work over at Velvet Underground Videogames.” His casual tone puts me more on edge. Here he is—a mere video game tech, to hear him tell it—living in this neighborhood? There’s clearly more going on than he’s saying.

  I mean, people don’t live in this block because they work at a video game company. But then again, I live here because my best friend’s grandmother passed away and left her granddaughter the house?

  My story is complex; I don’t doubt his is too.

  That must be why my heart is doing flips in my chest and my breath seems frozen in my paralyzed chest when he gives me that intense, soul-searching glance.

  I watch him deftly mix my drink and pour it into the glass. As he places it in front of me, I bring the rim to my lips and tip it back. And I notice that he’s not drinking more.

  He lifts a shoulder slightly. “It keeps the lights on.”

  I scan the place and let out a low whistle. “That’s one way of thinking about it.” There are so many questions I want to ask, but they’re not polite. I might not have been raised with money, but I was raised with manners.

  I gulp my drink, finishing nearly half of it in one long pull. Then I meet his gaze. “You’ve got me all wrong, you know.”

  He eyes me a moment but says nothing.

  So I plow forward. “I’m not a good girl. I came over here hoping to run into some hot construction worker to take home.” Something in me is screaming to shut up, to stop. Before I can keep talking, he chuckles.

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t distract them. I’m paying good money for them to work and get this job finished.”

  4

  Kane

  I shake my head. I’m trying to figure this girl out. There’s more to her than I give her credit for. Cl
early, she’s a good girl with some issues. But is she trying to undermine herself in my eyes? And if she is, why?

  “What are you paying penance for?” I’m no psychologist, but I understand people enough to know she’s self-sabotaging. And there’s a reason. There’s always a reason. I’m curious what her reason is.

  “Penance?” Her lovely eyes cloud over.

  I sigh. There’s an obvious age gap between us, not that that matters to me. But her lack of world knowledge is a bit alarming. “Paying penance is a religious act—”

  “I know what it means.” She shakes her head and finishes her drink in two swift gulps. Her delicate throat works in a way that drives me mad and my fist balls the drying towel I’m still holding.

  The cup thunks on the heavy oak bar. “I’m just wondering why you think I’m paying penance. All I did was tell you the truth.” Her blue eyes meet mine. “I’m not the good girl you think I am.”

  “Because you wanted to find comfort in a stranger’s arms?” I’m pushing. I want to find out what makes this girl tick. Because with every passing second, she’s having more of an effect on me.

  She snorts. “Comfort? You make it sound so romantic. I wanted to get laid. I deserve a good hard fuck for not bringing home a stranger last night.”

  Her words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut and her eyes flick to mine like she’s waiting for my response. My cock pulses and I silently talk my body down. I plant both elbows on the bar and lean in so close I can see the smudged dark circles of makeup under her eyes. She really is a beauty.

  “So…you enjoy being a bad girl.” It’s posed as a question, but it’s a statement rolling off my lips.

  Her eyes widen and her lips part slightly at my low, nearly threatening tone of voice. I can smell her dampness and know she’s as turned on as I am. She swallows hard, the muscles in her throat flexing and relaxing as her eyes stay locked on mine.

  “Maybe.” Her voice is a whisper.