by Lena Little
Bossy Daddy
Yes, Daddy: Book 2
Lena Little
© 2020 by Lena Little
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Also by Lena Little
Preview
I’m looking for a way to break into the art world. But I’m also looking for the piece of me that’s been missing all my life.
My dad.
What I didn’t expect was to find him.
When he tells me I need to follow his rules. I fight him.
But when he punished me for not following his rules I find what I didn’t know I was looking for.
My Bossy Daddy.
Mailing List
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1
Scarlett
“Obedience is not an option at this firm. My firm,” he snaps.
I flex my quads until they’re as hard as the marble floors beneath me as I try to get my knees to lock so they’ll stop shaking. As my heart slams into my ribcage like a hummingbird on speed I feel a cold beat of sweat stream from my temple and taste the saltiness of the perspiration which gravity is pulling from my upper lip.
I swallow hard and breathe in deep, vowing not to let my voice crack, or my facade along with it.
“There was a scheduling mix-up at the temp agency, Mr. Steele,” I plead.
“That’s sir to you,” he shoots back, my supplication for forgiveness and understanding falling on deaf ears.
He’s built like a brick wall in a tailored suit and there’s nothing I can do to get through, around, or over him…which does nothing to explain why my thoughts drift to being underneath him. Although I’ve never ingested anything harder than aspirin in my life, I’m suddenly drunk on arousal and high on fear.
His head cocks to one side as his questioning eyes narrow. There was a storm brewing behind those tornado-gray eyes threatening to sweep me off my feet.
“I came as soon as they contacted me, sir,” I implore.
Just as I brace myself, preparing to flinch as he unleashes a lecture on taking responsibility and being told my interview is over before it’s even begun, I watch as his entire body absorbs the word ‘sir’ as if it were an oasis in the middle of the desert. His eyes close just a little too slowly and remain closed a tad too long to be considered a blink. All the while his nostrils flare as he inhales my reply right out of the air, that one singular word hitting him not only in the chest, but visibly in the groin of his Italian handmade slacks, which quickly stretch to the limits of their thread count.
His eyes snap back open and he violently shakes his head from side to side just enough to catch it.
“Your work samples. Show them to me,” he orders.
My clammy left hand reaches across my body, fumbling with the buckles of the satchel I picked up at Goodwill for a buck. Clutching it to the side of my body as if my life depends on it, only makes it more difficult to open so I can present my work for his almost certain disapproval.
“Today, Ms. Jones.”
Despite my short, jerky movements and slippery grip, I manage to open the top flap and my fidgety hand lands on my Trapper Keeper. I bite my lower lip as I flip open the velcro top and yank it from inside my pleather business bag in one motion, the plastic binder from my childhood and its contents spilling across the floor.
I lurch forward for the contents, my hands bracing my fall as I quickly fumble with the mess I’ve made, jamming my work samples back inside as I attempt to stand like Bambi trying to stand for the first time.
My hand shoots out, offering the best of what I can do to my potential employer.
His dark gaze remains locked on me, my body heat is quickly turning his office into a sauna as he looks on, his lips press tight and he slowly shakes his head from side to side before sighing audibly.
“Bring them. To me.”
I take a stiff step forward feeling the hair on the nape of my neck lift and my shoulders tighten, my mind pleading with my body to get a hold of myself.
His oversized hand rises and calmly accepts my offering, daggers still flying from his eyes to mine, before he frustratedly throws me the lifeline I need.
“Sit down, Ms. Jones.”
“I’d prefer to stand, sir,” I counter, no clue where those words came from. Was it my unconscious trying to protect me from my complete lack of experience navigating high polished flooring with heels on, or was it my backbone making its presence finally heard?
“Did I ask you what you preferred?”
Silence cloaks the room for what seems an eternity before the sound of ice cubes ricocheting off the side of the crystal tumbler glass in his hand which isn’t gripping my life’s work causes me to jump. He swirls the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler glass before tipping it back in one smooth motion as if it comes as naturally as breathing, or scaring the wits out of up and coming artists new to the Miami design scene such as myself.
Most people come to Miami to be discovered or to be seen. The rest of us come here to hide, overpopulated cities allowing us to blend right in without ever fitting in, which remains a constant struggle for introverts like me.
And as much as I want to stand right now, including stand my ground, the introvert in me eyes that boxy deep chair with unusable armrests the same height as the back and it calls out to me like a three-sided bunker to momentarily retreat from this verbal and emotional onslaught while I regroup.
After all, I’m not trying to make enemies in Miami like my dad did, and wind up six feet under, following in his footsteps.
I keep my head high, even though my tail is tucked between my legs, as I move as confidently as I can to the chair. At this point I’m more concerned with the crack in my armor showing, and that it won’t just show the fear he’s instilled in me, but also the desire. My body was reacting to him the same way my eyes do to food when I enter the ice cream section of the grocery store on an empty stomach after a long day.
His eyes don’t leave me until my backside finds the plush seat of the chair. Apparently not only does his mouth like giving orders left and right, but his heated gaze likes to look one up and down until said orders are fulfilled.
His attention turns to my juvenile Trapper Keeper as he opens it and flips through the loose pages, his face expressionless.
When he comes across one piece I’m especially proud of I take the opportunity to try and humanize an interaction that up to this point feels about as vibrant as a morgue.
“That one—“
“Needs a lot of work,” he interjects, his harsh reply cutting me off so quickly it’s almost as if he could predict what I was about to say.
His hand juts out toward me, alerting me that he’s seen enough while the fingertips of his other hand cascade across the top of his high-polish oak desk in succession, and my mind flashes to an image of those long digits of his wrapping around my neck one by one as he orders me to do things to him I’ve never dreamed of doing to a man.
But his disinterested body language, in both my work and me as a person occupying his precious time and space, which he’s clearly telegraphed is much to valuable for the likes of someone like me, brings me to the point where I have nothing to lose.
“I realize you’ve had a long day in your penthouse office interviewing under-qualified applicants who will clearly leave you unsatisfied in their ability to meet your unachievable expectations or ability to adequately praise you over the course of the sixteen-hour days you will demand of them, despite their lack of trying. Life in the ivory tower clearly isn’t what it used to be I guess, especially for the older generation who hasn’t properly grasped the Internet and inspired trust in their team members, we don’t call them subordinates anymore by the way, allowing them to flourish from home in ways washed up old men like yourself can’t comprehend as you continue holding onto the past. Now, if you’re done harassing me, can you please validate my parking ticket so the nineteen dollar a day sardine can with unlimited mileage car I rented to drive across four states so I could be graced with your angelic presence can at least avoid added insult to this injury you’ve tried to dish out? Despite being jobless and homeless, I actually wouldn’t have minded paying exorbitant parking fees to visit such rarified South Beach air if I would have at least been able a few seconds to take in the view, but all I’ve noticed at this lofty height is that the stench of the smells coming out of the manhole covers back down on the sidewalk where the peasants such as myself wallow in the mud for the occasional truffle, seem more dignified than the condor’s nest you so call home, watching the lesser species below in your attempt to feast on the less-fortunate in the form of lowball wages so you, like so many other blood-thirsty sharks in suits, can continue profiting from the exploration of the world’s true creators and artists.”
A jolt of pride shoots through me, and I mentally pat myself on my back for keeping my Kindle Unlimited subscription paid in full despite facing more than challenging economic uncertainties. This interaction, although brief, was the longest I’ve had with another human since my mom passed, and despite her many shortcomings I will always love her, especially as she’s the one who taught me to read which keeps my mind at least reasonably sharp and my snark locked and loaded for times just like these.
I have no idea where all this strength just came from, but I’m going to get out of here as quickly as I can, before I start second-guessing myself. I stand abruptly, ready to snatch my work from the hands of this tyrant. Like most men in my life, he seems to see me as a walking, talking headache and I’m not about to add punching bag to that list, whether verbal or physical. If this prick was hungry for my pain, well he will just have to keep starving.
My suddenly assured steps beeline me to him and I grab my Trapper Keeper, jerking my hand back toward my body, but the binder doesn’t budge.
“This is how you think you can talk to me?”
This time it’s my eyes that narrow and my lips that press together as I give him a look that lets him know this is over. And I’m not even going to dignify the aggravation he’s caused with a response.
“You’ll regret saying that.”
I already do, as just like that my confidence fades, realizing just how strong of a grip this singular man has over the art world, and any chances of my future employment in it.
A beat passes before he calmly continues. “I believe in authority and obedience, and respect by everyone underneath me. And as a successful businessman, and owner of the company which bears my name, not to mention the very building where you are standing, I demand control.” He pauses. “Sixteen hour days? I’ve logged that many hours by four p.m. most days of the week, including weekends. See, entitled young brats like yourself read an Internet article or two from some self-entitled trust fund kid who's been coddled their entire life and told they were the best at everything, only to come here and find they can’t cut it in the real world. I demand the best, and I lead from the front.”
My mouth falls open, both in awe and in preparation to argue, but I quickly clap it shut, thinking better than to leave it open and allow him the gratification of the verbal judo he just cut me in half with, or to argue.
“And that, little girl, is why your obedience is non-negotiable.”
Little girl?
Those two little words, two seemingly innocuous words that weren’t a title nor exactly a put down for my lack of experience, cause something inside me to stir. A feeling, something I can’t quite put my thumb on yet there’s something in my groin that could sure use a few strokes of my thumb right now in response to the feeling those two words are giving me.
I remain silent, which coincidentally speaks volumes louder than anything I could voice at that moment.
Mr. Steele leans forward, his forehead just inches from mine and the scent of his musky, masculine fury causes me to feel light-headed.
“Young lady, I want you to listen to me,” he begins, as my head tilts down and away but his cat-like reactions are too quick, the calloused tip of his index finger finding my jaw and lifting my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. “I believe that for some reason unbeknownst to either of us, maybe divine intervention for all I know, you were thrown into my life today. Like you, I’m an artist. I don’t live in a world of science, but in a world of emotions and feelings and despite my apparent lack of displaying either ninety-nine percent of my time on this earth, I am lead by what I feel. And I feel inside me, I know, that I can be the best thing that ever happened to you. But for me to be the best I can be for you, you need to trust me. Always. Can you do that for me?”
In like a lion and out like a lamb. The question is, is this some sort of sudden change of heart to lure me into a trap?
Or was this big game about to be the prized head on my wall?
Regardless of the push-pull happening between us, the change of pace from a bull in a china shop to a caring, dare I say paternal figure I never had, catches me off guard and I can do nothing but nod in reply, despite the fact that we both know I don’t trust him.
Which only made it more arousing.
His back straightens as his finger slides away from my chin, the rough surface surprising me from a man in a suit costing well into the four-figure range.
“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. My office. Don’t be late.”
I nod again, not trusting my voice one bit.
“I’m serious. Don’t test me on this. It’s for your own good.”
I pivot on my heel, figuring it’s best to get out while I’m ahead, and apparently now gainfully employed.
I clear the reception area and luckily find an elevator ready and waiting, despite being on the top floor.
As soon as I step inside and the door closes I let out an exhale that I didn’t know I was holding, and a majority of the tightness in my chest fades with it.
There are roller coaster rides longer than the amount of time I was in that man’s office, but I can guarantee none take your breath away like that adventure just did.
My heart is racing, and I remember the old saying that rumors run marathons in small communities, the high brow art world being no exception.
Now I was one step closer to finding out if the rumor that had been circulating had any weight to it, because word on the street was that if anyone knew anything about my dad’s death it was Mr. Steele, or sir, as he wished to be called.
And I had the unsettling feeling that sir would be only one of the titles this man would demand I call him.
I wasn’t sure what else, but I knew there would be more. The only question was, would I accept?
2
Silas
I pace the length of my office, my hands behind my back. When I reach the row of expensive whiskey bottles I brush my fingers across their tops.
I only have that bar here for guests, never to partake myself.
Until today.
The moment I saw her face in the reception area on my CCTV there was a certain recognition, a moment where
I just knew this girl was so much more than just a job applicant.
She’s mine.
It’s a thought that’s never crossed my mind in all my thirty-nine years. I’m not even one for dating, at all. I have no time and no interest, as witnessed by the unopened invite to tonight’s black tie affair to be hosted in some swanky rooftop lounge in Brickell, the wealthiest district of Miami.
There’s a possessiveness over this girl that’s growing inside of me. It’s new, unlike any pull to another human being I’ve ever felt. Although the thought of having children has never once crossed my mind, suddenly there’s something paternal going on inside me. There’s a growing feeling that she belongs to me, and I want everything good and wonderful in the world for her. And I want to be the one who drops it at her feet, right in front of the glass slipper that I already know fits her and only her.
I barely know her, yet I’d fight to the death to protect this girl. My girl.
When it comes to her background I’m already behind, and I want to learn everything there is to know about her as quickly as possible. Not just the good, but also the bad. It’s not that I want to judge her or don’t trust her, it’s that I want to know the bad things in her life so I can search them out and destroy them.
My phone lights up with the caller ID from the temp agency, and I lunge for the receiver, wanting to make sure I claim her before any other company where she may have interviewed has the opportunity.
