Rockstar Daddy (Wilder Rock #1)

by Taryn Quinn

  But I couldn’t help myself. I glanced back to see if my mystery man was following, but he was not.

  He’d probably moved on to the next girl.

  So stupid. He’d probably lost interest the moment I’d pulled back like a frightened virgin.

  Worldly. Yeah, that was me.

  I might know how to find my inner dancing queen, but the vixen half of me had yet to figure out how to play.

  I placed my hand over my midriff. Everything was still buzzing and fluttering madly. I tugged my shirt down, then smoothed my skirt. Disappointment crashed into self-preservation.

  Besides, there was no way I could test the waters with someone like that. I was better off with Jason. He was one of my temps at work. He’d been asking me out for the last three weeks. He was sweet and would undoubtedly take his time—and surely let me take mine.

  I’d been putting him off because he was my employee, but the season was officially over tomorrow. At least the Christmas season, which pretty much floated most of my business for the year. Maybe if he asked me again, I’d have to just say yes for once.

  Eyes the color of blue flame flashed into my head. Intense eyes. Hooded eyes with slashing cheekbones, giving his face arresting angles.

  A man like that didn’t seem nice. He’d take and demand.

  Damn if that didn’t give me a serious pause.

  No. I shook my head firmly—not for me. The Jasons of the world were more my speed. My fingernails dug into my palms. I couldn’t even pull Jason’s face up at the moment. Kind brown eyes…maybe? Or were they hazel?

  I straightened my shoulders and headed for the bar.

  Those damn blue eyes were sticking. I had little doubt they’d follow me into my dreams tonight. Time to find Mel and get the hell out of here. I had a huge day ahead of me tomorrow anyway.

  I could trust work.

  I understood work.

  Just one more day to get through.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Just one more day. One more party.” I’d been saying that same phrase since last night. I swapped out my battered sneakers for my suede ankle boots. One more party and I could curl into my bed and sleep for eighteen blissful hours.

  “Kay!”

  I fluffed the cowl neck of my sweater, ignoring the crazy person calling my name.

  Nothing was going to ruin today.

  I pulled out my lipstick and glossed the candy cane red across my lips.

  “Kandy Noel Kane, you answer me right now!”

  I winced. Yeah, that wasn’t good. Was there still time for me to duck out the fire escape?

  Mel pounded on the heavy door. “Kan—”

  I swung open the door. “Go down a few decibels maybe?”

  She pushed me aside, then peeked back into the hallway before slamming the doors. “I can’t. I’m going to hyperventilate.” She plastered herself against the door.

  I twisted a fat curl from my ponytail around my finger. Mel was prone to histrionics, but there was a whole lot of panic going on in her big brown eyes.

  “The ice sculpture is here, the presents for the charity raffle are under the tree, I finished the place settings myself not even an hour ago. I watched the chef make his specialty.” For the entire two hours. This was my biggest party of the season. “Nothing is going to go wrong.”

  “Yeah well, we don’t have a Santa.”

  I blinked at her. The room sort of fuzzed out of focus and a soundtrack of waves and screams crashed in my head. “I’m sorry?”

  “No—capital N, capital O—there is no Santa in the building.”

  “But Jason said he was going to be here.” It was a two-fer. I was going to make sure we had a super sweet, super jolly Santa for the party and maybe let Jason ask me out one more time.

  I was pretty sure I was going to say yes.

  Sort of.

  Maybe.

  I slumped into the black leather U-shaped chair across from the massive mahogany desk. The simple glass name plaque said Lincoln Murdock, CEO. I focused in on the name. The same man who had sent me the terse email four weeks ago.

  The email that had changed my life.

  I’d worked with his assistant after that email, but I’d never forgotten the name. Especially after a little research had me kicking up my heels yabba-dabba-doo-style.

  My tunnel vision slowly widened and Mel’s babbling came into focus.

  I held up my hand. Mel pressed her cherry red lips together, the bow at the top of her lips becoming more pronounced as she tried to contain her crazy. It was difficult, I knew. “What happened to Jason?”

  “I just told you.” She gave an exasperated growl.

  “I’m sorry. I went deaf and dumb there for a moment, because I’m sure you couldn’t have said my most reliable Santa was not showing up for the last freaking party of the year. You know, two days before Christmas. And the party where I’m paying said Santa double time.” Because we’d had two parties a day for most of the week. I pushed a shaky hand through my hair. “So please tell me why he’s not here?”

  “He eloped with the elf, Michelle.”

  “He what?” He’d asked me out three days ago.

  “It was a whirlwind or some such nonsense. They’d done six parties together and lightning struck or something stupid. I get lust—but eloping? What is wrong with people?”

  “They couldn’t elope tomorrow?”

  “It was more romantic to get married on Christmas Eve.”

  “That’s tomorrow.” I jammed my knuckle into my mouth to stop the insanity-tinged howl. I could feel it coming from somewhere south of my toes. Maybe the hell that was my life.

  It was Christmas, goddammit. Where was their Christmas spirit?

  “Evidently, they were going for a beachy wedding on Christmas Eve thing in Hawaii.”

  And here I was worried I was underpaying my people. I certainly couldn’t afford to go to Hawaii. I could get away with a pamphlet and time-share lecture maybe.

  Not that it mattered. I didn’t want to go to Hawaii. I wanted my freaking Santa here at my last party of the year.

  Not just any party. Murdock Home Stores, the largest department store in New York City besides Macy’s, had hired me to do their Christmas party this year. This would put my party planning company Kandy Kane Dreams on the map. Nothing could screw this up.

  We’d been squeaking out each month by the skin of my teeth—and savings account—for months to get to November. The Christmas season usually put me and my people in the black for at least four months. This party had guaranteed the better part of the next year.

  But not if I didn’t have a Santa for the forty-plus children who would be descending on the party in a little less than an hour. I’d be ruined faster than I’d made it.

  Okay. I could make this work.

  I had no choice.

  Blowing my bangs out of my eyes, I sighed. “Wait, does this mean I don’t have an elf either?”

  “That would be correct.”

  I closed my eyes. Breathe. In and out. I could do this.

  I reached down next to me and pulled my bag onto my lap, then reached for the little black zipper pouch I kept for emergencies.

  “This is why you’re my goddess.” Mel’s eyes were locked on my hands.

  I paused with the striped tights in my hand. “Because I keep elf stockings in my purse?”

  “No. Because you always have a Plan B.” Mel tugged out the rubber band at the end of her braid. “Now, we just have to get you all elf-ified.”

  “You know, I started my own business so I wouldn’t have to be an elf anymore.” I kicked off my red, suede ankle boots. “And we still need a Santa.”

  Mel dug out her makeup. “One disaster at a time.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “You have to make an appearance.” Parker folded his arms and leaned back in his wide, black leather chair. He was in a charcoal vest with a tasteful red noose around his neck. A white dress shirt—perfectly pressed and probably starched—wa
s buttoned all the way up, and his jacket hung off the back of his chair.

  The perfect corporate face of our company, that was my brother.

  I was the one who ended up in the warehouses when there was trouble. I liked to be more hands-on with the company. Parker preferred his numbers and spreadsheets. Handily, he was the CFO by default. Which was fine by me. I’d rather get out of the office when I could.

  As it was my office was barely used. Have laptop and iPad, would travel. Again, fine by me. I preferred to be in a monkey suit as little as possible. Honestly, I wouldn’t even be the CEO if my old man hadn’t passed away. Stress and the eternal butt spread of sitting at a desk all day had done him in.

  That was not happening to me.

  I eased to the edge of the wingback chair. My brother’s office looked more like a library than a place of business. A wall of books was all I could see beyond his large shoulders. He might be a desk jockey, but he made time for the state-of-the-art gym on the premises.

  I didn’t care if we had a superior view of Manhattan’s Sixth Ave, I didn’t want to run on a treadmill. I’d pound the miles out on the pavement until there were icicles hanging off my damn nose. Or, for the next few days, whatever hiking trails I managed to climb.

  Anything to push the blackness out of my brain.

  “I have to get to the airport.”

  “Your cabin upstate will still be there in a few hours, Lincoln.”

  I curled my fingers over the leather arms. I knew my duties as the head of the family, and the head of our fucking company. The annual Christmas party had once been my favorite part of the year.

  Once.

  For the last three years, I’d escaped after saying Merry Christmas with a wave and a smile. Our employees didn’t give a rat’s ass if I walked around the room and glad-handed everyone while carrying a glass of spiked eggnog.

  No, the only people who actually cared were my mother and Parker. Which was the only reason why I wasn’t in the air right now. I made an appearance, slapped on a tight smile, then got the fuck out.

  I stood and pushed up the sleeves of my black cashmere sweater. No suit for me. I had a date with a bottle of whiskey and the lake for the next three days. It was Casual Fuck You Christmas for this Murdock.

  A brisk knock on the door saved me from another lecture from my brother. I crossed to the door and opened it. The first thing I noticed was the short green skirt and striped red and white stockings on endless legs, ending in sky high boots in a deeper red shade. Boots that definitely did not make me think of elves even if the rest of her outfit screamed Santa’s helper.

  I immediately dragged my eyes up to her face. Too many years of sexual harassment protocols had been burned into my brain.

  “Oh God.” Her summer blue eyes were huge and her blond hair had been plaited into girlish braids, but there was no mistaking that face. Or that body.

  I saw the realization in her face as well.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets. “So is this why you ran off last night? Had to get back to Santa’s workshop?”

  Want more? Lincoln is deliciously dirty. C’mon, you know you want more…GO HERE.

  Rocked

  August 12, 12:00 PM - Food For Thought

  Harper Pruitt hauled another tray out of her seven-tiered food cart. Lunch was the big meal when it came to a rock tour. The roadies and technicians would be working right up until the 7:30 p.m. curtain time, so they needed to fuel up now. Then she and her staff would break it down and start all over for the musicians and their guests.

  Already the first wave was lined up in the doorway to the make-shift cafeteria. Pop-up tents, two dozen banquet tables, and a whirring portable air conditioner gave a brief reprieve to the outrageous heat of Alpharetta, Georgia. Honestly, how was anyone supposed to think clearly when the air was thick enough to chew?

  “C’mon, Harper. It doesn’t need to be perfect. We’re just going to demolish it anyway.”

  “You will wait until I’m ready, Randy Pruitt.” Her brother, a third generation roadie, was always first in line for food. He might be whip-skinny, but he could pack it away.

  She snapped the last of the trays over cold packs she’d designed after much of their first week had been spent cleaning up after the rapidly melting ice. No matter how hard that air conditioning unit chugged, it was still hot as hell with seventy plus bodies in the room.

  She might be low man on the cooking staff, but she had standards, dammit. She made the best lunch these idiots would ever taste. Refusing to believe that everything was wasted on the tour animals that called themselves roadies, she ignored the shuffling feet and groans behind her.

  Any man or woman that didn’t want a broken finger knew better than to rush her. She knew how to handle the burly, the grouchy, and most definitely the too friendly.

  Setting out the last tray—rolls and bread—she stepped back a good four feet, put her hands together in a mock prayer, and bowed. “You may begin.”

  And boy did they. Within eight minutes her pretty display looked more like a sad deli counter. The bed of lettuce leaves she’d used were scattered like discarded pages from a TV writer’s room during sweeps week. All but the chicken salad had been scraped clean.

  She hauled the tray out of its housing. What the heck did they have against her chicken? Unless it was slathered in jar mayo or mustard, a lot of these guys turned their noses up. Each day she tried to sneak in a little something new, believing that even roadies deserved culture—but alas, they proved her wrong again and again.

  She waved at her brother as he jammed ham and turkey into a roll—his third sandwich, thank you very much—and crammed it into his mouth on the way out the door. Randy was still young enough to be excited about the prospect of sweating over the lighting rig that had to be set up.

  It was the last leg of this particular tour. She’d graduated from culinary school and hopped on a plane the next day to work this job. She had six weeks to prove herself to Meg and Danny so they’d hire her on full time.

  “All set, Harper?”

  She blinked out of her thoughts and smiled at Mel, one of her cleanup staff. “Yeah, you can start loading up.”

  The clang of metal trays and crinkle of white paper table covers was part of her everyday symphony. Roll it out, roll it up, rinse and repeat. Crap, she was only six days into the tour and already she was tired of tuna salad and cold cuts.

  Not good.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, we’re all done for the lunch rush, but you can come ba—” She stopped mid-turn, her eyes stuck on one of the most impressive male chests she’d ever seen. And seriously, she’d seen a lot of nice ones over the years. But sweet Pete.

  Wide, firm pecs filled out a vintage Journey t-shirt with little room to spare. In fact, the faded scarab logo had little tears in it from the stretch to accommodate his toned muscles. That had to be some seriously amazing man flesh under there.

  She forced her gaze up, and up, and wow.

  He smiled, and a dimple dug into his left cheek. The slash of white teeth and the dent was bad enough but man…the eyes. Green. Middle-of-the-forest green, earthy, and cool—the kind that contact commercials promised with their too beautiful to be real colors.

  They had to be fake.

  Who had green eyes with flecks of sunlit gold in the center? Not real people, that’s who. Or…

  “Anything protein will do. I just finished up a workout, and I could sure use some fuel before soundcheck.”

  Or rock stars. Of course he was a musician. While there were a few men on staff that bumped her hotter-than-hell-meter into taking notice, the first one to put her meter into the red had to be off limits.

  “I really don’t have anything left.” She caught one tray out of the corner of her eye. “Well, I have some chicken salad left, but…”

  “That’s perfect. Chicken salad is perfect.” He crossed one arm over his drool-worthy chest and gripped his triceps, rubbing absently. A wide
tattoo stretched across his left forearm in bold, black letters that looked like they’d been through an earthquake with a teasing red devil tail wound through the letters. Oblivion.

  Holy hot.

  Nope.

  No looking, Harper Lee.

  Man, his bicep really bulged beautifully. And on the arm he gripped a flash of more black and red ink teased beneath the edges of his t-shirt sleeve. A sleeve that was seriously working hard at not ripping. That just wasn’t right. She forced her eyes up to his face and that dimple was back, deeper than ever.

  Crap. Now he was going to think she was interested. Damn, double damn, and triple crap. She snatched the ice cream scooper out of her apron and snagged one of the paper salad boats stacked up beside the plates.

  “Another scoop if that’s okay.”

  She tried to ignore the deep tone of his voice. She was such a sucker for baritones. “You don’t even know how it tastes.”

  He leaned down into her space, and she bit back a groan. He smelled like cedar chips and something fresh. The ocean? She took a giant step back. “Whoa there.”

  Unrepentant, he picked up a fork and scooped out some. “See, tastes…”

  He stopped chewing, and she winced. She’d made her own dressing, sprinkling in some balsamic for a kick to make it just a little less boring. The tender breast chunks had sucked up the vinegar. Definitely not a traditional chicken salad.

  “What is this?”

  She pulled the paper boat closer to her chest. “I think I might have some turkey—”

  “No, seriously. That’s awesome.” He took her scooper out of her limp fingers and put another two helpings on his paper boat. Then he reached around her for a few of the last few tomatoes on the veggie tray.

  “Awesome?”

  “Wow.” He shoveled another forkful into his mouth, those sharp, perfect teeth slicing through a tomato with ease. “I usually have to choke down whatever protein I can find with a Coke, but this is awesome. Can you make me this every day?”

  “That would get pretty boring.”

  “Have you tasted this?” He turned his fork out to her.

  “I made it. I taste everything before I put it out.”