Badd Daddy (The Badd Brothers Book 12)

by Jasinda Wilder

  Badd Daddy

  Jasinda Wilder

  Copyright © 2019 by Jasinda Wilder

  BADD DADDY: A BADD BROTHERS NOVEL

  ISBN: 978-1-948445-28-3

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations.

  Cover art copyright © 2019 Sarah Hansen.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  1

  Lucas

  “Eggshell Blue? The fuck kind of a color is that? Eggs ain’t blue, y’dumbasses.” I growled under my breath as I stood in the paint aisle at a home improvement warehouse in Ketchikan, sorting through sample books and color rings, trying to decide which color I should paint my apartment. I had my damned cane hooked over my arm while I stood half leaning against the shelf—the color samples were attached to the shelf via a length of chain, so in order to hold it and sort through it, I needed both hands. Which was damned tricky, as my leg was still weak from the accident. I couldn’t stand on both feet for too long without needing to lean against something for support. ’Course, I should be going to therapy and strengthening it, but I’m too damn lazy and stubborn for that, so I hobble along with this stupid cane like some kinda damn geriatric fuck.

  “Periwinkle. That’s not too bad, so maybe.” I was talking to myself, but I didn’t give a shit if I sounded crazy. “Electric Moonlight? Who the hell comes up with this shit?”

  A delicate, soft, musical laugh from the aisle on the other side of the shelf startled the hell out of me. “I’m actually rather partial to the Electric Moonlight shade.” The voice was as musical as the laugh.

  “Yeah, sure, it’s a nice color,” I mutter. “Name is stupider’n fuck, though.”

  I hear the click of heels coming around the endcap, and I looked up to see a fuckin’ angel—if angels came in the body of classy, svelte, sexy-ass women. This one in particular was dialed into her own brand of hotness: tall, standing five-ten or so, slender and sleek with just enough curve to her hips to make my dick stand up and take notice, breasts that looked plump and firm despite being on the smaller side; black hair cut short—angled downward from very short up in back to past her chin in front, covered with fringes and wisps and curls. On any other woman, it’d be a warning sign—an “I’d like to see the manager” haircut. On her? It just looked right. Dark eyes it looked like, but I was too far away to make out the exact shade—maybe Midnight Moonlight? She was dressed to kill, in a conservative way. Knee-length maroon skirt and a white button-down shirt with short sleeves—only the top two buttons were undone, allowing a tantalizing peek at the top of her tanned cleavage. On her feet were black flat-heeled slipper-shoe things, the kind of shoe you see chicks wearing all the time these days.

  She had a clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other, but what really caught my attention were her amazing legs.

  Not to mention a smile that made my weak leg go a little shaky.

  She clicked and swayed over to me, and extended her hand. “Olivia Goode.” Her smile brightened even more, and I swear it made me a little dizzy.

  I gave her my best grin, the one that once upon a long ago time used to melt its fair share of panties. As far as I knew her undergarments were still in place, but I did notice she wasn’t overly quick to let go of my hand, and her eyes searched mine for a bit longer than usual. She was looking up at me, which wasn’t unusual since I was nearly six-five But even she, as tall as she was, had to look up.

  “Lucas Badd,” I answered, shaking her hand—I squeezed gently, and held on until she let go.

  “A Goode and a Badd,” she quipped, smirking.

  “Whaddya know. Match made in heaven.” I grinned back at her, lifting the color samples. “There are a lotta crazy names in here.”

  She laughed, another of those musical sounds she’d made on the other side of the aisle. “Well, there are a lot of different shades of blue, Lucas. You can’t call them all just plain old blue, can you?” She indicated the various hues of blue with a sweep of a purple-painted fingernail. “These are all blue, but if you want your room to be eggshell, that’s a much different feel than if you painted it Electric Moonlight.”

  I growled in annoyance. “I don’t know what the hell I want. All I know is I’m painting my apartment and I was thinking blue. I come in here and find a billion and a half different colors of blue, and I got no clue what to do now.”

  “Well, what kind of general feel and aesthetic are you going for you in your space?” She tilted her head to one side and popped her hip out, twirling her pen around her finger and hugging her clipboard against her chest.

  “My what?”

  She gestured at the colors with her pen. “Like I said, different shades have different feels. They’ll inspire a different overall emotional tone just from the light in the room. Eggshell is more uplifting and lighthearted, whereas Electric Moonlight is more inspiring and energetic.” She gestured at another shade, darker than the others. “This one—well, it would be interesting as an accent wall, but I certainly wouldn’t do a whole room in it.”

  I frowned. “Accent wall?”

  She held back a smirk. “What does your place look like at the moment?”

  I scratched my head with the handle of my cane. “Uh. I guess you might call it…spartan.”

  Yeah. Go with that. Heh.

  She seemed to interpret this correctly, judging by the amusement on her beautiful face. “By which I assume you mean white walls, no pictures or paintings, and little if any furniture?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  She looked at me for a moment, assessing. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

  “Uh. I dunno.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What kind of person are you?”

  I snickered. “How the hell’m I s’posed to answer that? Jesus. What kind of person am I?” I smacked my cane down to the ground. “I’m a lonely, cranky, grumpy old fart from the ass-end of Oklahoma with no patience for silly girly colors on my walls.”

  She nodded. “I see. So you’ll want something masculine, but still soothing.” Her smile was gentle, but teasing. “Try to balance out all that crankiness and grumpiness.”

  “Good luck with that,” I grumbled.

  She laughed—and yet again, the pure musicality of the sound of her laugh sent some kind of electrifying jolt through me. “You really do have the grouch act down pat, don’t you?”

  I glared at her. “Who’s acting?”

  She smirked, and patted my shoulder; the electric jolt shivered south. “I think there’s a soft old teddy bear in there somewhere.”

  I harrumphed. “Yeah, well, you got two words right at least—old and bear.”

  She only laughed all the more. “I could add a third word to that: si
lly. And then I could call you Pooh.”

  I took me a full thirty seconds to process the fact that she’d just compared me to Winnie the Pooh. “Number one, I wear fuckin’ pants. Whoever decided cartoon animals should wear shirts and no pants, or pants and no shirt needs to get their damn head checked. Second, that stupid bear was a fat-ass moron. Gettin’ stuck in the hole of his own damn house like some tubby bitch. Rookie move.”

  If I’d thought vulgarity would push her away, I was wrong.

  She just laughed until she had to wipe tears from her eyes. “Oh my. Oh my! You’re funny, Lucas. I’ve never thought of Winnie the Pooh that way.” Her eyes narrowed a bit. “Funny that you know that much about Winnie the Pooh, though.”

  I waved a hand. “Got three grown boys. Triplets. I had like three movies when they were growin’ up, and Winnie the Pooh was one of ’em . They wore the damn tape out.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Triplets, huh?” She sighed. “They must’ve kept you busy.”

  I guffawed, slapping my all-too-generous gut. “Olivia, you got no clue. Hellions don’t even begin to describe ’em. Hellraisers. And truth be told, they still are.”

  “Are they here? In Ketchikan?”

  I nodded, suppressing a growl. “Yep. They’re the reason I’m here, actually. But that’s a whole different story.”

  She seized on that, her eyes narrowing, one thin perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching. “And?”

  I couldn’t help a laugh. “Yeah. Let me just pile that awful mess on you within five damn minutes of meeting you. I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

  She wiggled her hips saucily. “Oooh, you called me ‘sweetheart.’ I feel special.” Even the sarcasm dripping from her voice couldn’t douse the sparks that lit in me at that little hip wiggle.

  “You are absolutely the only woman I’ve ever called sweetheart,” I said, holding up my index and middle finger. “Scout’s honor.”

  She cackled. “That’s not even the Scout symbol.”

  “Exactly.”

  She stuck out her lower lip. “So you mean I’m not special?”

  Oh god—she was just playing along, but that lower lip. Damn. “Dammit woman, now you’ve gone too far.”

  She blinked at me in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  I laughed. “That lower lip sticking out. Ain’t fair.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was just playing along, Lucas.”

  I shook my head and scoffed. “So was I, Olivia.”

  “My friends call me Liv,” she said.

  “Are we friends already?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Well sure.” She smirked. “If you take me to your apartment.”

  I coughed, choking on my own shock. “Uh—what?”

  She laughed, leaning into me, patting my shoulder, and then handing me a business card. “I’m an interior designer. I can help you decorate.”

  I frowned at her. “Out of the goodness of your heart, huh?”

  She winked at me—and it came across as cute and sarcastic and flirty, rather than sultry. Still hot, though. “Nope. I just need a design challenge.”

  I huffed. “Well. You’ll have a challenge, that’s for damn sure.”

  She tapped her notes on the clipboard with a fingernail. “I’m about done here. I just need to decide between two kinds of flooring for my client’s kitchen.”

  “What are the two choices?”

  She led the way to the flooring aisle, going right for the composite selection. Lifting a dark gray wood grain sample in one hand, and a pale tan bamboo replica material in the other, she glanced at me. “What do you think?”

  I rolled a shoulder. “Guess it depends.”

  “Cabinets will be white, stainless steel pulls to match the appliances.”

  “I mean, I don’t know shit about design. I just know the darker stuff,” I tap the selection in question, “is more durable. Less likely to get damaged, and the waterproofing on it is better. Although, if it does get scratched or dinged hard enough to show, it’s more noticeable.”

  She shot me a quizzical look. “I’ve asked three different employees here about this stuff and no one told me that.”

  I dug in my back pocket, pulled out the tag that identified me as an employee, and clipped it to my belt. “I get in trouble sometimes, because I tend to tell more of the truth than I should to sell the more expensive products. I just got no patience for bullshit.”

  “You work here?”

  I nodded. “Yep. I usually work the open shifts, or I close the shop. I’m rarely here in the middle of the day.”

  She nodded, understanding dawning on her face. “Ah. That explains why I’ve never seen you here. I’m only here during the afternoons. I tend to look at my clients’ spaces in the mornings, draw up designs right before lunch, and then shop for materials after lunch.”

  “And I’m always gone by lunch,” I added, leaning heavily on my cane. “Old men need their naps.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “You’re not old.”

  I laughed. “I ain’t pretending, Liv.”

  “Come on, now. You can’t be more than forty-five.”

  I outright cackled in disgruntled amusement. “That’s almost an insult.”

  She jotted down the item number of the gray composite flooring, and then glanced at me curiously. “How do you figure?”

  I patted my generous belly, scratched the liberal gray in my shaggy, unkempt beard. “If I’m forty-five, I ain’t aged well at all.” I laughed again. “Shit, girl, I ain’t aged well for sixty-two, which is my real age.”

  She stopped mid stride and stared at me. “You are not.”

  I shook my head. “Why are you trying to butter me up, buttercup?”

  “Do you think you look old?” she pressed, the sweetness of her smile taking some of the sting of the deeply probing question away.

  “Feel old, sometimes,” I said, dodging.

  She rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t the question.”

  I waved my hand, hating this whole line of conversation for more reasons than I cared to think about. “Anyone ever tell you you’re nosy?”

  She snorted. “All the time.” She sighed, a wistful, aching sound. “My husband used to tell me I was nosier than Pinocchio at a liar’s convention.”

  I stumbled and had to catch myself heavily on my cane. “Goddamned cane. Goddamn gimpy-ass leg,” I muttered under my breath. “You’re married?”

  She nodded. “Twenty-five years.” She patted my shoulder when I hesitated—I refused to be the other man, no matter what, even if it was nothing but innocent talk. “He passed away three years ago.”

  I wiggled the rubber end of my cane against her linoleum floor sample, scratching at a nick in the wood grain with my thumbnail. “I…sorry to hear that.”

  We walked in silence up to the register. Bill Hickham, behind the register, greeted Olivia by name, and she related her needs—several gallons of paint in a color to match a sample she handed him, thirty-six cabinet pulls to match the one she set on the counter, six boxes of flooring under the item number she read to him…the list went on for nearly two minutes.

  I stared at her. “Interior designer, or general contractor?”

  She laughed. “I choose and order the supplies to make sure it’s exactly right. In my experience, if you tell a contractor exactly which product you want him to use, he’ll get almost the right thing, and will usually either get the wrong thing by accident, or figure he knows better. So I order the quantity and specific items myself, see that it gets delivered on time and, that way, the project stays on target in terms of time and budget, and my client gets the exact look I designed.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like you don’t have a lot of faith in contractors.”

  “I have faith in the ones I hire, because they trust me to choose and supply the best products for the job, and I trust them to build things properly, to code, and not cut corners.” Her eyes went to my cane, which I’d hung off the counter while she was
working with Bill to get everything ordered. “Bad knee?”

  “Something like that,” I mumbled.

  Bill, at least twenty years older than me and yet somehow sprier, grinned at me. “Finally pick a paint for your place, Lucas?”

  I growled. “No.”

  Bill guffawed, slapping the counter. “You never will, you indecisive old grouch.” He glanced at Olivia, grinning. “He comes in every week on his day off, stares at the paint samples for twenty minutes or so, and then leaves without making a decision. Been going on for nearly two months now.”

  “It has not,” I snapped. “And whaddayou know, anyway? You’re so old, you remember when Alaska was still a territory.”

  He just laughed. “Territory? I was old when Alaska was owned by the Russians.”

  Olivia scoffed. “You two should be nice to each other.”

  Bill’s laugh was caustic. “He ain’t been nice a day in his life.”

  “Like you’d know,” I murmured.

  Bill arched a white eyebrow. “I knew your Pa. I helped him dig the trench to get you guys your electricity in that old place up off of Ward Creek.”

  I gave Bill a glare—hoping he would get the message. He oughta know better than to bring up the past.

  Bill just cackled, knowing he’d pissed me off. He just waved a hand at us. “Go on, kids. Get outta here. Liv, most of your order oughta be here by the end of next week.” Then he turned to me. “If you ever decide on a paint, let me know. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably pick black, just to match your soul.”

  Before I could reply Olivia was ready with a response. “Don’t worry, Bill, he’s got me as his designer, now. I’ll help him choose a nice color. Something to lighten him up a bit.”

  Bill looked impressed. “Good for you, Lucas. You’ve got the best designer in Ketchikan, our girl Liv.” He made a face. “Didn’t think you’d be able to afford her, not on what we make here.”