Surprise Daddy Page 7

  “You're not following me, Red. I said this isn't working out. You were good to me and I didn't mean it to go down like this. But I already told you, there's too damn many skeletons in the closet. I can't have you mixed up in my business. End of story.”

  I'm still expecting hell. Daggers in her eyes, a few nasty words, even a crisp slap across the face. I'm used to being that kind of asshole – the kind who gets his way.

  Then Red shocks my world for the second time this morning. Her fingers fall on mine.

  Her touch is electric. Five soft, long little fingers on my huge paw, more innocent than they've got any business being.

  Damn it all. Doesn't she know these hands have ended lives, pulling triggers and wiring up explosions to stop terrorist wolves who'd love to do a thousand times worse?

  I want to keep dealing with the twenty-two year old who takes no shit. Not this soft-eyed, heart prodding girl with an angel's nerve. “I know Jackson started the fight. Wasn't hard to find the old articles. Whatever happened wasn't your fault, and this town hasn't been fair to you or Mia since. Let me make it up to you.”

  “Fucker threw the first punch, yeah, but I was drunk. There was plenty of blame to go around,” I growl.

  She's still staring, a gentle smile on her lips, never redder and more irresistible than they are right now. My cock awakens, quietly raging in my pants. How many levels of screwed up is it that I want to curse her out and bend her over this table simultaneously?

  Also can't figure out what the fuck she means. I'm too busy trying to stop freezing up like a deer in the headlights. I clear my throat, but the words won't come, lost in her fingers curling around mine.

  “Let me in, Marshal. Let me be your nanny. Just let me earn your trust, your money, your respect.” Lofty promises. Worst part is, she's absolutely serious. “Please. Give this a chance. How do we ever make things better if you've decided Castoff is who you really are?”

  There's no sane answer. Frankly, I'm fucking done debating, and I just want her gone. I'll throw her over my shoulder and carry her out to the car if I need to.

  I'm contemplating how best to do it when a small voice rings out behind me. “Daddy?”

  I whip around and see Mia, standing there in her pajamas, big Whiskey rubbing at her feet. The cat lets out a timely squeak, ready to have his bowl refilled for breakfast. Her eyes light up when she sees Red. Ignoring me, she runs straight to her nanny, throwing her little arms around her.

  “I missed you, honeybee! Merry Christmas.” Red looks across my little girl's shoulder. I stand without saying a word, angrily grabbing the cat food under the counter. Whiskey's bowl overflows a little as I dump a heaping portion in his dish. “Are you hungry? I'd love to fix you something to eat, once I've got the go ahead from your daddy.”

  I clip the cat food bag and throw it back where it belongs, then stand, taking a good, hard look at the scene in front of me. It's as happy as this house will ever be while Red's brother is still alive.

  Her, with her big green eyes and cinnamon hair, waiting with baited breath for my final answer.

  Mia in her arms, sweet and oblivious as ever. She chews her thumb, probably trying to decipher why I look so pissed off and confused this early in the morning.

  The cat crunches loudly in the corner. My patience is gone.

  “Make sure she gets her vegetables if you're doing omelets today, please. I have to get to work.” It comes out like sticky blood from a wound that's slow to close. I grab my coat off the empty chair before I head for the door. Only slow down to give Mia's tiny hand a squeeze with my fingers, whispering a few last bitter words. “Be good for Sadie today. I think she's brought you presents.”

  I can't fucking believe I gave in.

  I'm oily, scratched, and frustrated from having my hands up an old industrial drill press all morning. It's a quick job for a pig farmer who does carpentry in his off season.

  I'm up to my knees in more business, too. Another Harley plus a couple old trucks due later this week. I should have said fuck no before I buried myself too deep.

  I'm not rich, but it's not like I'm hurting for money with a paid off place and plenty in the bank. I worked my balls off the first few years after Mia was born.

  Taking on these odd jobs were part of the reason I second guessed. Would've had an easier time saying no to the mess in my kitchen if there wasn't so much else happening.

  Red didn't convince me. I try to tell myself that's true over and over again. Even after all her heart, her pleas, her logic, I was ready to turn her out like the stone cold bastard I think I am.

  It was Mia who threw the wrench into everything.

  I couldn't snuff out the light in my little girl's eyes, the happy stars I'm afraid are at risk of dying the older she gets, the more she experiences this fucked up world. I can't shield her forever, but for a few more weeks, trying this nanny thing against my better instincts?

  Maybe.

  And maybe I can also make Little Red Riding Hell useful in other ways.

  Despite the stalker files sitting in my ammo box, I don't have all the intel I should on my target. Red can help fill in the blanks. Tell me what time of day her brother eats, breathes, and shits. Expose an opportunity I wouldn't see otherwise to whack him, and pray to sweet chaos I get away clean.

  I'll worry about the evil, ass biting karma later. That's how this works.

  If I'm keeping her on for the next few weeks as my nanny, clearing my books to kill this asshole who murdered my men, then I'll use her to help me do it. Maybe the corrosive guilt in my bones will keep my greedy dick under control, too.

  That part, I'm sure I'll reign in. There's too many new black marks on my soul to worry how I'll handle it tonight when she's here. Sleeping under the same roof, a lonely wall away from the pent-up urges blazing in my blood.

  They're there, screaming, even now. They're blind, deaf, and dumb to violence, revenge, and intrigue. They just want to sort out the insane tension between us in a primal language I swore off since a one night stand left lifelong consequences.

  Fuck urges. I can't let it get to me again.

  I can't, and I won't.

  Because if I step on the final landmine that lands us in the same bed, this house of cards collapses.

  No itch is worth making a complicated situation fatal, no matter how fucking good it'd feel to scratch.

  5

  Happy New Year (Sadie)

  “Finish line, I win!” Mia tap dances her little blue plastic game piece across the board, flying past mine.

  “Perfect score, lucky girl. Guess I owe you a treat?” My fingers ruffle her hair before she's standing up and screaming.

  Honestly, she deserves it. I think she knows numbers better than most kids her age, and she's given me a crash course in children. Before I started this gig, I wasn't sure I'd enjoy it.

  Now, I can't imagine doing anything else with my time.

  I get up, walk over to the fridge, and retrieve a cherry-apple juice box. I also grab a tea for myself, something to wet my throat. The kitchen is extra dry this time of year, or maybe I'm just used to the high humidity mom always insists on at home for her skin.

  I reach for my phone and tap the button, illuminating its screen. Almost six o'clock.

  Marshal is late. He's usually inside fixing dinner by now, giving me a chance to make a run to my parents' house and check up on them.

  “Hey, honeybee, want to help clean up? I need to bring your daddy in before he freezes.” She nods enthusiastically and I smile again, watching as her tiny hands reach for the trivia cards, piling them back into the empty game box.

  It's New Year's Eve tomorrow. Another turn of the calendar. Possibly the year Marshal decides to treat me like a human being again.

  He's kept his distance since the morning I thought he'd turn me out. Still can't figure out what changed his mind. Haven't mustered up the courage to ask either.

  I'm here, I'm being paid, and for the first time since colleg
e, I'm doing something on my own. That means a lot. So much, maybe, it's hard to ask the burning questions.

  I shouldn't rock the boat. Just be happy.

  If only every contact with him didn't feel like Russian roulette. I'm flying blind. There's no telling what sets him off, might make him think I'm not good enough after all, and turn me back out to nowhere.

  It's ridiculous how nervous I am closing in, bundled to the brim. Winter resumed its assault after Christmas. The winds are extra frigid, especially after sunset, blowing wispy snow across the short path connecting the back door to his workshop.

  My knock sounds muffled through mittens. But it gets his attention.

  Marshal jerks the door open a second later and pulls me inside, an anxious flame in his blue eyes. “What?”

  “Thought I'd see if you're coming in to fix dinner soon. Or should I take Mia into town and grab something?”

  Marshal shakes his head, turning away. It's much warmer in here and it shows.

  He's been at it for most of the day, so long and hard he's stripped down to jeans and a tight grey muscle shirt. He's wearing a few dark blotches, the same oily smudges on his tree trunk arms, imperfections merging seamlessly with the dense, dark inks stenciled on his skin.

  Sweet Jesus. I didn't realize how tattooed he was. This is the barest I've seen him without those flannel shirts and thermal suits he wears.

  Danger echoes in my head. Every second I keep my eyes on him, there's a siren blaring louder. A warning and a slow moving heat pooling between my legs, thieving my breath away. I think it's the cost of admiring this feral, ripped, blue eyed beast.

  “You seem busy. You're sure you don't want me to just get pizza or Chinese tonight?”

  “She's met her junk food quota with Christmas. Can't you cook?”

  My blood warms, and it has nothing to do with standing close to his wood burning stove. “Didn't realize that was in the job description.”

  “Shit changes, Red. Welcome to life,” he growls, ignoring me as he stomps toward his workbench, wiping his hands on a rag. “I know there's plenty of food in the freezer. Make us something tonight?”

  I don't move. I'm not saying anything until he turns around and finally looks me in the eye. “Try again. You're missing a very important word.”

  There's a long pause. For a second, I'm worried I'll have to walk out to salvage my wounded pride, and order a pizza after all. I'm not slaving over dinner for this ungrateful beast who thinks he can bark and bring the world to his knees.

  “Please.” He sighs, bright blue eyes shifting in his face, just short of a full sarcastic roll. “Please, Red. I'm sorry this is coming out wrong. I've got the holiday weekend to wrap up this job. People get pissed if I don't get their crap back to them on time.”

  Better. But I'm still not buying his excuses.

  “I'll see what I can do,” I say quietly, mulling how far I want to test the waters. “Should I plan on food for tomorrow, too? New Year's Eve?”

  He blinks. Almost winces. I don't know why it sends a shot of guilt through my heart.

  “No. Leave that to me. I'll be done in another hour or two, and I'll put her to bed tonight. Just worry about dinner.”

  Of course. He never misses his nightly ritual. The few times I've been over late, trying to tuck the little girl in, he intervenes, telling me their story time is sacred. It would be adorable, if only his eyes weren't so scary.

  Just like now. Watching while I linger in his personal space, staring at the picture hanging on the wall. Weird because the only decorations in his house are a couple pictures of a newborn Mia sitting on his mantle.

  This is the only frame containing anything different. Four men, dressed in desert camo and laughing, a younger Marshal in the middle. His signature blue eyes stare out, missing the thick dark five o'clock shadow he wears now, smiling like I've never seen.

  “When was this?” I ask, stepping closer, nodding toward the picture. There's a darkness in his eyes, a hesitation, like the words are at the tip of his tongue but he just won't let them come.

  “When you learned it's none of your damn business, Red. Now, leave me alone. I've got a lot to finish.”

  Typical Marshal. Rude, but predictable. I turn, regretting my stupid question, wondering why I thought he'd give an answer that doesn't resemble spitting in my face.

  I take one last quick glimpse of him before wandering back into the cold, shutting his door. He's hunkered over his desk again, a wrench in his hand, but he isn't moving.

  He's staring into space, his blue eyes narrow, but full. I think he's more annoyed with himself.

  Regardless, I don't wait around to find out. I shut the door and race into the house, where Mia is wrestling Whiskey on a kitchen chair, her juice tipped over and dripping sticky red stuff on the tabby cat's tail.

  For once, I'm grateful for the mess. I'll take every distraction I can get this evening so I don't have to dwell on Marshal's haunted eyes.

  It's well over an hour before he comes in. By then, I've got Mia in her bath, dropping a few toys in the bubbles to keep her company.

  I read on my phone in the bathroom, listening to her splashing for background noise. Even Whiskey stands on the edge of the tub, giving honeybee a skeptical look every time she tries to coax him in. Nobody pays any attention to the heavy footsteps in the kitchen, the scrape of the chair, the loud stab of a fork on a plate.

  I hope he likes simple. It's chili mac tonight, one of the first things mom taught me how to make. I dressed it up as healthy as I could with lean beef, but I can't work miracles. Thank God for the salad kit I found buried in the fridge, still fresh.

  Of course, I'm not really sure why I care whether big daddy likes my cooking.

  He practically put a gun to my head and told me to make dinner, and then let me know exactly how welcome questions are in his man cave.

  Infuriating. As much as he is mysterious. I can't stop thinking about his six feet something of frustration, dipped in ink as rude as his tongue, heart as hard as the rest of him.

  I hate how my ears prick up every time he stomps around in the kitchen, devouring his food, the small TV mounted to the corner playing the evening news.

  I hate it even more how I'm halfway hoping he'll come here, giving me a chance to redeem my ego before he puts Mia down for bed.

  And I hate it most how hard it is to get his muscle shirt and savage looks out of my brain. It sticks like his bulging muscles, his smudged cheeks, his arrogant eyes a silent interrogation just for prying into His Highness' secret kingdom.

  God.

  “Ms. Sadie?” Mia clucks from the tub, poking her hands up from the bubbles laying them on the edge.

  Too adorable. I temporarily forget the grudge against her father. “Yeah, honeybee?”

  “Do I have a mommy?”

  I stop cold. An awkward smile hides the speechless, painful twist in my guts. Whatever else I was ready for tonight, it wasn't answering this kind of question.

  Hell, I don't even know how.

  “Sure you do, Mia,” I try. “You're here. Everybody born on this planet has two parents. At least starting out...”

  “Then...where is she? Why's daddy all alone?”

  My heart skips a few more beats. Crap.

  Such hard, damning questions spoken in such an innocent voice. I don't even know where to begin, even if I had the answers. After today, finding out anything from Marshal is as likely as him spontaneously discovering a conscience.

  “I...I don't know, honeybee. Ask your father. Those are big questions.” I'm being dead honest. I reach for the towel, ready to lift her out of the tub, hoping she forgets the conversation once she's dried off and dressed.

  She's very quiet as I get her ready for the night. But I figure it's just my imagination once I hear her familiar sing-song humming, just as I finish sliding on her PJs.

  Her little hand is tucked in mine when I open the bathroom door. My heart leaps into my throat and collides with a gasp.
Marshal blocks my path, his steely blue gaze a few seconds away from lighting something on fire.

  “I'll take her from here. Good dinner, Red,” he says, bending to take honeybee. I watch as they disappear into her room, and linger in the hall until I hear his deep voice soften, asking if she remembers what chapter they stopped at last night.

  Story time never had so many unanswered questions. None of them have anything to do with the mischievous genie and magic wishes he reads to her either.

  I've lost my fight. I don't want to confront him anymore over earlier, much less dig at secrets that will just piss him off more.

  Exhaustion hits in a wave. I head straight for my room and shut the door, turning out the light.

  It's cooler than ever underneath the blanket. I fall asleep still trying to get warm, half-hoping the icy silence in this house just brings peace. It certainly isn't making anybody comfortable.

  The next day is a blur. He's already in his shop before I wake up, leaving a list on the table with a few random groceries written down.

  PICK UP. PLEASE.

  At least he remembered the important word.

  Progress? Who the hell knows.

  I head out early, grabbing Mia.

  She loves being out and about, bundled up in her new purple coat. We turn a few heads in the crowded store. The people who notice us take a sixty second break from their holiday shopping sprees to stare, wondering what the hell I'm doing with the Castoff's daughter.

  I give them daggers right back, especially the ones who linger uncomfortably on the little girl.

  She doesn't deserve this, pricks. Leave her the hell alone. I keep it to myself, but barely.

  The others don't recognize us because it's too weird for them to contemplate. Or maybe they're just sucked into their own worlds.

  When we get home, he's parked at the table, a thick mug of dark roast steaming between his hands. “You got the ham like I asked?”

  I empty it onto the table, glaring as Mia crawls onto his lap. “Yeah. Ten pounds, like you asked. Seems like a lot for the three of us.”