DADDY ISSUES: A SINGLE DAD ROMANCE

by Morris, Liv

  I’d picked up the card and read it. Speech Modification/American Accent Training Center. I couldn’t believe it. My slight southern twang had offended her. I was an American, dammit!

  I had looked at the woman and shook my head, telling her I had no desire to work for a business that couldn’t accept me for who I was, then flung the card back at her. My aim had been terrible—spot on if I had been trying to be a bitch, which hadn’t been my intention—hitting her in the middle of her forehead. I’d thought she was going to throw me out of her office, but she’d adjusted her undamaged hair and had blinked her eyes before calmly asking me to reconsider. She explained I would deal with clients on the phone who expected a—she lifted her hands and air quoted—“professional” quality in their speech.

  I had no idea who she quoted. Maybe the head of the company? In the end, it didn’t really matter. I rose up from my chair, marched out of her office, and left the door wide open. I didn’t spend one more second in her presence.

  I was glad I left when I did. I preferred being in the presence of the handsome guy ordering coffee. He was by far the most smoking hot man I’d observed suited up or down in the city. I pulled out my phone to try to sneak a photo of him. I wanted to have proof he existed to show Tessa later.

  I was smiling to myself, thinking I was so clever, when I looked up and saw him staring right at me. Then he glanced down at my phone and his eyes tightened. When our eyes met again, I nearly jumped at the coldness in them. He glared at me as he walked my way.

  Yikes, it didn’t take someone with a “true” American accent to know he was not happy. I stuffed my phone away and kept my head down as he approached the wait-for-your-name-to-be-called area. For some strange reason, I felt a pressing charge in the air, probably from the guy’s simmering anger sending out hate beams. I lifted my head a bit and caught the sight of his suit covered legs and shiny designer shoes. He was mere inches away, so I slid a couple feet into the crowd of people waiting closer to the counter, hoping to isolate myself from him. I was too anxious and embarrassed to peer up and find him still mad.

  Minutes ticked by way too slowly. All I wanted to do was grab my latte and go.

  Hurry up already.

  I tapped a heel on the floor and remembered I needed to change into my flats before hitting the subway. I moved closer to the counter, seeking out a few square inches of free space. I dug in my purse, removing a single flat from my bag. Gingerly, I balanced on one leg while I removed my heel from my airborne foot and slid on my comfy flats. Easy peasy—until someone next to me brushed against my arm. It was a slight touch, but enough to rock my steady stance and send me backward.

  I lost my connection to the solid surface of the counter before my dangling foot reached the floor, then I began to swing my arms in the air. The next thing I knew, the stiletto was flying out of my hand to God only knew where.

  “Ahhh,” I cried out in a long, helpless breath as I closed my eyes and prepared to meet the floor. Before I made impact, someone caught me under my arms.

  My downward motion coming to an abrupt stop, I blew a few stray hairs out of my face and gazed up to see who kept me from crashing flat on my back.

  Well, well. Mr. Armani was even hotter close up and upside down. The way his nostrils flared told me he wasn’t over my camera incident.

  5

  Lucas

  The grinding coffee machine went silent, and the normal buzz of people milling around the shop had stopped. The quiet prickled against my skin. I knew every pair of eyes in the place was aimed in our direction.

  Our direction.

  I didn’t like the word “our.” It meant there was a “we,” and I had no clue who this woman was. Scratch that. I’d seen enough to know a few things about her. She was prone to public displays of anger and mumbling and took unsuspecting people’s photos like the paparazzi.

  I studied her face as she gazed up at me. Creamy skin the sun had hardly ever touched. Full red lips that sent a man’s mind to sinful places. A fan of thick black lashes blinking at me, but her jade eyes were her most riveting feature. They gleamed with a vibrant energy, making her a person one couldn’t easily forget. She was a delectable temptation wrapped up in a beautiful young package, and I needed to get the hell away from her.

  “Hey, man. Are you going to help her up?” a man’s voice asked me from somewhere nearby. The corner of the green-eyed beauty’s mouth tipped up in a crooked smile.

  “Yeah.” My Ivy League professors would have been so proud of my reply.

  When I pulled her up to a standing position, she was facing away from me. As she turned my direction, she hobbled up and down, a spikey-heeled shoe on one foot and a flat on the other. She ended up standing on the foot without the heeled shoe which made me tower above her petite frame. She cocked her head back to look me in the eye.

  “Thanks, stranger.” She smiled, straightening her hair and readjusting the bag strapped over her shoulder. “You might’ve saved my life. People die from falls like this. Kurt Vonnegut, for instance—one of my favorite writers. You’ve heard of him, right?”

  “Slaughterhouse-Five.” I nodded, amused at this woman’s zigzagging brain. Her train of thought, mixed with her looks, could make a man dizzy. “He wrote about socialist philosophies.”

  She flung a hand to her hip, which made her jacket open wide, exposing a thin white top with a laced edge. I tried not to let my eyes drift to her exposed cleavage, but from where I stood, I had an eagle-eye view down her top. Luscious mounds of snow-white skin were hard to ignore, so I didn’t. No man could, unless he batted for the other team, and even then, he might have to admire their perfection.

  “Excuse me. Eyes up here, please.” She tapped her forehead. I had to give her credit for calling out my ogling, though I’d likely do it again within the next minute…maybe less. She narrowed her green gaze at me and took a deep breath. I prepared for a long stream of words to flow out of her pillowy lips.

  “Typical capitalist answer.” She flung her hands in the air like she was giving up on me. Fine by me, but she wasn’t done. “Have you ever heard of Jesus?”

  What?

  “Are you kidding me?” I shook my head, wondering if my ears had stopped working.

  I had no idea what trail this woman’s mind was following. Perhaps the one that led to the psych ward at Bellevue.

  I side-eyed the counter, wondering if my coffee was ready yet. Surely, it didn’t take this long to make one of those cappuccinos. Instead of hearing my name, a guy called Thad took his cup of what looked like dessert. The drink had whipped cream on top with swirls of caramel laced over it. Disgusting.

  “Back to Kurt and Jesus.” Apparently, she was on a first-name basis with the author, which meant I’d pushed a personal button. And who mentioned Him on Wall Street outside of swearing? “Kurt called himself a ‘Christ-loving atheist.’ He appreciated The Beatitude’s, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit’ and so on. I think he liked Jesus because he was a champion for the underdog. You know, he stood up for hookers and sick people. What do you think?”

  Jesus Christ. That was a direct call out to the man for help more than a curse. She was like a dog chasing its own tail. I needed to steer her back on track. Get her to focus, if that was possible. Truth was, I wanted a couple more peeks down her shirt.

  I blamed all my lusty motivations on getting kicked out of Sunday school in sixth grade. Pressuring the nun to explain the word “virgin” didn’t go over so well.

  “Wait a second.” I held up my hand, and like magic, she stopped talking. “Let’s go back to why you mentioned Kurt Vonnegut in the first place.”

  “Oh, right.” She pulled her jacket together and buttoned it in strategic places, ending my vision of paradise. Dammit. “It’s a horrible story. He fell in his home, right here in New York City, and died from head injuries. Thus, you saved my life. Probably.”

  “Then you owe me a favor.”

  “Wow. Save a girl’s life and you expect…wh
at, a quick tryst in the bathroom?” She waggled her brows and pointed to the lone restroom in the corner.

  “Not that kind of favor for fuck’s sake,” I muttered the f-word under my breath for only her to hear.

  This woman was exasperating. Though, I couldn’t remember the last time I had a conversation with the opposite sex that wasn’t predictable and sane. And boring.

  “My bad.” She inched closer to me and circled her finger in the air, signaling she wanted me to spill it.

  “Delete the photo you took of me.”

  “I admit I wanted a photo of you, but only to show my best friend and prove I saw the hottest guy in Manhattan.” She glanced to the side as a pink blush washed over her face. “I didn’t get a chance, though. You looked over and caught me in action. Here, check my phone.”

  She wobbled side to side on her mismatched shoes as she dug a phone from her bag and handed it to me.

  I pressed the screen and saw it was locked. “Password protected.”

  “Two. Zero. One. Five. It’s an important date.”

  “You really shouldn’t give that out to strangers. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

  “As if. I don’t think you’re going to steal anything from me. From the look of your cufflinks, you could buy Apple.”

  “Observant. Listen, here’s your phone back. I believe you.” I had a question to ask her, though. “Two thousand fifteen. Let me guess. Is that the year you graduated from college?”

  “Try high school.”

  Shit. She had to be twenty-three, tops, which made our age difference fourteen years. I took a step back, and she tilted her head.

  “Peaches. Herb,” a barista called out. One of them was finally mine.

  “That’s me,” we both said at the same time.

  “Your name is Peaches?”

  “Your name is Herb?” Again, we spoke together, with one exception: she laughed as she tried to say my name. I got it. The stereotypical Herb was probably a computer programmer who taped his broken glasses together.

  “My middle name is Herbert, Herb for short.” My explanation did nothing to stop her laughter.

  I grabbed my coffee cup, ready to leave her and this place behind. I moved away from the counter and headed toward the door, feeling a tug on my jacket. I turned around and it was her, all sad green eyes and pouty lips. So much for taking a day off and escaping the crazy of this world; instead, I ran head-on into the leader of the nuthouse.

  “I’m not laughing at your name, I swear. Though, I’d imagined a more Wall Street one like Maximus or Arthur. It’s our names together. Haven’t you heard of Peaches & Herb? The seventies disco duet.”

  I blinked at her a few times.

  “Shake your groove thing, shake your groove thing,” she sang, wiggling her hips as she imitated the words in a seductive Shakira fashion. Great. She had amazing moves. It wasn’t a guess where my mind went next.

  Truth was, I remembered my mother playing this song one weekend when I was home from boarding school. She’d asked me how things were going with the girls. I’d told her I sucked at dancing. Coming to my rescue, she’d said I needed to find my “groove thing” and taught me how to dance to the song this wild girl was singing in public. I would expect this behavior closer to Broadway, not next to the stock exchange.

  “I’ve heard of them.” Her face transformed from a frown to a bright smile.

  “What are the chances we would meet like this?” Her eyes beamed up at me with stars in them.

  Probably one in a trillion. Lucky me.

  6

  Maggie

  Poor Herb’s face didn’t show the same excitement I felt about meeting in such a happenstance way. Like I literally fell into his arms, then looked up to see him staring back down at me. It had to be some kind of lover’s fate. Though, with his gruff, Eeyore-like demeanor, I couldn’t imagine him being moved by such romantic notions. And he worked on Wall Street, where money is earned and lost in a heartbeat. That kind of whirlwind would make a person tamp down their emotions. In his case, maybe all of them, including happiness.

  “I’m sure this kind of thing happens everyday in New York. Like, tomorrow, someone named Ike will meet Tina in a midtown Starbucks, or maybe a Sonny will spill coffee on a Cher on the Upper East Side.”

  Bad news. He didn’t even crack a slight smile at my joke.

  “Listen, I haven’t taken a day off in years. I’m sure you’re a nice…” His eyes raked over me a couple times.

  I held my breath, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he rubbed a hand over his delicious jaw and sighed. When he looked into my eyes again, I saw hesitation in his icy blues. I wondered when he’d last done something spontaneous and lived a little.

  I had to play my cards right here. Because when does a drop-dead gorgeous man worthy of a Times Square billboard actually carry on a conversation with me? Never. I didn’t want our interaction to end, but I couldn’t come across as desperate to keep him talking to me either. Pretty sure that move would be a definite turn off.

  Inspiration hit as I wondered about his upbringing. It had to be proper with the way he carried himself.

  “Would you mind holding my bag?” I held my tote out to him, and he took it before answering my question.

  Bingo. I found his weakness. He kept me from falling flat on my butt and took my bag without thought. His mother had taught him well. Deep down, under his wool and silk armor, he was a true gentleman.

  I set my coffee cup on an empty, pub-height table. Herb could’ve easily placed the bag on the table and escaped my clutches, but he didn’t. I couldn’t suppress my smile.

  I glanced down, hoping he wouldn’t notice the big grin on my face, and saw my goofy shoes. I needed to change into matching ones. Then it dawned on me. I was missing something that cost me a small fortune on my underemployed salary: the partner to my Marc Jacobs stilettos that flew out of my hand when I fell.

  “Oh my God, Herb. It’s gone.”

  “What are you talking about?” Herb would be scratching his head if he wasn’t holding his coffee and my tote.

  “Anyone see where my shoe landed?” All eyes turned toward me as I ignored my deep-rooted southern manners and used my outside voice. “It’s a black Marc Jacobs. Four-inch heel.”

  From behind the counter, a barista waved his hand at me. I wanted to run toward him, but I had two shoes on that didn’t match. I ended up doing a horrible two-legged limp jog.

  “I found it in the sink.” The barista held up my lost stiletto, looking no worse for the wear.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” I gushed as he handed the shoe to me over the counter.

  “I wiped off the water for you. It should be good to go.” The barista gave me a wink and acted like he didn’t have other orders to fill. His sly smirk and gaze down my body gave me the feeling he’d like to work on me when his shift ended. I thanked him again and backed away. I had a hot suit waiting for me.

  Wobbling back to Herb, I noticed he was holding my flat in his hand. He must’ve reached into my bag and pulled it out like Prince Charming returning Cinderella’s lost slipper. Miraculously, I didn’t swoon.

  Also, it felt like a win that he didn’t scoot out the door as soon as I’d walked away to get my missing heel. Admittedly, I was a lot to handle for most people. Add a sexy guy talking to me, and I bordered on being a public nuisance. I blamed it on a hormonal reaction to testosterone that was beyond my control. Pure science. Tessa called me boy crazy. It was a hard thing to deny.

  “Herb, were you digging in my purse?” I teased, and he huffed.

  “I’ve had enough of you falling and probably dying for one day.” I swore the corner of his lip tipped a smidge.

  Did I somehow reach behind this grump’s hard exterior? Not one to press my luck, I played it cool and took the shoe without making a fuss.

  “I don’t want to die on a Wednesday. I’d rather meet my maker on a Sunday. Then I’d throw a last weekend ce
lebration with one less Monday morning to endure. Make sense?”

  This time, he did scratch his head. Not a good sign. Since I forgot the “be chill” part, I tried basic denial and pretended those words didn’t blurt out of my mouth.

  I wiggled my rear onto a pub stool and changed out my stiletto for a flat. Going for broke, I patted the seat next to me, hoping he’d take the hint. And holy heck, it worked. He folded his tall frame down onto the stool, his long legs extending under the table to the other side of the base. I wondered if his feet hung over the end of the bed at night. A girl would be lucky to find out.

  He was sitting so close; I caught the scent of his cologne. I closed my eyes as the smell filled my lungs. I wanted to remember it—and him. The chances of meeting an older, refined man like him again were next to zero. The aroma was woodsy, like an old desk polished with a mix of leather and musk. I wanted to sink my teeth into him. He smelled divine.

  I opened my dreamy girl eyes to find him staring at me, searching my face. I bit my lip and shrugged. How did you explain trying to absorb someone’s smell without sounding like a lunatic? I kept my mouth closed.

  “You know, I’ve never met someone like you.”

  “First time I’ve heard that.” We both laughed at my lie.

  His small chuckle felt like a major breakthrough for a contained guy like him. I affected him, and he let me see it. A warm flush rushed over my skin. My lust was hitting nuclear levels. I wanted to slide into his suit pocket and let him take me home, but with a hot guy like him, I’d probably never want to leave. Yeah, I was schoolgirl crushing over him hard.

  7

  Lucas

  “I’m curious…” I paused, rubbing my chin to make her stew for a moment. My plan failed. This woman seized on the silence quicker than a cat chasing a mouse—the mouse being me.