Hot Daddy: A Billionaire Single Dad Romance

by R. R. Banks

  “Hi, Daddy,” he says.

  “How did you sleep last night, champ?”

  “Good.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I start taking things off the tray and set them down in front of him. His eyes grow wide when he sees the chocolate chip waffles topped with freshly made whipped cream.

  “Miss Delia made these special for you,” I say. “They look delicious, don't they?”

  He nods eagerly as I pour some syrup over the top of the waffles and then cut them up into smaller pieces for him. I give him a grin and take a bite of his breakfast, rolling my eyes and groaning with pleasure.

  “These are so good,” I say. “I may have to eat them all myself.”

  “No, Daddy!” he squeals.

  Handing him the fork, I watch as he digs in, rolling his eyes and mimicking the sounds I made. I laugh out loud and hand him a glass of milk to wash it all down. He takes it in both hands and takes a long drink, letting out a loud burp when he sets the glass back on the table.

  “What do we say?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at him.

  “Excuse me,” he says.

  “Very good.”

  He happily munches away on his waffles for a few minutes before looking up at me.

  “What is it, buddy?” I ask.

  “Can we go to the zoo today?” he asks. “I want to see the animals.”

  “Oh, I can't today, Nicholas,” I say. “I really want to and think it would be a lot of fun. But Daddy has to go meet with Uncle Kendrick today. It's about work.”

  Nicholas nods and gives me a small smile, but I can see the disappointment in his face, plain as day. It's a look that kills me a little inside because I know exactly how it feels. And it sucks. He's too young to understand things like work and obligations. All he knows is that Daddy doesn't have the time to hang out with him.

  Miss Delia's words come back to me, ringing through my mind. As I got older, I understood what my father was doing and why he didn't have a lot of time for me. I learned about obligations and responsibilities – not that I was always the best at those things. In fact, I'm still not the best at them, but I'm trying.

  But when I was younger I sure didn't understand those concepts. All I knew was that my dad wasn't around as often as I would have liked. And for a while, I wondered if he just didn't like me enough to hang around with me. It's stupid to think about now. The childish thoughts of a kid. But to me, they were all too real back then.

  And I don't want Nicholas to ever feel like that. I don't ever want him to question the fact that I love him and would love to spend more time with him. But I'm scared. Scared I'm going to screw something up with Nicholas. Scared I'll never be a good father. Scared I'll never be a decent man. I know I can be selfish. Impetuous. Impertinent. And while those qualities may play well on the party circuit, they don't exactly lend themselves well to being a good parent.

  I'm absolutely torn and conflicted between wanting to still play the rich kid, being out there doing stupid, frivolous things – and wanting to be a good man and better father. These are thoughts I keep to myself though and I don't dare discuss them with anybody.

  This is one of those things I'm just going to have to figure out on my own. I'm going to have to reconcile the two halves of my mind and find a way to be okay with it.

  I want to believe what Miss Delia said. Want to believe that I can be a good man and a good father. But in that moment, as I look at my sweet, innocent boy, I'm having my doubts. And I fear that maybe Miss Delia's giving me far too much credit.

  Chapter Six

  “Brady, good to see you, son,” Kendrick's voice booms as I step into his office. “It's been a minute.”

  I nod and give him a big smile as I shake his hand. “That it has.”

  Kendrick has been a part of my family's fabric for as long as I can remember – I grew up calling him Uncle Kendrick. He was my father's lawyer when he started Keating Technologies all those years ago. He helped oversee my father's empire as it grew and expanded – and now he's my lawyer as well.

  I trust Kendrick with pretty much everything in my life. He's a good man who's an absolute straight shooter. He'll tell me how it is, not what he thinks I want to hear. He's always been that way. It's what my father appreciated about him and what I appreciate about him as well.

  Kendrick looks like he just walked out of central casting for a film looking for a Texan. He's pretty much what you think of when you think of Texans. He's big – easily six-foot-three – broad in the shoulders, thick in the chest. Although, he's starting to get a little bigger around the midsection – something I never fail to rib him about. He's got a neatly trimmed white beard, a larger than life, loud and boisterous personality, always wears snakeskin boots and is never without his white Stetson. Ever. I'm half-convinced he sleeps in it.

  If he wasn't a lawyer – and a damn good one – I have little doubt he'd own a ranch somewhere and be raising cattle or something. He's just Texas through and through.

  Kendrick's desk is a massive oaken monstrosity that he's inordinately fond of. He said it was recovered from the Alamo after the big fight there, but I've always thought that was more just a tall tale than anything – Kendrick does like to tell stories.

  I drop down into the big, plush chair in front of his desk and put my black Stetson on the other seat. He's standing at the sideboard in his office and opens the small refrigerator set to the side of it.

  “Beer?” Kendrick asks.

  I glance at my watch and grin. “It's not even noon yet, Kendrick.”

  He nods. “You're right,” he says. “Bourbon.”

  He pours two tumblers of bourbon for us and hands me one before walking around the oak monster and dropping down into the chair behind his desk. The wall behind his chair is nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, giving me a perfect view of the San Antonio skyline. And in the distance, I can see the tall glass building that bears my father's name – my name.

  I take a small sip of the bourbon and nod. “The good stuff,” I say.

  “Have you ever known me to drink the cheap stuff?” he scoffs. “Son, there are two things I take very seriously in life – good bourbon and good football.”

  I take another swallow and shake my head. “Well, at least your bourbon is good.”

  Kendrick takes a long pull of his drink and shakes his head. “Yeah, that was a tough one last Sunday,” he said. “That Atlanta team is pretty good.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And this San Antonio team is pretty bad.”

  “Well,” he says. “It's a young team. Lot of potential. Room to grow.”

  “Which is a nice way of saying, they suck,” I say. “Euphemisms and platitudes don't become you, Uncle Kendrick.”

  Kendrick laughs, his big, booming voice filling the room. “Fair enough,” he says. “I just know how serious you are about your Copperheads. I think you might even outdo me on that score.”

  “I only wish Dempsey was as serious about the team.”

  He sighs. “He's made some – questionable – moves,” he says. “I can see he's trying to get the team younger though. Develop some home-grown talent –”

  “Which would be great if he were drafting anybody worth a damn,” I say. “But he's taking second and third-tier guys that nobody else was going to touch.”

  Sitting there recounting my conversation with Dempsey is firing me up again. His arrogant and condescending attitude is entirely infuriating and makes me want to punch something. I half-expected him to pat me on the head and tell me to 'run along now' at the end of our meeting the other day.

  But I'm not here to talk football. Not directly, anyway. Kendrick set the meeting because he has something else running through that big brain of his.

  “You didn't call me in to talk about the Copperheads,” I say. “So, what's on your mind?”

  He sighs big and leans back in his chair, tipping his hat back on his head. “You're twenty-eight now, kid,” he says.

  I smil
e. “I am,” I say. “I'm staring the big three-oh in the face.”

  Kendrick nods. “Yeah, that you are.”

  He falls silent and just stares at me as if waiting for me to figure out his meaning. I take a sip of my drink and lean back in my own seat, starting back at him. I know what he's after – what he's going to say – he's called me in here for the same song and dance every year since my folks died. It's a conversation I don't particularly enjoy having – and he knows it.

  But, as the executor of my parent's estate, it's his job to have the talk with me, so I play my role. For the most part.

  After a moment, he chuckles and shakes his head.

  “It's a shame you don't play cards, kid,” he says. “You've got a hell of a poker face.”

  “Well, maybe I'll surprise you and show up to your monthly game.”

  He guffaws. “Oh, I don't want to play with you, kid,” he says. “You'll take me to the cleaners.”

  I finish my drink and set my glass on the corner of the desk. “I know why I'm here, Kendrick,” I say. “And the situation hasn't changed yet.”

  He strokes his beard and nods thoughtfully. “Nobody even piquing your interest, kid?”

  “Not really, no.”

  He sighs. “You're starting to run out of time,” he says. “You know that, right?”

  “I've got two years, Kendrick,” I say. “That's more than enough time.”

  Kendrick laughs. “I forget sometimes that you kids today don't take much time to shop around.”

  I shrug. “I figure that when I find the right one, I'll know.”

  “And if you don't?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. “Find the right one?”

  “I will,” I say. “I just haven't been looking all that hard yet.”

  Kendrick leans forward and clasps his hands on the top of his desk. He looks at me for a long moment – much in the way I imagine a doctor would look at somebody right before telling them they have six months to live.

  “Now, I don't want to come off sounding harsh, kid,” Kendrick says. “I want you to know that I think of you like a son and that I only have your best interests at heart.”

  Kendrick isn't one to soft-shoe or preface much of anything he says. His lack of filter is one of the things I admire about him. Which makes the fact that he is soft shoeing and prefacing his comments a little worrisome to me.

  “I would never think otherwise, Kendrick,” I say. “Say what you have to say, hoss.”

  He nods. “Okay then,” he says. “I need you to start taking this seriously.”

  I cock my head. “I do take it seriously.”

  “Do you?”

  He pins me to my seat with that steely gaze of his – a look I was sure struck the fear of God into many a witness in the courtroom during his trial days. I shift in my seat uncomfortably and clear my throat, doing my best to hold his gaze – and failing badly.

  The truth of the matter is that I'm not taking it as seriously as I should. I know it. But I hate the fact that I have to jump through the hoops being required of me to claim my inheritance. Although my parents loved me – and loved Nicholas – more than life itself, they were worried about my life choices. While not disappointed in me exactly, they were concerned about me straying off onto the wrong path. Living life as a non-stop party, rather than having solid morals, ethics, and priorities.

  If there was one thing my parents taught me – drilled into my head actually – it was the importance of putting in an honest day's work as well as how vital it is to have my priorities – as well as my head – straight. They knew that as the only son of a family that was worth billions and owned half of San Antonio, that it would be all too easy to waste my life on the non-stop party circuit.

  And after Nicholas was born, they began to worry even more that I was headed down the wrong path. They wanted to ensure that I set a good example for my son and that I valued the right things – hard work and family.

  They thought that I might need a little guidance on the road to responsibility, which is why before they died, they re-structured their estate and tied my inheritance to a set of conditions. Right now, I receive a generous monthly stipend to live on. It's not a fortune, but it's enough to keep me and Nicholas pretty well off. It's a stipend that will continue in perpetuity – so long as KT remains a viable company – if I don't satisfy the requirements of their estate.

  And those requirements are utterly life changing.

  By the time I'm thirty, to receive my full inheritance, I will need to be married. My parents believed in the stability of a two-parent home. And it was their belief that a child benefitted more from having two loving parents. I don't necessarily agree – I know plenty of successful people who come from single parent families. But then, I don't really get a say in this.

  The second condition is that by my thirtieth birthday, in addition to being married, I will also need to assume my role as the CEO of Keating Technologies – or KT, as we usually call it. They expect me – like my father before me – to learn the company from the ground up. To be intimately familiar with all of its different divisions and what each branch of the company does.

  The problem is, I'm not my father. That man was brilliant and took a genuine interest in all sorts of things – things that bore me to tears. He was a man ahead of his time and a giant in the world of technology. But I'm not that guy. I'm not that smart. I mean, I'm not an idiot. I'm smart enough to know what I do well – and don't do well. And technological things are most definitely not in my wheelhouse. Not even close.

  I sigh. “I do take it seriously, Kendrick,” I say. “But I don't know that I'll be able to satisfy the requirements of the estate. I'm just not my father. My passions aren't the same. And neither is the way my brain works. My father could look at some piece of equipment and more or less take it apart and rebuild it all again to make it better with nothing more than a box of tools. He invented some gadgets that are incredibly cool – but are also things I don't understand.”

  “I think you underestimate yourself, kid,” he says. “You sell yourself short.”

  I shake my head. “I don't though,” I say. “I know what I'm good at and what I'm not good at.”

  Kendrick looks at me and strokes his beard again. “And, in your estimation,” he says, “what are your strengths and your weaknesses?”

  “I just told you, that I'm not mechanically or technologically inclined,” I say. “I didn't inherit that gene from my dad. And I know if I take over KT, it is going to fail because I don't understand three-quarters of what it is they do there. And that isn't what I want to happen to the company my father built. That's not the legacy I want to leave behind – the man who destroyed his family's empire.”

  Kendrick laughed and shook his head – which irritated me a bit. There I am, baring my soul to the man, and he laughs?

  “I'm sorry, kid,” he says. “I don't mean to laugh. I really don't. But please, go ahead. I understand your weaknesses. Tell me your strengths.”

  I grin at him. “Am I on a job interview here, Kendrick?”

  He gives me a small shrug. “Not at all,” he says. “I'm just curious. Strengths, kid. What are they?”

  “Honestly? Football,” I say. “I know the game inside and out. I sure as hell know it a lot better than Rick goddamn Dempsey. I could turn the Copperheads around and make them a winning organization again a hell of a lot sooner than Dempsey could.”

  Kendrick leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers as he looks at me. “Know what I see when I look at you, kid?”

  “This should be good,” I say with a grin. “Tell me. What do you see, hoss?”

  “I see a man who has the world on his shoulders,” he says. “A man who thinks he has to do everything on his own. And a man who's terrified of that burden. Of that responsibility.”

  “I don't know that I'd say I'm terrified –”

  “I would,” he replies. “Kid, when I look at you, I see a man who is trying so damn hard to live
up to his parent's legacy. To try and fit into their shoes. To be perfect. But here's a news flash, son – it ain't ever gonna happen. You'll never be perfect and you'll never fit into their shoes.”

  “That's comforting, thanks.”

  “But here's the thing,” he went on, “you don't have to be. And you shouldn't kill yourself trying to be. You can only control what you can control – and what you can control is you and what you do well.”

  “What is it with people and the motivational pep-talks today?” I ask and smile.

  “Maybe it's because some of us see the potential in you, kid,” he says. “Potential you obviously don't see right now.”

  “Thanks, Kendrick,” I say after a long moment.

  He sighs and leans back in his seat again. “There is, of course, the practical aspect of all of this,” he says. “I unfortunately have to remind you that if you fail to satisfy the obligations of the estate as they're laid out, while you'll continue to receive your monthly stipend, control of Keating Technologies, will pass to your sister –”

  “Half-sister,” I correct him.

  “Half-sister,” he says. “Tiffany Greene.”

  I sigh. Tiffany was the product of my father's one – indiscretion. He screwed up. And to his credit, he'd be the first person to tell you that. He told my mother right after his drunken one-nighter with a cocktail waitress in Dallas and begged for her forgiveness. It took some time – and a lot of couples counseling – but they were able to put it behind them.

  Not that they didn't still have their rocky moments now and again. Especially after Tiffany came along. My father provided for her, but because he'd chosen to stay with my mother and me, Tiffany's mother became bitter and poisoned my half-sister against him. Tiffany grew up loathing my father, and now that he was gone, that contempt has apparently transferred to me.

  I know that she's next in line to inherit the throne of the Keating Technologies empire and I think because she's second in line, rather than a co-equal partner with me perhaps, it's only added fuel to her hatred. She sees me as a rival, not as family.