Hot Daddy: A Billionaire Single Dad Romance

by R. R. Banks

  I strap on my helmet and slip my mouthpiece in, turning to face him. Brady is bouncing up and down like he's a boxer or something. I doubt he's ever boxed before in his life and is simply mimicking the movements he's seen other fighters do.

  He's obviously in shape and works out. His body is a lot more toned and sculpted than I would have ever guessed from seeing him in what he normally wears – which is usually some fashionable suit. But seeing him in shorts and a tank top reveals a pretty hard physique. He's a good-looking man, there's no doubt about that.

  But he's also a huge pain in my ass.

  Heading out to the middle of the ring, Brady's smile widens even further. He puts his hands up in typical boxer fashion – leaving his midsection exposed entirely. I take advantage of it and deliver a vicious kick to his stomach.

  Brady lets out a pained grunt and doubles over, clutching his stomach – leaving his head entirely exposed. Deciding to end this farce, I deliver a three-punch combination to the back of his head, dropping him instantly.

  I stand over him for a moment, listening to him wheezing and groaning before I say, “I trust this will conclude our business together,”.

  I turn and walk back to my corner, climbing out of the ring. Adrian is looking at me with a stunned expression on his face.

  “What?” I ask. “I did what you asked. He'll live.”

  He gives me a chuckle and a grin as he steps into the ring to check on his new member – a member I don't anticipate seeing around much longer. I go back to do a little more bag-work and find that I've lost my steam. Having Brady show up here really killed my mojo. This place – like home – is my sanctuary. It's where I fit in. And having somebody like him show up and invade my space just sort of – taints it.

  I head into the locker room, grab a quick shower, and change. I'm done for the day. I have no idea what I'm going to do with the rest of the day, I just know that I need to get out of there.

  “You okay?” Adrian asks when I step out of the locker room.

  “Yeah, fine,” I say.

  “So, you and that guy – ex-boyfriend or something?”

  I laugh. “He wishes.”

  Adrian smiles. “Seeing that kind of anger come out of you made me think it was more – personal.”

  I shrug. “I actually thought I was a little harder on Armando.”

  He nods. “In a different way,” he says. “Watching you with Brady – you were just so cold and unemotional. You were just a brutal punching machine in there.”

  “I just wanted to get it over quickly,” I reply. “I am seriously done with that guy.”

  Adrian laughs. “He doesn't seem to think so.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He showered already and he's outside waiting for you,” he says. “And get this, he's got a car with his very own driver.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Movin' in some wealthy circles now, are you?”

  “Trying to avoid that, actually,” I say. “He just won't take a damn hint. Keeps going on about some business proposal and won't leave me alone. This guy is stalking me, Adrian.”

  He laughs. “Well, I think you just taught him a valuable lesson – that if it comes down to it, you'll kick his ass.”

  “Damn right I will.”

  Adrian looks at me, holding my gaze. “Seriously though, know the quickest way to get him to leave you alone?”

  “Kill him?”

  “You could go that way,” he says. “Or, you could just hear him out. Listen to what he has to say and if you're not into it, say no. And you're done.”

  Can it really be that simple? Everything I've learned in my few dealings with Brady is that nothing is ever that easy. But, if I sit and listen to him, he can't say I didn't, right? And he won't have any reason to keep hounding me. But then, I get the feeling that he'd find another reason anyway. He doesn't strike me as the kind of man who takes no very well.

  I give Adrian a hug. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  I walk out of the gym and Brady is dressed in blue jeans, boots, and a black button-down jacket – with his black Stetson on, of course. I never see him without that hat and wouldn't be surprised to find out he sleeps in it.

  He's leaning against the rear of the car, his hands in his pockets, a sheepish grin on his face.

  “I've got to say,” he says. “You sure pack a mean punch. My head is still ringing.”

  “What do you want, Brady?” I ask.

  “Just listen to me for a moment,” he says. “Let me take you to lunch. Hear what I have to say. That's it. The money I put up for your rent – consider that payment for your time. An hour. That's all I ask.”

  I look back at the doors of the gym and think about what Adrian said. If I hear him out, then maybe he really will leave me alone.

  “Fine,” I say. “An hour. I swear to God though, if you call me darlin' one more time, I'm going to beat your ass again.”

  He smiles wide. “Yes, ma'am. Message received.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brady

  “You can't be serious,” she says.

  I nod. “I'm very serious.”

  After a nice meal and a couple of drinks, we're sitting in Roland's, a nice Mexican restaurant overlooking the Riverwalk. It's a place I come to often – it's got great food and a good atmosphere. And given the fact that it's on the Riverwalk, there's usually an abundance of very hot women milling about.

  But today, I'm not here for that. I'm here to pitch a deal and close it. Amanda is exactly what I'm looking for – despite that quicksilver temper on her. She's intelligent, articulate, a little bit unassuming, and from everything I can see, definitely not the sort of woman who's only looking for somebody to be her sugar daddy – which is something that can't be said for a lot of the women I hook up with.

  The research I had done on her showed me that she's ambitious. Hard working. Has dreams and aspirations. The only thing holding her back is money. I know she wants to be a child psychologist – which probably has something to do with her own less than desirable upbringing – but has to go to school part time, or even take breaks between semesters, because she can't afford the tuition.

  Amanda Johnston is her own woman and she's dead-set determined to make her own way in this world. She bristles at the idea of accepting help from anybody – as the stunt with the rent showed me – and never, ever wants to be thought of as a charity case.

  And it's having all of that information that has helped me shape and craft my pitch to her. I just have to sit and hope she's receptive to it because she is perfect.

  “So, we pretend to be married,” she says. “So, you can get your inheritance?”

  I nod. “And you get to go to school,” I say. “You won't have to worry about a thing.”

  She shakes her head. “This has got to be a joke.”

  “I promise you it's not,” I say. “This is a good situation for the both of us. I mean, what would you do if you didn't have to worry about money? You'd go to school, right? Finish out your psychology degree?”

  She leans back in her seat and eyes me over the rim of her margarita glass. “Information you dug up when you were vetting me?”

  I give her a sheepish grin. “I wanted to get to know a bit about you.”

  “So, you'd know where to apply the pressure, right?”

  I shake my head. “It's not like that.”

  “No? Then how is it, Brady?”

  I sigh and take a sip of my beer. “Somebody I trust told me that there all different kinds of marriages,” I say. “And that marriages can sometimes be business partnerships.”

  “You realize how ridiculous this all is, don't you?”

  I nod. “I do. Unfortunately, I have to jump through some hoops to ensure my inheritance.”

  She looks at me for a long moment, sipping her margarita. I can see the wheels spinning in her mind and I know that she's at least, thinking about it. Which is good. It at least, gives me a
fighting chance.

  “So, let me get this straight,” she says. “We have to pretend to be a couple –”

  “And we'd have to make sure to do it in public,” I say.

  “Fine. So, we pretend to be a very public couple,” she goes on. “And then we get married – obviously, in the public eye – but we continue to live our own lives, separate and apart from each other?”

  “Well, I would need for you to move into my house,” I say. “To sell the illusion. But yes, we would still live our own lives like normal.”

  “And by doing this, you get your inheritance and control of your father's empire – including your precious football team,” she says. “And I get – what?”

  “You get the freedom to do whatever you want,” I say. “You'll never want for anything again and you will be totally and completely financially secure.”

  “So, basically,” she says. “You want me to be your prostitute.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “It's not like that, dar – Amanda,” I say. “There isn't any sex between us involved.”

  She looks at me and I give her a wide grin.

  “Unless, of course –”

  “Yeah, no,” she says quickly. “Not happening. Not. Ever. Happening.”

  I put my hands up. “Okay, okay,” I say. “Can't blame a boy for trying. Beautiful women just –”

  “Yeah, you can stop right there,” she says, though she looks away and I can see the color in her cheeks.

  “You realize you're not half as charming as you think you are,” she says.

  I shrug. “Maybe not. But I'm still twice as charming as most men.”

  She shakes her head and laughs. “Do you have to practice that?”

  “What?”

  “That whole Matthew McConaughey shtick you have going on,” I say. “You got that slow, smarmy Texas drawl of his down pat.”

  I laugh. “I think all you non-Texans just think we all sound like him,” I say. “Next, you're going to say we all look alike too, right?”

  “Hardly,” she says and laughs again.

  The laughter eventually fades, but for the first time since we sat down, we seem to enjoy a companionable moment. A moment not filled with tension and awkwardness. We're just two people having a conversation and a laugh. And it's – nice.

  “You realize how crazy this all sounds, right?” she finally asks.

  I shrug. “I don't think it's all that crazy,” I say. “I mean, it's a mutually beneficial relationship. It's a win-win. And I've found that in this life, there aren't that many situations like that. You gotta jump on 'em when you can.”

  She sighs, finishes the last of her margarita and looks around, staring down at the Riverwalk.

  “You know, in all the time I've been living in San Antonio, I've never really spent a lot of time down here,” she says. “It's actually kind of beautiful.”

  I nod, but my eyes aren't on the Riverwalk – they're on her. “Very beautiful.”

  She turns back to me and clears her throat. “Honestly, I don't know about all of this, Brady,” she says. “I just feel weird about it. I mean, we don't even know each other.”

  “We can get to know each other during our courtship period,” I say. “We have all the time in the world. Sure, it's a business arrangement, but there's nothing saying we can't be friends. Who knows, you might even come to see that I'm not such a bad guy.”

  She smiles. “I don't think you're a bad guy,” she says. “Just a bit of a condescending prick.”

  I shrug. “Well, maybe I can even change that perception in your mind.”

  She runs the tip of her finger around the rim of her margarita glass, lost in thought. I can see that she's tempted, but I can also see that there is something holding her back.

  “What's making you hesitate?” I ask.

  She sighs. “Honestly? Your son,” she says. “What's it going to do to him to know he's got a new fake-mommy?”

  I laugh. “He's a little young to understand the concept right now,” I say. “For now, we just describe you as daddy's friend and we'll cross that bridge when we have to. And I know he'd benefit from having somebody like you in his life. God knows, I'm pretty much a disaster.”

  “I don't know, Brady,” she says.

  “What do you have to lose, darlin'” I ask.

  She arches her eyebrow at me, a bright flash of anger in her eyes. I raise my hands again.

  “Apologies,” I say. “It's a hard habit to break. But I promise to do my best.”

  She looks me in the eye, holding my gaze. “Why me?”

  “Because of who you are and what you're not.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “In the research I had done –”

  “You mean, the creepy, invasive stalking thing you did.”

  I smile. “Yes, that,” I say. “I became impressed with your character. Integrity. Your strength and intelligence,” I say. “You're not one of those women out there just looking for some rich man to glom onto. You are an impressive person, Amanda.”

  Color flares in her cheeks again and she looks away. “I need some time to think about it.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I would expect no less. Take your time.”

  She looks at me. “Thank you,” she says. “Believe it or not, this is the nicest – although weirdest – date I've been on in a long time.”

  I give her a smile, encouraged by her use of the word date, to describe our meeting.

  “I'll have my driver take you home.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Amanda

  I pace my living room shaking my head. I can't believe this. I really can't believe this. It's been two days since I had lunch with him and I still can't entirely wrap my brain around what he proposed to me. Or what I agreed to. It's just – well – insane.

  Brady's proposal is insane. Absolutely insane. First of all, I thought of Brady Keating as an arrogant, smarmy, condescending prick. An overgrown frat boy. Because that was my very first impression of him. A rich boy who is completely out of touch with the reality ninety-nine percent of us have to survive in every day.

  But, I have to admit that I saw a different side of him when we sat down and had lunch together. He was clever. Funny. And when he spoke about his father's corporate empire – most especially when it came to talking about the Copperheads – I saw genuine passion. A desire to do something more and better with his life. I could genuinely see that he wants to be a better man.

  And what made it all the better, at least in my opinion, is that he wants to do these things for his son. He wants to better his son's world and be a better father to him. He wants to be make Nicholas proud of him. Leave him a legacy he can take pride in – and continue to build on.

  I have to admit that my first impressions of Brady – though, they were totally his own fault – may have been off the mark.

  My phone rings and when I look at the number, grimace when I don't recognize it. But I punch the button to connect the call anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Amanda Johnston,” a bright, chipper voice on the other end of the line asks.

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, Valerie Moore,” she says. “I'm Mr. Keating's PS.”

  “PS?”

  “Personal shopper,” she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Personal – shopper,” I repeat.

  “Yes, that's right,” I say. “And I'm here to take you shopping.”

  “Shopping?”

  “Yes, shopping,” she says, sighing as if she's losing patience with me.

  I suppose I can't blame her too much. I'm repeating everything she's saying like a mentally challenged parrot. But I'm just not quite getting who she is or why she's calling me. A personal shopper?

  “Shopping for like – groceries?” I say.

  Her laugh his high pitched and sharp. And completely phony. I'm not an idiot – even though Miss Personal Shopper obviously thinks I am �
�� and can tell that she's laughing to keep from saying something sharp and sarcastic. I know the laugh well because I've heard it coming out of my own mouth on plenty of occasions.

  “No, we're going clothes shopping, Miss Johnston,” she says.

  “Uh huh,” I reply.

  “The car is downstairs waiting for you,” she says. “So, if you can get yourself together and come on down, we can get going. We have an appointment at Katrina's in about twenty minutes.”

  She clicks off the line, leaving me looking at my phone. What in the hell is going on? There is no way in hell I can afford Katrina's. The only reason I even know what Katrina's is – which is a high end, trendy clothing boutique – is because I've gone with Amy a couple of times. And I didn't even bother looking at the price tags because I knew it would only depress me.

  It's morbid curiosity that drives me more than anything. I get myself dressed and as presentable as possible before making my way downstairs. When I step out of my building and onto the street, I see a black Town Car at the curb – presumably waiting for me.

  A perky blonde who doesn't look too much older than me is waiting next to the open door, looking for all the world like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her blonde hair is perfectly styled – not a hair out of place. She's about five-foot-two and can't weigh more than a hundred pounds. And her clothing is all high end and name brand.

  When I walk to the car, she looks me up and down, the wide smile on her face never faltering – although, I can see in her eyes that she's utterly appalled by my jeans, sandals, and white peasant blouse. But, to her credit, she hid it well.

  “Good morning, Miss Johnston,” she said, her voice every bit as bright and chipper as it had been on the phone.

  “Amanda, please,” I say. “Good morning.”

  “Very well,” she says. “Shall we go, Amanda?”

  “Before we do,” I say, “I'm a little confused about all of this. Why are you taking me to Katrina's?”

  “Because Mr. Keating wants to get you some suitable clothing, of course,” she says and then quickly adds. “Not that what you're wearing isn't suitable. I happen to love the peasant-style blouses.”