Sexy Bad Daddy (Sexy Bad Series Book 2)

by Misti Murphy

  She jerks her chin, her eyes shining, and screams into our hands as her muscles clench around me, making my own climax follow on the heels of hers. I don’t know how I lasted a week without doing this. I sure as hell can’t wait another week to have her in my arms like this again. As we both catch our breath, I rest my chin against her damp shoulder. “I want you to come to the next tournament with me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ERIN

  I admit it. I’m a hypocrite.

  Eight years ago, I gave in to the temptation and my world imploded, and I swore I’d never do it again. And I haven’t. Until now. Goddamn it, I should’ve held my bladder that evening Danny and I went to The Ogden. And that moment I realized my next potential employer was the hottie with the glassy blue eyes I met at the bar—that’s when I should have walked away.

  Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

  Instead, I’m climbing Garrett’s body every chance I get. And I’m helping him raise his kid. And I’m managing his household. He’s even given me access to his calendar, so I know exactly where he’ll be, what he’s doing all the damn time. So I can anticipate the next chance we’ll get to be alone together, which somehow makes it a hundred times hotter than it probably should be when it happens. Or maybe that’s just us. Maybe we’re so explosive together, the sex will never get old, never get monotonous or boring.

  So yeah, I’m right where I was eight years ago. Lying and cheating and hating myself a little more each day. I know it’s going to end. Probably badly. Garrett’s not a relationship guy, and I’m the nanny, arguably the one woman he shouldn’t be screwed on the regular. Or at all.

  What if Garrett finds out he isn’t my first sexy daddy? He’s trying to get his career back on track, trying to prove to his sponsors and the golfing world that he’s worthy of their support and respect. If the media gets wind of the fact he’s boinking a nanny who has a history of doing daddies—bonus that the last one was unavailable—it’ll ruin him.

  And Abby’s life will be disrupted yet again when this thing crashes and burns and Garrett has to find a new caregiver for his daughter.

  And I’m not doing a damn thing to change my circumstances.

  In fact, while we’re flying from Chicago to Dallas for Garrett’s next tournament, he and I leave Abby watching a movie on his iPad, tucked between Callum and Garrett’s caddy, Harry, while we squeeze into that ridiculously tiny in-flight restroom and officially join the Mile High Club.

  “That was the quietest you’ve ever been, Red,” he murmurs as he follows me back to our seats.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t want anyone to know about the extra services your nanny’s providing,” I say tartly, arching my eyebrow as I glance over my shoulder.

  I slide over next to the window while he drops into the aisle seat, across from Callum. “That’s my manager’s decision,” Garrett says, stabbing his thumb at the man.

  “What’s that?” Callum asks, looking up from his phone, where he’s no doubt scheduling public appearances or maybe new sponsorships for his most popular client.

  “I told Erin you loved the idea of bringing her and Abby on tour.”

  “Definitely helps to verify your shiny new image as a family man,” Callum agrees. “Although I’d try to avoid letting Fiona photograph you three together if you can. That woman can turn the most innocent situation into a fucking shitstorm.”

  Except our situation is anything but innocent.

  I glance at Garrett, who smirks and leans back in his chair while signalling to the flight attendant. “I’ve managed to work up a hell of a thirst. How about you, Erin?”

  I’m such a hypocrite.

  ***

  Everything is bigger in Dallas, especially the shopping and dining options. I’ve never been to the Big D before, so I don’t mind that for the few days before the tournament starts, Abby and I are pretty much on our own to explore like tourists while Garrett practices and does media rounds. He needs to be fully focused during this competition, to make up the points he lost when he didn’t make the cut a few weeks ago.

  It’s like hockey, he explained to me the first night we were in town, as we showered together in his room after putting Abby down to sleep in the adjoining room, the one she and I are sharing, for propriety’s sake. He needs to earn a certain number of points in order to compete in the FedEx Cup, which is like playing in the Stanley Cup Finals. I didn’t bother to tell him I couldn’t care less about hockey or golf, especially when he started rubbing his soapy hands between my thighs.

  It’s Thursday, and the tournament starts in a few minutes. Garrett gave Abby and I executive passes, which allow us to go pretty much anywhere we want to at the club. He tried to be cool about it, but before he left this morning he mentioned the places with the best views of each hole, and I knew he was hoping we’d be there to support him, to cheer him on.

  I have every intention of doing so, for both father and daughter. This kid, this charge of mine, is so damn proud of her dad it makes my heart swell. They’ve only known each other eight short months, but you wouldn’t know it unless you knew their backstory.

  “Hey, let’s do a selfie next to the sign,” I say to Abby. “I want to text it to Uncle Danny.” We’re wearing matching blue and black patterned golf dresses. Yeah, it’s cheesy, but I know Danny will get a kick out of it. I bet Garrett will, too, when we arrive to watch him tee off at the first hole.

  My three-year-old charge enthusiastically agrees, and we snap a few photos with my phone before I say, “I think we have time to stop in the restaurant. I want one of those amazing turkey and Swiss croissant thingies. So good.”

  “Can I have a sausage biscuit? With grape jelly? And chocolate milk?”

  “Sure.” I take her hand and we head toward the restaurant, which is emptying as most patrons make their way toward the course.

  As I reach for the handle, a guy in a club uniform flips the sign on the door from “open” to “closed.” He points at another entrance about twenty feet away. “Go to the bar,” he calls out through the windowpane. “The restaurant’s closed to prepare for the after party.”

  “We loved the sandwiches we had here yesterday,” I call out to the man, who’s still shaking his head.

  “You can get them at the bar,” he says, stabbing his finger with more fervor.

  “Okay, okay.” I raise my hands in surrender as my phone vibrates in my purse. It’s a text from Garrett. He’s drawn number twelve, which means we don’t have a lot of time to make our way to the first hole to watch him tee off.

  “Come on, Erin,” Abby says, and I let her drag me down the path running along the back of the building. “Can we sit at the bar?” she asks when we reach the door and she tugs it open. I glance up at the length of mahogany wood separating us from a dark-haired woman with her back to us, stacking glasses on shelves above a sink.

  “If they card you, say you left your ID in the car,” I reply, which causes her to giggle as we make our way to two empty stools.

  The bartender whips around like she’s heard a gunshot, and her eyes widen as she stares at us. More specifically, at Abby. Uh-oh. Is this a groupie? Somebody who saw one of the pics Callum has been steadily feeding to the media to keep them happy and at the same time counteract Garrett’s playboy image?

  “On second thought, maybe we should wait,” I say, grabbing Abby’s hand. We’ve had a few interactions with fans who tried to grill her for information about her dad. Garrett was furious and wanted to immediately hire a security detail to follow us around, but I talked him out of it. Those fans hadn’t been obnoxious, and they’d backed off as soon as I asked them to.

  “Abby?” The bartender whispers her name, and Abby glances at her, furrowing her brow like she’s trying to place the woman.

  “Mommy?”

  What? Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  Oh. Shit.

  Abby’s mom? I study her face for a few seconds before she hurries to the end of the bar
where there’s an opening so she can reach us. And I see it. The slant of Abby’s eyes. The color is all Garrett, but that slight lift at the outside, that’s the same as this woman. Her mouth, too, is the same. And her hair, although to be fair, Garrett has dark hair, too. But his is wavy, and Abby and this woman both have bone-straight strands.

  I’m frozen in place as she crouches down in front of Abby. I’d say she’s my age, maybe a little older. Pretty, although the lines on her face tell me bartending is significantly harder than nannying.

  She reaches out and tentatively touches Abby’s face while blinking against tears I can see welling around her eyelashes. The child glances up at me, like she wants my permission to interact, and I want to cry myself. I should whisk her away, head straight to the airport, get her home to a place where I know I can protect her from the heartbreak that will likely come of this meeting. Suddenly, that turkey and Swiss croissant sounds terrible, and surely, we would have time to get a sausage biscuit from McDonald’s.

  “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” the woman says. She swipes at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Oh, sugar, it’s so good to see you again. I—I never thought I would.” She covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob, while Abby inches closer to me, holding my hand in a death grip.

  Okay, I admit it, I’ve given plenty of thought to why Abby’s mother might have handed over full custody of the child Garrett hadn’t even known he had. I’ve always assumed she was a druggie or that rare form of human being who has no capacity to love anyone, not even her own offspring.

  I never imagined she was a bartender at a country club who would start crying the moment she saw her child again. She gave her up—willingly. Not only that, but she didn’t even tell Garrett she’d gotten pregnant with his kid until Abby was two years old.

  “Why didn’t you come back for me?” Abby’s tiny voice makes my own eyes begin to water. I glance around, looking for someone who might resemble security. With our executive passes and our connection to Garrett, I should be able to find an escort who will get us the hell out of this situation.

  The woman cups Abby’s cheek. “I wanted to, sugar. I really did. I can’t tell you how much it broke my heart to let you go. But it looks like you have a good life. You’re happy, right? Your daddy’s treating you all right?”

  Abby nods.

  “And this lady. This is your nanny?”

  How does she know that? Oh wait, Garrett’s a celebrity in the circles in which this woman works.

  Abby bobs her head again. “We’re going to watch Daddy golf today.”

  “I saw he was on the roster. I never imagined he’d bring you with him.”

  Did Garrett know she would be here? Why in God’s name would he bring us along to this tournament, out of the thirty or so he participates in every year? What the hell was he thinking?

  After another moment, she straightens and shifts her attention to me. “I’m Morgan Mathern. Um, Abby’s mom. In case you didn’t, you know, get it.” She thrusts her hand at me and I actually consider not shaking, but social graces force me to slide my hand into hers. Her skin’s rough and dry, and her nails are short and unpainted. Probably not atypical of someone who schleps drinks for a living.

  “I think I’ve managed to put two and two together. I’m Erin Sanders. Like you said, Abby’s nanny.”

  She pulls her hand away and stuffs both into the back pockets of her khaki skirt. Her gaze darts around the room. “Y’all want to come sit at the bar? I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “Chocolate milk,” Abby pipes up, and Morgan smiles through her tears.

  “Still your favorite drink, huh?”

  Abby nods.

  “What about mac and cheese? And applesauce?”

  “And steak,” I add, like I need to prove I know her kid better than she does. Which is really shitty of me, frankly. Hell, I’m not even a candidate for stepmom. I’m just the nanny who happens to be sleeping with her daughter’s dad.

  Morgan arches thin, dark brows. “Steak wasn’t a favorite when she was living with me.”

  I feel like I’ve been chastised. “Yeah, well, Garrett’s a fan, so it’s probably by default.”

  She gestures at the bar, and Abby scurries over to climb onto one of the stools. I automatically reach out my arms, prepared in case she loses her balance. Morgan is watching us, her mouth pursed. Once Abby is situated, I drop onto the stool next to her and her mother slips back around behind the bar.

  “What’re you drinking?” she asks me as she pours Hershey’s chocolate syrup into a plastic cup filled with milk.

  “Water, please.”

  “You don’t drink?” She snaps a lid onto the cup, slides it across the bar to Abby, then dumps ice into a glass tumbler before filling it with water from the beverage gun under the bar.

  “Sure, but it’s like ten in the morning.”

  She places the glass on a cocktail napkin. “Yeah, but it’s tournament day.”

  I nod at Abby. “Well, I’m kind of on the clock.” Not that Garrett cares whether I have a drink as long as I don’t overdo it and shirk my duties. Still, I’m not sure why she’s pressing the issue.

  “I’ll be right back,” she says, and she heads to the other end of the bar to take care of a customer who’s stepped up. She’s back after serving him a bloody Mary, leaning against the bar, watching Abby chug chocolate milk like a boss.

  “So how’s Garrett?” she asks, and I choke on the water I’d just sucked into the straw. She waits while I have a coughing fit and wipe my streaming eyes.

  I finally manage to pull in enough oxygen to ask, “Er, what do you mean?”

  She waves at Abby. “As a dad. How is he?”

  Oh. Right. “Um, fine. Better than fine, actually. He’s great with her.”

  “Daddy says I’m a pro-gee,” Abby pipes up.

  Morgan furrows her brow. “What?”

  “Prodigy,” I explain. “She’s a natural at golf. A little Tiger Woods.”

  “Well, Garret is her father, so that’s not terribly surprising.” Her gaze sweeps over our matching dresses. “I’ve read the articles speculating about your relationship.”

  “Huh?” Is she about to spread gossip? About Garrett and I? In front of Abby?

  I don’t think so.

  “Hey, Abby.” I lean toward her and touch the little plastic goat standing next to her empty cup, and then I point at a nearby bay window with a window seat. “Why don’t you and Spot Junior go over there and play? And let me know when your dad walks by, okay?”

  She shoots her mother a shy look before sliding off the barstool and heading to the area I indicated, where she immediately begins trotting Spot Junior back and forth while chattering away to herself.

  “Spot Junior?” Morgan says.

  “She has a thing for goats.”

  Her brow creases, like she wants to ask for more detail, but we both fall silent while we watch Abby play.

  “Some of those reporters can be real dicks,” she says after a while. “If Garrett’s taken to being a father like you and the media say, I can’t imagine he’d screw around with the nanny. It’s a recipe for disaster, especially with his track record.”

  I can’t figure out if she’s warning me or simply stating facts. Yes, Garrett has been a playboy, I’ve learned, for as long as he’s been a professional golfer. Probably since well before that. Paynter alluded to some wild college nights, before Garrett snapped at him to shut the hell up.

  No, he’s never been involved in an actual relationship with any of the women he’s slept with. Including this one, I assume, since he didn’t know he’d knocked her up until last year.

  So, naturally, whatever is going on between he and I is destined to end, probably badly.

  But I already know this. I’m doing a reasonable job of pretending I’m okay with it. That I don’t want more. That I don’t wish I could be the one to break his sleeping around habit, the one who could convince him to settle down
. That I don’t want him, me, and Abby to be the perfect little family. Maybe even add to that family someday.

  “Why?” I ask while staring at the sweating glass parked on the bar in front of me. “Why did you give her up?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” There’s a challenge in her voice, like she’s implying I’m not as close to Garrett as I think I am. I almost want to tell her the rumors are true, just to shove it her in her face. Except whatever I have going on with him will undoubtedly be nothing more than another notch in his headboard eventually, just like she was.

  “He told me your lawyer called and said that he had a kid and, if Garrett wanted her, he had to fly down here and claim her. And when he got here, you signed over your rights, gave him full custody, and walked away.”

  “That pretty much sums it up.” She watches Abby, who’s trotting her little plastic goat back and forth on the window seat.

  “Yeah, but why?”

  She tops off my water with the beverage gun, even though I’ve taken only a couple of sips. “I’m an alcoholic. Recovering, I mean. Ninety-three days.”

  “Uh…”

  She pours a water for herself and sucks it nearly dry before speaking again. “I was in a pretty dark place when I gave her up. Three DUIs in less than a year. My lawyer told me the state would take her if I didn’t give her to her dad.”

  Holy shit. A freaking Jamison on the rocks sounds damn perfect right now. Which is a sensation that makes you feel like an ass when you’re around a confessed alcoholic.

  “Is it time to go watch Daddy yet?” Abby calls from where she’s seated on the windowsill, trotting Spot Junior in a circle near her hip.

  “Just about,” I reply, glancing at Morgan. There’s a small, wistful smile on her lips.

  “What I wouldn’t give…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but then again, she doesn’t have to. I know what she means.