Sexy Bad Daddy (Sexy Bad Series Book 2)

by Misti Murphy

My phone vibrates and Abby’s voice shouts, “Daddy’s calling!” I should probably change that ringtone. I pull it out of my purse; Garrett’s biggest rival just shot two under par, which I know isn’t good. Well, it’s really good, actually, which means it isn’t good for Garrett’s ranking in the tournament. He’s going to have to shoot a damn near perfect game.

  “We probably need to get down there so Abby can watch him tee off,” I say. What else am I supposed to do? Part of me wants to rush away, to never come back to this place again, while another part wants to invite Morgan over for dinner.

  “Yeah, you should probably go.” She’s looking at Abby as she says it.

  “Abby, do you want to come over here and say good-bye to, er, your mom?”

  Abby slides off the windowsill and rushes over to Morgan, who has stepped out from behind the bar again. Morgan crouches and the little girl throws her arms around the woman’s neck, much like she does when Garrett comes home after having been gone for a week. Morgan buries her face in Abby’s hair. I know she’s crying even before she lifts her head and I see the tear tracks on her cheeks.

  “I’m a mess,” she says, wiping at the wetness and standing. “I need to go freshen up. I love you, sugar.”

  “When will I see you again, Mommy?”

  I avert my gaze, but that doesn’t stop my ears from listening to this private, emotional exchange.

  “I don’t know, baby. I’ll have to talk to your daddy, okay?”

  “Okay.” Abby lifts her plastic goat. “Spot Junior says bye.”

  “Bye, Spot Junior.”

  I sweep her into my arms so I can escape more quickly. With tears blurring my own vision, I head out to find a place up front to watch him play. Hopefully, the game will distract Abby from wishing she were with her mom, and me from this new knowledge that not only is Morgan still around, she isn’t the horrible ogre I’ve made her out to be in my head.

  ***

  We arrive with plenty of time to spare and manage to elbow our way to the front of the group of people clustered around the thick rope wrapped around the first hole, ensuring overzealous fans don’t get in the way or ruin the turf or whatever it is excited golf spectators might do. A golfer steps up and hits his ball and the crowd cheers and claps. Another golfer, another ball knocked hundreds of yards to land on the slightly different color of green near the hole they’re aiming at, and God, watching paint dry would be more exciting. The only saving grace is that one of the golfers is pretty good-looking, although he’s got nothing on Garrett and his head of thick, dark hair, those glassy blue eyes, and that body that begs a girl to lick it.

  And then Garrett steps up with his trusty caddie, Harry, next to him. He lifts one arm in a general wave and smiles from under the bill of his baseball cap, which is pulled low over his eyes. The crowd makes this feminine tittering noise. It’s pretty damn obvious the fairer sex came here to watch him. How many of them even give a shit about golf? Not that I can talk.

  His biggest rival, Greg Hanstrom, walks past and throws a disdainful look at Garrett’s bright yellow pants and shirt with psychedelic flowers splashed across his chest. Yeah, that’s right, buddy. Let him get into your head.

  Garrett points his club at Greg and calls out, “Let me know if you want my tailor’s number.” The women in the crowd giggle and snap pictures as he flashes a lopsided grin. Abby bounces in place, waving her chubby little arm until she catches his attention. I make eye contact, and it’s all I can do not to slip under this rope and rush into his arms. I’ve watched enough golf on television recently to know it’s perfectly acceptable for girlfriends and wives to do that, but I’m just the nanny and the last thing I want is to add to the speculation already buzzing about our relationship. So instead, I lift my hand and give him a shy little finger wave.

  He hands the club to Harry and strides toward us, and I hold my breath. In my head, he’s about to lift me off my feet, wrap my legs around his waist, and kiss me until I’m breathless, all while the paparazzi snap picture after picture and call out to him, wanting to know if I’m “the one.” And when he’s done kissing me, he’ll lift his head and announce to everyone…

  “Hey, ladies. Nice dresses.”

  I blink and the world comes back into focus, and Garrett’s standing here, smirking, two feet and a length of rope separating us.

  “Pick her up,” he whispers, “so I can come closer without causing speculation.”

  I lift his daughter into my arms while smiling up at him, and when he moves closer to hug her, I tighten my hold around her back to keep myself from leaning into him. All I can think about is that shower back at the hotel, the way his soapy hands slid over my body, how he caressed my breasts until I whimpered; how he fucked me from behind while stroking my clit, and I clung to the towel bar and wished the moment would never end, even as an orgasm tore through me, leaving me exhausted, sated, and already eager to do it again.

  He shifts to whisper, “I can’t wait to tear that dress off you, later. Thinking about it’s giving me wood, so I probably should back away now.”

  I fail not to be pleased by his saucy comments as he turns his focus back to Abby, asking her to wish him luck in this round. Instead, she says, “We saw Mommy.”

  He freezes. Well, not literally, because this is real life and people don’t just freeze, and besides, it’s May and we’re in Dallas. It’s got to be at least ninety degrees already and the sun is beating down on us pretty relentlessly.

  But he’s as still as a statue, the only movement the steady up and down motion of his chest, indicating he’s still breathing. He turns those glassy blues on me, and I flinch from the storm I see in them. I should have told Abby not to say anything, at least not until after the game. He doesn’t need the distraction, today of all days. He needs to earn every point possible to give him a proper ranking going into the FedEx Cup.

  Look at me, almost sounding like I know anything about golf.

  “Did she just say what I think she said?” he asks through clenched teeth.

  “She’s over there,” Abby adds, stretching out her arm and pointing at the clubhouse in the distance.

  Garrett’s gaze flicks up to the building and back to Abby. When he turns his focus to me, it’s even darker, a storm worse than any I’ve witnessed before. I swallow and resist the urge to step away from the fury in the depth of his eyes.

  “Abby,” he says without breaking eye contact with me, “go stand with Harry for a minute. Tell him to show you my new club.”

  “Okay,” she says, and she wiggles until I bend my knees to place her on the ground. When I stand straight again, Garrett clamps his hand onto my arm, like he’s afraid I’m going to follow her.

  “You took her to see her mother?” he says, his voice so low it’s practically a hiss.

  “I—what? I had no idea who she was,” I protest. Is he really accusing me of deliberately taking her to see the woman who gave her up? She’s his kid. I would never do something like that without his knowledge, even if I had known Morgan’s identity. And I still wouldn’t, now that I do. I can wish all day long that Morgan might be able to maintain a relationship with her daughter, but ultimately, she gave that child to Garrett and it’s his decision whether she gets to play a role in Abby’s life. Not mine. Not even hers, not anymore.

  “She just said, ‘We saw Mommy.’ Or did I not hear her right?”

  I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “Maybe you shouldn’t have invited us to this tournament,” I suggest icily.

  His gaze darts to the clubhouse again. “I didn’t realize she still worked here.” He says it quietly, almost like he’s talking to himself.

  I’m suddenly conscious of the people standing all around us, fully aware that they are observing, trying to listen. One guy is holding up his phone, pretending he’s looking at something on the screen, but I know damn well he’s either taking pictures or, more likely, videoing this exchange.

  “Look, why don’t you go play, and we can talk abo
ut this later? When we’re alone.” I’d prefer to deck Garrett right now for thinking so little of me, but the media doesn’t need any more fuel for the simmering flames of speculation surrounding our relationship.

  His gaze latches onto my face. I’m not even sure he’s aware we have an audience. I suppose when you’re a celebrity and yet you have to concentrate on your game, you learn how to tune out the crowd. Unfortunately, that’s a very bad practice at the moment.

  “Don’t get any fucking ideas in your head,” he says. “She’s mine.” He finally storms away, snatching the club from Harry’s hand before patting Abby on the head and sending her back my way, all without turning around to acknowledge me.

  “Daddy’s mad,” she says when she returns to my side.

  I lift her into my arms and say, “Yeah, well, sometimes people get mad over dumb things. He’ll be fine. He just needs to lose himself in the game for a while.” And realize what an ass he was just now. Or maybe I’ll remind him, later, when we’re alone and can hash this out without worrying about phones with cameras and speakers and instant uploads to social media accounts.

  “Trouble in paradise?” a husky, feminine voice says beside me. I want to scream. Fiona is as sexy—or is it slutty?—as ever in a slinky, white dress that shows no panty or bra lines … because she isn’t wearing any.

  “We’re fine,” I say to dismiss her.

  “So you’re ‘we’ now?”

  God, the woman gets under my skin. She’s always trying to stir up gossip. Never mind that she’s right this time and there’s plenty of fodder surrounding Garrett at the moment. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one to feed it to her.

  “I could’ve sworn I already explained to you the relationship between a nanny and the family she works for. But if you need me to go into it again…”

  Fiona smirks and then opens her mouth, probably to give me some scathing reply, or worse, make a suggestive comment about my relationship with Garrett, when Abby says, “He’s teeing up.” She claps her hands, a wide grin on her face while she watches her father get ready to start this round. She’s far more enamoured of this game than I’ll ever be. Or maybe it’s him. That’s the only reason I’ve learned the little I have.

  He glances our way, does a double take, and then straightens and steps away from the little white ball perched on the tiny bit of wood. Harry steps closer and says something, and Garrett thrusts the club at him, gestures wildly, then storms toward us.

  “Get the fuck away from them,” he says to Fiona, stabbing his finger into her face. Her eyes widen while she moves her head like a chicken, like she’s trying to dodge his digit. “You better not have told her anything,” he says to me. “Our lives are private. It’s none of her goddamn business.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “We’re leaving,” he says, reaching for Abby and pulling her out of my arms.

  “But the game—”

  “Is going to suck. I’m done with this tournament. I can’t fucking concentrate.”

  He starts to walk away, through the crowd that parts for him like he’s Moses. I catch a glimpse of malicious satisfaction on Fiona’s face. I need to call Callum as soon as I can and warn him that she’s brewing something and he needs to start working on damage control.

  But first, I need to deal with my unhinged employer. Okay, maybe unhinged is a strong way to say he’s acting like a big, fat jerk. All I know is I just got chastised in public for something that wasn’t my fault, and it’s time for Garrett to learn a hard lesson in the proper way to treat … what? Women? Employees? Friends with benefits? Lovers? I wish we’d put a damn label on it so I know what to call myself in my own head.

  I chase after him while he skirts around the clubhouse, even though it would be quicker to cut through. And then we’re standing on the sidewalk outside the main entrance. He turns to me and in measured tones says, “Where’s your valet ticket?”

  “In my purse,” I snap.

  “Can I have it?”

  I glare at him.

  “Please?”

  Jerking the bit of paper out of my bag, I slap it into his hand. “What about your clubs?”

  “Harry will take care of them.” His tone is clipped, short. Probably a good thing Fiona isn’t within striking distance. I’m pretty sure if Garrett had a club in his hand, he wouldn’t be whacking a ball with it.

  Well, I’m angry too. He has no right accusing me of arranging for Abby to see her mother. I can’t believe he thinks so little of me, of my integrity. Not to mention my love for his child. She’s probably going to have nightmares now or, at the very least, be sad when we go home and she realizes she can’t see her mother again.

  The rental car arrives, and Garrett belts Abby into the car seat while the valet holds open the passenger side door and I slide inside. And then we’re off down the long, winding drive, turning onto the road and heading toward our hotel. I can’t take the deafening silence any longer.

  “You know, I didn’t do anything wrong back there. And I resent the fact you think I—”

  “She’s mine,” he interrupts, staring straight ahead and flexing his hands on the steering wheel. “Morgan gave her to me.” His gaze flicks to the rearview mirror.

  “She can’t have her back.”

  I snap my head around and narrow my eyes and then whip back to glare out the side window. Damn it, it’s not even entirely his fault I’m so furious, although he definitely gets the bulk of the blame.

  But it’s also about my history. My first nanny gig. And the biggest mistake of my life. While this affair with Garrett is different from what happened with Peter, there are also far too many similarities for my own personal comfort level. And I’m scared out of my mind that one of the media hounds—like Freaky Foot Fiona—will dig deep enough into the famous golfer’s nanny’s past and figure out that she’s been here before.

  And that knowledge will not only ruin whatever he and I have going, it’ll also ruin him.

  Chapter Twelve

  GARRETT

  Stumbling out of my bedroom, I cross to the door of Abby’s room. She’s crying in her sleep again. She’s been doing this since we were in Dallas, and my heart breaks over the painful sobs. Of course, it was my stupid decision that brought her face to face with her mother. If I had just used my brain when I invited Abby and Erin to join me, she wouldn’t be hurting so much. But I hadn’t thought about Abby’s mother when I asked them to come along. I just wanted them there.

  Considering the shape Morgan was in the last time I saw her, her managing to hold onto the job at the clubhouse, or any job, comes as a surprise. No doubt, Erin handled the situation far better than I could have. Where I would have lost my cool in front of Abby, Erin tried her damndest to make the situation as easy as possible on my daughter. And what did I do? I let my emotions get the better of me with Erin. In the middle of a crowd full of journalists and fans, no less. Almost all of who had the ability to take photos and recordings of my yelling at the nanny. At a golf tournament. With no thought to my sponsors or my career.

  I should never have yelled at her like that. Not even when my heart went into free fall over Abby seeing her mother and the possibility of losing my daughter back to that woman. Erin did the best she could, but I lost it. And not just because of Abby. If it were only that, I could have fired Erin on the spot with no thought to explaining the situation. There’s no way I would have opened up and spewed my fears at her if she was only the damn nanny.

  I hang back by the wall and watch my daughter’s face screw up and her chest bob up and down. She’s so small in the big bed that’s normally overflowing with a hundred stuffed goats and ducks vying for space. Even with Erin curled up beside her, one of Abby’s hands tucked tightly in hers, there’s still so much space around her.

  Erin has snuck in every night this week. She doesn’t know I’ve watched them both sleep, until Abby finally goes peaceful. She’s out of the room before they join me for breakfast, but I haven�
��t been able to sleep while my daughter is hurting, and I wait for news from Callum on what Morgan is planning to do next. I asked him to follow up as soon as we left Dallas, told him to put that lawyer we’d used when I took over custody on retainer.

  I keep recalling the first time I met my daughter. God, my heart was pounding so hard and my palms wouldn’t stop sweating. Somehow I was a dad. Clearly, I know how I became a dad, but though Morgan’s lawyer had flown to Chicago from Dallas to tell me and I’d had time to get used to the idea, it was just so far-fetched. So dreamlike. Until I met this tiny girl with dark hair and big blue eyes. Eyes like mine. Every protective instinct in me reared up and surged toward that little girl. And now I’m on a knife’s edge at the idea Morgan will want custody again.

  I shove my knuckles into my hair and scratch the top of my head. Erin’s been frosty ever since. I can’t blame her, after my behavior. I yelled at her, pushed her away. These things I’m feeling for her are a little too real, which means she’s trouble. Because I can’t let it be obvious to the public that I’m having a fling with the nanny. Or give my sponsors another reason to drop me. Not if I want to keep my spot at the top—not if I want to keep playing at all.

  Abby cries out louder and thrashes her head into the pillow as she raises her little arms, reaching. For her mother? The woman who walked out on her, who was so addicted to partying she couldn’t give it up for our daughter? Well, that woman isn’t here. I am.

  Padding across the floor, I lie down on the mattress beside her and shift her into my arms. “Hush, sweet pea. Dad’s here.”

  She quiets, sniffling into my chest, but she doesn’t wake. Behind her Erin stirs and lifts her head off the covers.

  “I’ll go,” Erin whispers, tucking her hair behind her ear. The oversized shirt she wears to bed falls partway off her shoulder.

  No. Stay. The words are so loud in my head, I’m surprised when she starts to shuffle off the bed, and I reach out to snag her hand tightly in mine. Maybe I don’t know how to keep Erin and my sponsors happy at the same time, but I’m not ready to let her go. I’ve never missed someone as much as I’ve missed her. I’ve never felt this way about someone I’ve fucked before.