Page 1 of Dirty Sweet Daddy

one

. . .

Lucas

I'm a goddamn animal. Standing here in my best suit, watching them lower my best friend's casket into the ground, and all I can think about is how his daughter's soft curves feel pressed against my side. Kate clings to me like I'm her lifeline, her small hand fisted in my jacket, tears wetting my shoulder. I'm supposed to be her protector now. Her guardian. Instead, I'm fighting the urge to pull her closer, to breathe in the sweet scent of her hair. God help me.

The cemetery is quiet except for the minister's droning and Kate's occasional sniffle. James and I went through hell together in the military, saved each other's lives more times than I can count. When he called me last month, voice weak from his hospital bed, I made a promise I intend to keep.

"Take care of my little girl, Lucas. You're the only one I trust."

What would he think if he could see inside my fucked-up head right now?

Kate shifts against me, her soft body trembling. She's eighteen—legal, but might as well be wearing a sign that says "hands off." Her father's body isn't even in the ground yet, and already I'm noticing how the black dress hugs her curves, how her honey-blonde hair catches the sunlight. I'm forty-two, scarred inside and out, and have no business looking at her like that.

When the service ends, people drift away in small clusters, murmuring condolences as they pass. Kate hasn't moved from my side, hasn't spoken more than two words to anyone else. She's in shock, I think. Her mother died years ago, and now her father's gone too. I'm all she has left.

"Ready to go?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

She nods, those big hazel eyes swimming with tears. "Can we just…go home? Your home, I mean."

Home. The word hits me in the chest. My estate outside the city is hardly a home—it's a fortress where I've been hiding from the world since leaving military contracting. Three bedrooms, a gym, an office, security systems that would make the president jealous. I've already had the guest room prepared for her.

"Of course," I say, guiding her toward my SUV with a hand at the small of her back.

The drive is mostly silent. Kate stares out the window, occasionally wiping away tears. I grip the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles white, trying to focus on the road and not on how small she looks in the passenger seat, how vulnerable.

"Thank you," she whispers suddenly as we turn onto the long private driveway that leads to my house. "For everything."

I grunt in response. Words aren't my strong suit. Actions are. And right now, my actions need to be above reproach.

"James was like a brother to me," I finally manage. "And you're..."

What? What is she to me? My best friend's daughter. My ward. My responsibility. My temptation.

"You're family now," I finish lamely.

We pull up to the house—a sprawling stone structure set back from the road, surrounded by trees. Private. Isolated. Just us.

Fuck.

I help her with her small suitcase—the rest of her things will be shipped later—and lead her inside. "Guest room's upstairs, second door on the right. Bathroom's en suite. Kitchen's stocked. My office is downstairs if you need anything."

She nods, takes in the sparse, masculine decor, the tactical precision with which everything is arranged. Not much warmth here for a grieving girl.

"I'll order some dinner," I add awkwardly.

"I'm not really hungry," she says, voice small. "But thank you…for taking me in."

She looks up at me then, eyes wide and trusting, and something inside me clenches tight. I want to wrap her in my arms, shield her from everything, tell her she's safe now.

Instead, I nod stiffly. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we'll figure out…everything else."

I watch her climb the stairs, the black dress swaying slightly with each step, and force myself to turn away. I head straight for my office and the bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer. I pour three fingers, knock it back in one burning swallow, and pour another.

Night falls. I work, drink, answer emails, review security contracts—anything to keep my mind occupied and away from the girl sleeping under my roof. It's nearly midnight when I hear it: soft footsteps in the hallway above. The creak of the stairs.

I tense, listening. More footsteps, padding toward the kitchen. The sound of the refrigerator opening, a glass clinking.