Page 154 of The Daddy’s Girl

“I love you too,” he replies. Lifting his head, he stares into my eyes. Then, with a quick kiss on my lips, he smiles. “You always were trouble.”

Rule #44: It’s the little things.

Matis

There’s a temporary runway down the middle of the club, partitioned with velvet ropes and chairs stationed on each side. The seats are all filled while the rest of the club is filled with guests and fashion industry professionals.

Standing near the bar, I help to greet guests as they come in and make sure everything on this side of the curtain flows smoothly. My eyes are on the room, scanning it from front to back. Wine is poured. Cameras are set up. People are taking their seats.

When I spot Ronan and Daisy standing behind the two rows of seats, I make brief eye contact with each of them before they avert their eyes. They both still hate me apparently. I’m not sure.

Aside from the brief text I sent Ronan the day I left London, I haven’t spoken to him. At least they showed up tonight for Amelia. That’s all that matters to me.

A flitting vision in green whizzes through the room, and I catch sight of Amelia. She looks frantic and stressed, and she’s no doubt running on fumes.

Leaving my station by the bar, I move through the crowd and catch her on her way back toward the curtain separating the audience from the models getting ready backstage.

“I can’t stop,” she snaps. “I have to get these pins backstage. One of the model’s shoulder straps are too long.”

I’ve watched Amelia work herself to the bone over the last couple of days, and I know all the telltale signs that she’s about to crash. I might not be able to control her, but I can at least offer myself to her.

“Hey,” I say softly as I guide her toward the edge of the room where we’re mostly hidden.

She’s tense, her body rigid and her expression tight as I put her between myself and the wall. Then I open my arms to her.

“Let’s just take a breath, d’accord?”

With a hmph, she tries to deny my offer. Then she looks at my chest and my waiting arms, and she releases the breath she’s holding. Once she’s against my body, I rub her back slowly.

“Inhale, one, two, three, four, five,” I say softly.

Her chest moves in sync with mine, at first erratic and resistant. But then on the exhale, she starts to relax into it.

“Good girl. Now repeat after me. Everything will work out.”

“Everything will work out,” she hums softly against my shirt.

“I’m doing my best.”

“I’m doing my best,” she mutters with a hint of annoyance.

“I am proud of myself.”

“I am proud of myself.”

“When I get home, I’m going to sit on my dashing French fiancé’s face until I feel better.”

At this, she giggles. “When I get home, I’m going to sit on my dashing, incredible, handsome, old French fiancé’s face until I feel better.”

With a grin, I pinch her ass. “What did I tell you about calling me old?”

Finally, she pulls away. “Well, you are.”

Then she lifts onto her tiptoes and presses her lips quickly to my face. Seeing the smile stretch across her lips fills me with pride.

“Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome, Trouble. I’m very proud of you.”