Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,12

anymore.

I give her a look. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Dad.”

“I’m always ornery.”

She snickers. “True words, father dearest. But this…” She sweeps me with eyes that are mine, on steroids—bigger, brighter, with thick lashes, and goopy mascara that I can’t get her to stop slopping on. Not that I insist. I’ve discovered that telling her what I think almost never works. She hasn’t gotten any ink yet, and, given how much I had by her age, I count that as a major win. “This is some new level brooding.”

“I’m fine.” I slap my hand lightly on the bar—back to business. “What you need?”

“Two Coronas and a G & T, please, Pops.”

Rolling my eyes at the nickname, I grab the beers from the cooler and come back to pour the drink, ignoring the way my daughter squints at me, giving me the full-on Harper McCoy X-ray vision treatment. If I’m not careful, she’ll figure out exactly what’s bothering me and then—

“I know.” Chewing on the end of her pen, she smiles, lifting one eyebrow in a look I passed down, but she’s perfected. “It’s cute lil neighbor girl, isn’t it?”

I drop the drink on her tray and walk away, ignoring her whooping.

Because dammit, she’s right.

Ever since I left Jerusha’s place last week, I’ve been a mess. Not a fall-down-drunk mess, the way I was when I was younger, but the kind of mess that waits up late to make sure his young neighbor doesn’t get mauled on her porch by another date. The kind of mess who spends more time at his front window than he ever has before. The kind who searches for Jerusha Graff on the internet and almost has a heart attack at the prices her artwork brings in. And, Jesus, yeah, a mess who jerks off in his bed at night, imagining it’s those busy little hands of hers and that pert mouth instead of his own callused fist.

The door opens. “Hey, sailor.” I turn as my business partner, Dave, walks into the restaurant. “How’s tricks?”

Rather than respond—’cause what kind of answer does he honestly expect to such a pointless question?—I nod.

“Shit, man. Not even a ‘Hey, Dave?’ Things that bad?”

“Good.”

“Dinner?”

“Booked up.”

“Damn. Wanted a table.” Should’ve reserved, you privileged prick. He sits on a stool and turns to survey the crowd. Which is good, especially given that it’s a Tuesday. In fact, business has been incredible. No thanks to Dave. “We’ll eat at the bar.”

I raise an eyebrow in his direction. “Using the royal We now?”

“Got a date.” He smirks. “Young, cute, nerdy. Gagging for it. I’m getting laid tonight.”

I can’t look at his fucking face for another second. I turn to the beer cooler and pause. “Your usual or are you trying to impress?”

“Nah. Not this girl.” His grin’s frankly disgusting. “This girl’s geeky. Hungry for cock. Won’t care what I drink.”

With a disgusted sound—lost on him, of course—I ignore his outstretched hand and put his Bud on the bar.

“Give me a tequila, too. Double.”

Christ, I can’t wait till I’ve bought him out completely. In six months, the place is all mine. I’ve built what was once Richmond’s sleaziest sports bar—known for back alley quickies and coke in the walk-in—into the city’s hippest, most sought-after restaurant. I make my own fucking cocktail shrubs, for God’s sake.

This asshole’s the reason I fought so hard to keep Harper from working here. Until I realized that at least here I could keep an eye on her in my bar. Since the talk, during which I let Dave know that if he so much as looked at my daughter, I’d rip his testicles off and shove them down his throat, things have been okay.

He’s a nasty, entitled, grown-up frat boy, whose daddy’s money is the only thing that’s kept him out of prison. I wouldn’t wish him on anyone—much less some unsuspecting young woman.

Harper calls from the end of the bar and I go fill a couple orders, happy to see that the rosemary-jalapeño margaritas are selling. Our reputation’s grown over the past year and I’m proud. This business is my retirement and my daughter’s legacy. And, yeah, I’d like to get out from behind the bar more and into the workshop, where I work with wood and metal instead of booze, but I like the place. One day, the dream is to let it run itself and devote all my time to the other stuff. I’m getting there, a step at a time.

Until then, I let myself enjoy the thrum of