Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,13

a well-run restaurant. The dinner rush takes over, its ebb and flow of people and orders making time speed by. I like mixing drinks. I like chatting with customers. I really like the feel of being back here, watching over everything, with a finger on the pulse of the place.

The door opens, letting in a whoosh of cold air. I glance over to see if the hostess is available to greet the person, and go still.

Even without seeing her face, I know it’s Jerusha—all wild hair and wild energy. I like that energy. It speaks to me, even from across the room. And I swear she can feel my stare. She looks up, catches my eye, and goes completely still. It’s out of character, given how much movement goes on in that little body.

The smile that takes over her face isn’t just flattering, it’s life-giving. Like every on-edge second I’ve lived this past week melts away and I feel—

“Jerusha?” I blink at Dave’s over-loud voice, blasting through the crowd’s easy hum.

“Uh. Yes. Hello.” Her eyes cut back to me before landing on him.

“Well, hey there, cutie.” He actually fucking winks. My blood pressure skyrockets.

“Oh.” After flicking her eyes my way again, she walks up to the bar, all bouncing curls and floor-length skirt, and a huge, multicolored poncho, and puts out a mittened hand. “You’re Dave?” Her smile’s a little hesitant, but still so lovely, I can almost taste it. I have tasted it. Something low and feral rears its ugly head—a part of me that hasn’t seen the light of day in decades. I shove it down. Bad things happen when I let it out.

“That’s me.” He gets off the barstool and bypasses her handshake, going straight for an overly tight hug that she clearly isn’t prepared for. When our eyes meet over his shoulder, I can’t help but widen mine with a completely unnecessary—and unfair—what are you doing here? expression.

She extricates herself from Dave’s grasp and steps back, eyeing the other barstools before sliding into the one that Dave pats for her.

When Dave glances my way, I give him a look designed to remind him of past conversations. I swear, if he so much as touches her…

Harper chooses that moment to sashay over to the bar with a bunch of empties. “Ho-ly crappers,” she says with obvious glee. “Is that your cute neigh—”

“Yes,” I bite out as I bus her bottles and throw them into the recycling bucket way too hard. “What you need?”

She reaches for a bowl of peanuts I keep on the ledge behind the bar and pops a handful into her mouth. “Not a thing. This…” She waves a hand toward Dave, who’s leaning too close to Jerusha, then points at me. My eyes go narrow and hard. “This is all I need. Way better than the housewives.”

“You got an order?”

“Oh. Three house reds.”

I pour them and watch Harper sashay over there to chat with Jerusha, handling Dave with an aplomb that belies her eighteen years. She’s slippery, my daughter.

A minute later, she returns to grab her drinks with a sly smile. “Jerusha had no idea this place was yours.”

Of course not. I’d never told her.

Harper leans closer, losing her usual smirk. “She needs to get out of that situation. Right. Now.”

My fists tighten automatically. Harper’s right. She does.

Frustration makes me antsy, with a side of simmering rage. If I were ten years younger, I’d serve myself a double bourbon in a mug and stew. But I’m not that asshole anymore.

Instead, I drink soda water…and stew.

“The lady wants a white,” Dave calls a minute later.

Inhaling deeply, I amble over to the pair and force an amiable expression onto my face—not easy when I want to grab Dave by the scruff and haul him out of his own bar. “Jerusha.”

“Hi Karl.”

“You, uh, know Dave?”

“Oh!” Her eyelashes flutter, which Dave will probably take for flirtation. I’m guessing it’s nerves. And not the good kind. “Um. No. No, we just met.”

“You know my date?” Dave turns to me, while surreptitiously sliding a hand down her back, so far it’s gotta be hitting her ass.

She shifts forward, clearly uncomfortable.

“Dave,” I growl.

He turns and catches my eye, looking clueless. I’m guessing my expression must convey at least part of what I’m feeling because he pulls his arm away, fast. Good.

When she throws me a smile, I swear my central nervous system takes a hit.

Part of my vision goes black, which is exactly how I’d react if he laid a hand