Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,42

“You were just being…you.”

“And you are fucking perfection.”

Someone clears their throat, interrupting my snort-laugh.

I look up into Harper’s blushing face. “Oh, hi!” is all I manage.

Judging from Mikey’s slow grin, they’re happy to see her. Harper, however, is all wide-eyed insecurity. That’s new.

“Hey, Harper,” says Alba.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“We were just talking about your dad.” I’d get mad, except Alba’s grin is so flat-out happy, I can’t.

“But we’re done,” I say, shaking my head as I stand to give Harper my chair. “Have a seat.”

She flops down with the kind of easy, long-limbed grace that I envied when I was younger. I don’t anymore. I like myself, my body. My strong bits and my soft bits and the way I am inside. I like that I love Karl, because it’s open and it’s honest and that’s who I am.

Dammit. That’s who I am.

I take a deep breath and button my jacket, pretending like Harper’s not the daughter of the man I professed to love just a few days ago. The man I love. “Have fun, you guys.”

“Oh, we will,” replies Mikey with a smirk. “You, too, honeybear.”

I roll my eyes, grab my bag, and take off for the door.

Karl

I can’t stop thinking about Jerusha. And not just thinking, but aching, like my body’s already addicted and it needs her. My chest, my belly, my balls.

Did I have to cancel the goddamn lessons?

Yes. Yes, I had to. For her. I did it to give her a life. A chance at a real future, instead of an unhealthy attachment to the first guy who got her off.

But, shit. The four days since that night have felt like a goddamn month. I shouldn’t even be at the bar tonight, but I couldn’t sit at home one more fucking minute. Instead, I’m getting in the way, polishing glasses, prepping mixers, hauling a fresh keg out of the back. I’ve counted the till out three times, distracted as hell.

I know I’ve annoyed the crap out of the bartender. She said something about making shrub and disappeared into the kitchen half an hour ago. When I slipped in there in search of prep work, my chef ordered me out.

My phone vibrates and I practically rip off my pocket yanking it out. It’s a number I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Mr. McCoy? This is Andy Gentry from Virginia First.”

My pulse returns to normal while the banker tells me the good news. My loan’s been approved.

As of this time next week, I’ll be sole owner of this place. I hang up feeling lighter. I automatically open my texts before remembering that I’m not supposed to contact Jerusha. My rule.

We need space. Both of us, to get back to our regular lives.

I can’t help but wonder how she managed, in such a short time, to become the first person I want to share news with.

“Harper,” I slip out from behind the bar as my daughter walks by with a tray full of roll-ups. “Come here.”

“No. No, way, dude.”

“What? Don’t want the good news?”

“Good news? Dad. You look like someone died. I need this…” She waves a circle in my direction, her expression exactly like when she used to eat lemons as a toddler. “To clear up before I come within, like five feet of Mr. Sourpuss Poopoo Pants.”

“We got the loan.”

After a few blank seconds, she sets her tray on the bar and jumps up and down. “Dave the Douchebag’s out?”

“A few days for the funds to come through and I’m sole owner.”

She steps up on the rail and leans over to give me a hug. “We should celebrate!” When she pulls away, she’s wearing a sly look. “Is there someone you’d like to celebrate with, perhaps?”

“What?”

“Oh, just your neighbor.” Her eyes narrow. “No plans to see her again?”

“I… Nope.” I shake my head, jaw tight. “No, that’s over.”

“O-kay. Sure,” she says in that whatever, Dad tone of voice, before picking up her tray and flouncing off.

Christ. I blink at my phone screen before shoving it back into my pocket and stalking off to check garnishes. As if I haven’t already done that. As if I should even be here tonight.

My mind keeps fucking with me—giving me images of her sitting at the bar, nursing a champagne. I’d pull an off-menu bottle if she were here—the pink stuff we keep for special occasions. God, she’d love that, wouldn’t she? And she’d be so goddamn happy for me—for Harper, too.

I picture her, leaning forward, bright face surrounded by all that hair, her scarf