Daddys little 1, p.1
Daddy's Little 1, page 1
Daddy’s Little 1
Santa Daddy Series
Violet Rae
Daddy’s Little 1
Published by Violet Rae
www.authorvioletrae.com
Copyright © 2023 Violet Rae
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions, contact: violet@authorvioletrae.com
Cover Image: Bookin’ It Designs
Editing & Formatting by Violet Rae
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Chapter One
Brenna
The wheels of my pink and black suitcase clunk against the steps as I follow behind my dad. I nearly trip and stub my toe through my gladiator sandal. With a hiss, I look down and silently curse the marble floor.
Dad looks back at me with his signature dimples as he grins. "This is why I offered to carry all your things, Bumble,” he says, using the nickname he gave me when I was a kid. “I swear you could trip over fresh air."
I glare at him as he chuckles and turns to ring the buzzer.
Of course, he’s only joking with me, teasing me for my lifelong clumsiness. Thanks to my dad’s loving and supportive parenting, I'm a happy, confident person, but I’ve always lacked coordination. And that weakness always wins out.
The door opens, and I stand ramrod straight with a smile on my face as I see him.
Roman McKay.
I can’t remember a time when my dad's best friend wasn’t in my life. He’s always been around. It didn’t faze him that my dad became a dad so young while the two of them were in college. Dad met my mom when they were both seventeen, and that was it. True love. Then, my mom discovered she was pregnant when they were eighteen. They were married and had two blissful years together after my birth until my mom died in a car accident. Drunk driver. He survived. She didn’t.
I don’t remember her. Well, perhaps vague memories of her warmth and softness and the scent of roses. But that’s it. Dad doesn’t like to talk about her much because it’s still too painful all these years later. So most of my information came from Roman, who knew her well.
Dad raised me while he went to college and passed the bar. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, but not once has he felt like an absent father. I’ve always been loved, if a little lonely. He’s my hero.
I know my dad’s had the odd discreet relationship since my mom died, but he’s never introduced me to any of them. Truth is, he’s never recovered from her death. She was his one true love, and so far, no other woman has measured up. So it’s been the two of us for as long as I can remember. And Roman, who’s also been a constant in my life. Roman has been by Dad’s side through thick and thin. He’s seen me with pigtails and gaps in my teeth. He’s seen me as a teenager, with puppy fat and volcano zits.
But I’m twenty-one today. I’m officially an adult now. Or that’s what I like to think. I’m sure most twenty-one-year-olds would be celebrating by getting shit-faced and waking up in a pile of their own puke. But I don’t have many friends. My best friend, Alice, moved to Chicago with her family a year ago. We still talk every day, but it’s not the same.
Dad always invited his friends on my previous birthdays. When I invited my classmates, they got super intimidated by all the hotshot lawyers and political figures he represents, so I stopped asking them.
Dad still considers me a little girl he needs to protect at all times. Which is why this business trip has caused him endless amounts of guilt. He didn’t want to leave me, and he’s been trying to get out of this UAE meeting for weeks, but Christmas with his daughter means very little to the company he represents on the other side of the world.
So, I'll be spending my birthday and the entire holiday season with Roman.
Alone.
Talking of…
"I was afraid you weren’t going to make your flight on time," Roman says to Dad as he opens the door wider, allowing us to step inside.
As usual, the rest of the world falls away as I look into his green eyes set in a masculine face. His dark hair is slightly long and curls over his collar, and his trim beard only enhances his sharp jawline. Oh, to run my hands through those silky midnight strands. How would it feel like to have that beard tickling my skin as he buries his head between my thighs? And let’s not forget the Scottish brogue he’s never quite lost despite his years on this side of the pond. Yeah, Roman McKay is the epitome of everything I want in a man.
As soon as I cross the threshold, he takes my suitcase from me in one smooth movement. "Let me take that, lass."
I nod, trying not to meet his intense gaze again. I don’t want my dad to see the emotions swirling in my eyes for his best friend. One look at those emerald green orbs, and I may melt into a puddle of hormone-infused goo at his big feet.
I need time to wrap my head around being in his house like this.
And I need a plan.
“Just a bit of a packing mishap," Dad says as we follow Roman down the hall.
Roman grabs my other suitcase from Dad and takes them to the room I’ll be using during my stay.
Dad reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze, communicating his worry and guilt through that simple touch.
"C'mon, Dad," I say as I pull him in for a hug. "Stop worrying, or you'll end up with even more gray hairs."
He pulls away and feigns shock. "I do not have gray hairs."
"Then, what’s this, James?" Roman asks as he comes back down the hallway. He winks at me and yanks a piece of Dad’s hair.
“Asshole.” Dad swats Roman away and glares at his friend. “How come you don’t have any gray? We’re the same age.”
“What can I say? I’ve led a blame-free life. Never succumbed to matrimony. No bairns to turn my hair gray.” Roman laughs, ruffling my hair affectionately like he did when I was ten.
Grrr.
It’s true; he’s never married. I’ve often wondered why. I’m sure there’ve been relationships, but like Dad, Roman has always been discreet. It’s like they both thought I’d clutch my pearls and swoon at the realization that they had sex lives. I frown. While the thought of my dad having sex makes me want to scrub my mind with bleach, the same can’t be said for Roman. So long as it’s with me. Imagining him with other women is… painful.
“There’s still time, old man.” Dad smirks.
“Less of the old,” Roman fires back. “I can still whoop your arse at squash,” he adds, referring to their weekly testosterone matches at the gym.
I love their banter. They’ve been as thick as thieves since they met when Roman moved here with his family in his early teens.
"Dad, you’re going to be late," I remind him, though my heart aches.
He hugs me once more and reaches into his pocket. "Happy birthday. You can open it later. I'll call you as much as I can. Be careful, Bumble," he whispers in my ear.
I sniffle and hold back tears as I take the rectangular box. "Thanks, Dad. I will."
“I’ll call you, and I’ll see you at the party,” Dad says, reminding me of the function on Christmas Eve.
We usually attend together, but he obviously can’t this year. He’s asked me to say a few words to his colleagues in his stead, although he’s hoping to join us via video call.
Dad turns to Roman. “Take good care of her.”
I step back with Roman as he nods. "Aye. You know I will."
With a final nod, Dad turns and leaves me with the man I've been in love with for what feels like years. At first, I thought my feelings were simply an adolescent crush that would fizzle out, but they’ve only matured along with my body.
A silly, wishful part of me wants to prove to Roman how mature and irresistible I am and have him sweep me off my feet when he finally realizes what a great match we are.
Though I know it's impossible, I’m not above making myself look like a fool while I'm here because if I don't give it a shot, I'll never be able to let the idea that there could be an us go.
Roman slings an arm around my shoulder. “Just you and me, then, lass,” he says in that light Scottish brogue that has my knees turning to butter. “Will you be all right here on your own for a bit? I need to run a few errands.”
“Sure.” I smile. “Gives me a chance to unpack my stuff.”
“You know where everything is, so help yourself,” he says, grabbing his keys from the hall table.
I’ve stayed here numerous times before, always with Dad, so I’m familiar with Roman’s luxury condo in Upper Manhattan. It’s very different from the historical ambiance of the brownstone with its high ceilings, wainscoting, and intricate fireplaces where Dad and I live in Lower Manhattan.
Roman’s place is open-plan and ultra-modern, with three bedrooms, and even has an indoor heated pool with a projector to watch movies. He also has an office so he can work from home when he’s not traveling, and from where he runs his multi-million-dollar hospitality business—and when I say hospitality, I mean his whiskey import business and chain of high-end whiskey bars.
Roman heads out, and once I hear the door close and the locks click into place, I change into something comfortable and unpack my luggage around me on the bed. As I unpack, I keep eyeing the box my dad gave me. It’s tradition to wait until eighty-thirty, the time I was born, so I do. But damn it’s hard.
Patience has never been my strong suit.
Chapter Two
Brenna
My phone rings as I’m coming out of the shower. As I reach for it, I see it’s a little before eight o’clock, and the person calling me happens to be Roman.
My towel falls to the floor, and I drip onto it as I answer the call. “Roman?”
“Hey, Brenna. Sorry I’ve been out so long. I’m on my way back now, but I thought I’d see if you were hungry. How about a late dinner?” I hear his BMW starting in the background.
“Sure, dinner sounds good.” I look down at myself and hope it’ll buy me enough time to get ready. Damp hair and sweatpants won’t cut it for a birthday dinner with Roman.
“Perfect. How about Italian?”
“Sounds amazing.” Good, Italian will take longer than getting burgers or pizza.
“Great. See you soon, birthday girl.” He hangs up, leaving me hyperventilating at the way he said that.
I dive for my towel and pat myself dry before sliding on panties and a bra, nearly tripping over my legs as I try to go too fast.
I walk to the vanity, glad I’ve already unpacked all my products, and get to work on my hair. It’s going to be a perfect night.
Nearly thirty minutes later, my long, dark hair is dry and styled. My makeup is minimal but enhances my brown eyes and high cheekbones, and I’m wearing my favorite pink dress. It rides the line between casual and formal. Like a party dress.
I’ve always been told it shows off my curvy ass, my greatest asset, no pun intended.
The jingle of keys and the beep of the door alarm alert me to Roman's return. My heart beats rapidly, causing a thrumming in my ears that I wish would stop. It flutters a few times, and I take deep breaths as I check myself in the mirror one more time.
Not wanting to look too eager, I count to twenty before I grab Dad’s gift and exit my room, making my way to the dining area.
A feast greets me. Breadsticks, clams, two of my favorite Italian entrees, and a delectable-looking tiramisu sit in packages across the table. In the center is a huge bottle of expensive champagne, the kind my dad buys his partners and clients to celebrate a successful lawsuit.
“I-I’m speechless. You didn’t have to do all of this,” I say, waving a hand at the table.
The side of Roman’s mouth turns up in a half grin, one of his many sexy quirks. “I said I’d take care of you; promised your da. I know he always goes all out for your birthday. And this is your twenty-first, so it’s the least I can do.”
I blush as my mind goes to a dirty place, thinking about what else he could do for me, like spread me across the table and dine on me rather than the Italian food.
Roman pulls a chair out for me, and I slide my hands over the back of my dress as I sit, sensing his eyes on me. He scoots me in before sitting across from me.
We dig in for a good twenty minutes, mostly sharing small talk and exclamations of pleasure that I would love to hear in another room of the house—the bedroom, in case that wasn’t clear.
“How’s school?” Roman asks, popping a gnocchi into his mouth.
“Good. We’re studying Renaissance to Baroque from the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries, and how people saw themselves and their place in the universe greatly affected art, architecture, and sculpture.”
“Sounds… interesting.”
I laugh. “No, it doesn’t unless you’re an art geek like me.”
“I’m proud of you,” Roman says. “You know what you want, and you’re pursuing your dream.”
“I’m a long way off an art gallery of my own,” I say wistfully. “But it’s good to aim high, right?”
He smiles. “Always.”
I place my fork down, forcing myself to stop eating before I’m stuffed. I want to save room for the champagne before my stomach bloats to the size of a hot air balloon.
I lean back in my chair and grin. “Thank you for this.”
“Of course.” Roman dabs at his mouth. “Would you like to open your gift from your da?”
I nod, reaching for the small foil-wrapped package. I tear off the paper to reveal a velvet box and open the lid to reveal gift vouchers for my favorite boutique and an exquisite pair of diamond earrings. A small, handwritten note from Dad is tucked inside. I unfold it and read it aloud.
“Happy twenty-first, Bumble. These will look just as beautiful on you as they did on your mom.”
A tear slips down my cheek, and Roman’s handkerchief appears in front of my blurry eyes.
“Thank you.” I take it and dab at the tears on my cheeks. “He couldn’t have given me a better gift. He doesn’t talk about her much, so to have something of my mom’s is… priceless.”
“Aye, lass. It’s still too painful for him, even after all these years,” Roman says softly. “They were soul mates, and that kind of love doesn’t come around very often.”
I sigh sadly. “I wish I could remember her. I’m glad I’ve had you to fill in some of the blanks,” I say with a grateful smile.
“Here. Happy birthday. I’m proud of you. You’ve grown into a bonnie lass,” Roman says, sliding another gift toward me.
I open the square-shaped package, a jewel-encrusted photo frame holding a picture of me as a baby with my mom. I’ve seen the photo of her and Dad on his nightstand the day they married, but this is the first one of her and me together. She’s looking at me with so much love in her eyes it causes my breath to catch in my lungs, and another tear trails down my cheek.
“This is…” I shake my head, lost for words. I look up at Roman. “Thank you.”
He smiles, and sexy little crinkles form at the corners of his eyes. “My pleasure. He gestures to the bottle of champagne still sitting in the center of the table. “Would you like to do the honors, birthday girl?”
My eyes light up, and I nod, looking for the bottle opener.
“Ah, shite. Sorry. Knew I’d forget something,” Roman says, starting to stand.
I place my hand on his arm to stall him, trying to conceal the shiver that works up my spine, pebbling my nipples. “Let me.”
I stand and head to the kitchen, adding a little extra sway to my ass as I walk away in case he’s watching. Doubtful, but a girl can hope. I rifle through the kitchen drawer, plucking out the bottle opener, and return to the table.
Which is when I realize I’ve never opened a corked bottle of anything before, let alone champagne. Sure, I’ve had beer, but those caps pop off effortlessly. I recall the numerous times I’ve watched Dad do it. Can’t be that hard, surely? Yeah, this is a great opportunity to impress Roman with my sophisticated bottle-opening skills.
Picking up the bottle, I push the metal corkscrew into the cork and twist it until it’s buried. Step one complete. Holding the neck of the bottle firmly, I pull up, easing the cork from its home. Step two complete. Easy peasy.
Roman moves to stand next to me with two champagne flutes just as the cork releases with a pop, and the champagne explodes from the bottle like a geyser. Panicking, I cover it with my mouth, trying to catch the foaming liquid before it saturates the remaining food on the table. Unfortunately, I’m not prepared for the whoosh of the champagne as it fires up my nostrils. Something between a sneeze and a cough—a snough?—erupts from my mouth and nose, and I involuntarily lurch forward, spraying champagne—and possibly a little snot—down the front of my dress and Roman's expensive shirt.
Well, shit.
“Ohgodohgodohgod. I’m so sorry,” I splutter, reaching for a handful of napkins from the table and blotting uselessly at his shirt, which now clings wetly to the muscles of his enormous chest.
Roman snags my hand, halting my attempts to soak up the champer-snot. “Some things never change,” he says, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Still little Brenna Bumble.”
