Hot Daddy

By Ashlee Price

I've been dumped once before. This billionaire fling is never going to work.

 

Victor needs a new nanny. And me? I need money after the crash of my music career.   He saw me for who I was. An innocent girl still holding onto her V-card. Waiting for the right man. Of course, I gave into his charm. A gorgeous single dad with hypnotizing brown eyes. One night together and I was his. I was taken… I was obsessed. The problem, though? He just hired me and now I'm his employee. We've got rules that we need to stick to. Stay professional. No phone calls, ever. Forget that we ever slept together. Except that now… we need each other. His son is in danger. And I'm pregnant.

 

Would now be the best time to break those rules?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashlee Price
• Release date: Dec 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223395300

Book preview

Chapter One

Katya

Oh, God! I hopped across the kitchen, half-in and half-out of my pantyhose, yanking them up by the crotch. Westbank’s hold music jangled in my ear, some ‘80s anthem I couldn’t place. Maybe if they’d let it get to the chorus without that robot voice cutting in. Due to higher-than-normal call volumes, wait times may be longer than expected. Please stay on the line. This will be quicker than—

Redialing, yeah, I get it. I wiggled my skirt into place, but my hip caught my purse and knocked it off the table. Lipsticks rolled everywhere, and breath mints, and pens. A pack of nicotine gum bounced down my leg, snagged on my hose, and left a run. The way my day was going, I was surprised it didn’t light me on fire.

I snatched up the gum and tossed it into my purse. I didn’t smoke, but my boss was trying to quit. Heaven forbid I show up without his little helpers. Or worse still—

Westbank. This is Marcia. May I get your client number?

Sure, hold on. Just a second. I stretched out one foot, reaching for my wallet. It had slid under the dishwasher and was lying there half-hidden in a nest of dust bunnies. Gross.

Excuse me?

Huh?

You said ‘gross’?

Oh. Not you. I’m just having one of those days. Dropped my wallet under the dishwasher. I crouched down and groped for it and couldn’t reach it. Uh, could I give you my Visa number instead? ‘Cause that’s what I’m calling about. There are like thousands of dollars of charges. I think someone’s been using my card.

This is about a stolen card? Let me transfer you to our security department.

Wait! Don’t put me on— I sat up so fast my head swam, but it was too late. That pop beat was back, tinny in my ear. Damn it. I flopped back, deflated. Mom’s old Bakelite clock ticked off another minute. Most days, that sound was comforting, a cozy reminder of home, but today, it set me scrambling. I was late, ungroomed, still damp from the shower. Half past four. Where had the time gone?

I hung up on the Pet Shop Boys. My personal disaster could wait. My boss, on the other hand, wasn’t the patient type.

Keys.

I patted my pockets. One of them jingled.

Phone.

It rang in my hand. I stared at it like I’d forgotten what it was for.

You gonna answer that?

I blinked. Mr. Martinez was on his patio, peering into my kitchen. He spritzed his violets and winked.

Could be that boyfriend of yours.

Could be a lot of folks. I turned my back on him and raised the phone to my ear. Hello?

Katya?

Jesse. That boyfriend of mine. My heart swelled a little. How’re things up north?

Cold. Boring. I heard something creak and I pictured him settling into his chair, that brown one with the duct tape. The comfiest chair in the world, according to him. He kicked up the footrest, a quick whine and clunk. How ‘bout you? You okay?

Why wouldn’t I be?

Dunno. You sound weird.

I stepped into my shoes and shouldered the door open. The Miami heat settled over me, wilting my shirt to my back. Ugh.

What?

Hot day. One of those humid ones. I stuck out my tongue.

I remember those. One step out the door, and it’s like—

—making out with an oil slick?

Jesse’s laughter echoed in my ear. What is that? Like, are you sweating, or is Florida sweating on you?

Ew. Nasty. Already, I felt my tension melting away. Jess was good that way. A sweet word here, a dumb joke there, and even the worst day seemed brighter. I switched the phone to my other ear. Anyway, the day I’m having... I don’t even know where to start.

Birds paint your car again?

I squinted into the late afternoon sun. The birds had, indeed, been busy. And how. But listen. I was just on the phone with the bank, and I—

Hold on a second. I heard a rustling, then voices, muffled like he’d covered the receiver. My keys slipped through my fingers and skittered into the street. A Chevy ran them over, then a bike. I darted out and grabbed them, just in time to catch the end of Jesse’s question: —right now?

Huh?

I said, can you talk right now?

Isn’t that what we’re doing? Traffic slowed, and I wove my way across the street. Jess? Still with me?

Yeah. So, I’m not sure how to say this. Jess made a humphing sound, like he had something caught in his throat. You haven’t done anything special for next week, have you? Like, bought anything, made reservations anywhere?

I had, in fact. I’d picked up a silky red negligee and a set of soft sheets. I’d even sprung for a bottle of champagne. The way Jess had been, lately, all hungry intensity, I got the sense we’d be spending most of his visit in bed.

Tell me you didn’t spend anything.

There was something in his tone, an unexpected sharpness, that stopped me in my tracks. Why?

It’s just—hey. Are you outside?

What?

I heard a horn. Are you outside?

Getting in my car. I stabbed my key at the lock. It wouldn’t fit. Damn. Sorry. What were you saying?

He swallowed thickly. Maybe we should do this later.

Do what later?

Jess didn’t say anything. I could hear him fidgeting, picking at his chair. He did that when he got nervous, picked at stuff. My stomach did a slow roll.

Why aren’t you saying anything?

He coughed. I’ll call you back, okay?

No! I jabbed my key in again. It went halfway and stuck. Jesse, so help me, if you’re about to cancel on me—

It’s been three years. His chair creaked again. I opened my mouth, but Jess kept going. The words tumbled out in a rush. Three years, a weekend here, a phone call there, and it’s cold up here, Katya. Not Tallahassee cold. Not New York cold. This is lose-a-toe cold, build-an-igloo cold. You don’t understand.

And...? I felt cold, myself, cold to the bone and cold in my guts.

And... what the hell, Katya? You gonna make me say it?

Say what? My head spun. I wiggled my key and wiggled it harder. It snapped off in the lock. Shit!

What? An edge of panic crept into Jesse’s voice. Katya? What?

I leaned on my car, weak in the knees. Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.

Silence.

Jesse. I’m literally on my way out the door. You know my schedule. You knew I’d be rushing, and you’re telling me you want to, what, break up? My voice rose and rose. I felt my face go hot, cheeks flaming with rage and humiliation. Listen. I’m standing in the street, locked out of my car, about to be ridiculously, unforgivably late, and you’re dumping me ‘cause your bed got cold?

I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly.

I shrieked. That was her, just now, wasn’t it? When you covered the phone? She’s there, isn’t she? Listening to you dump me?

I mean, she lives here. I can’t really ask her to leave.

Jesse kept talking, but the buzzing in my ears drowned him out. My throat closed up, and I thought I might faint. Jesse was cheating, and he had been for a while? Sweet Jesse? My Jesse?

Oh, God. I clapped my hand over my mouth. That longing in his voice, that crackling passion, had it all been for her? Had she been there, the whole time? Those fantasies he’d spun, the hopeful ones, the dirty ones, the ones that crossed from daring to kinky and sent shivers down my spine... had he whispered them with his eyes locked on hers? Had she held back her laughter as I held back my sighs, mindful of Mr. Martinez on the other side of the wall?

So, she was there, and I missed you, and damn it, Katya, I never meant for this to happen. You have to believe that. Just, one thing led to another, and—

Shut up. I grabbed the door handle and shook it hard. My vision doubled, then trebled. I bit my tongue. No tears.

Listen, why don’t we talk later, once you’ve calmed down?

Once I’ve calmed down? I kicked the door, hard enough to leave a dent. Are you fucking kidding me, right now? A taxi swung by. I waved, but it didn’t slow down. Damn it. Now I’m stuck taking the bus.

What?

The bus. I said the bus. ‘Cause, surprise! I’ve got the rest of my day to get through. I gotta be work Katya, bouncy Katya, and you... Well, I guess she’s there to comfort you now.

Look, why don’t I call you back later?

What for?

To talk. To make peace, try to salvage our friendship. He heaved one of his patented long-suffering sighs. You’re still my best bud. Nothing could change that.

Except this. My eyes stung. You should’ve called earlier. Like, six months ago. The minute you weren’t happy. Not now, when you’ve done everything we swore we’d never do to each other. I looked up at the sky, too blue for the end of the world. You know what I thought when the phone rang?

Jess grunted.

I thought you called to start my day right. Like before, when you first moved up there. When you’d call just to say—

I love you.

Two fat tears rolled down my cheeks. Don’t say it now. Please.

But I do. I always will. He cleared his throat. But, c’mon. We were high school sweethearts. Does that ever last, outside the movies?

I wiped my face furiously, at a loss for words.

Look, you’re my first love. Nothing could change that. But we never even slept together. How real can it be when you’ve never held each other close, never felt that perfect connection?

I hung up with a shout. The world tilted and spun. I bent over, gripping my knees, till I was sure I wasn’t going to hurl. That wasn’t Jesse, not the sweet kid I grew up with. He didn’t talk that way, wasn’t cruel like that. I was dreaming, and any second, any second, I’d wake up.

Hey! Get out of the street!

I looked up. A black Mercedes was honking at me, holding up traffic like I was in the way. I showed him my middle finger. Two blocks down, my bus whizzed past the stop. I trudged after it, but it was gone and there wouldn’t be another one for twenty minutes.

I’d never been this late in my life.

*

A fog filled my head as I took my place on the bench. It stayed with me as the cars surged by, settled in as the sun blazed on my neck. The bus stopped, and I got on, and that fog pillowed out the sounds of the city and the armpit reek of the bus. It kept me calm as my dreams crumbled away. Marriage, kids, I’d wanted those. Jess had, too. He’d told me so.

It was standing room only all the way out of Wynwood, but I barely noticed the bumps in the road. I kept catching glimpses through the fog, fragments of memories: me and Jess at Coney Island, seniors in high school, seventeen and eighteen. We’d gone on every ride, stuffed ourselves with corn dogs, and maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea. Jess had gotten sick after our third whirl on the Cyclone, and we’d spent most of the night in the bathroom, swapping jokes to keep his mind off his nausea.

I blinked that memory away, and Jesse’s mom was there, waving us off at the airport. I remembered that, too, the day we left for college, the cookies Dad hid in my bag, that sniffer dog digging them out.

I chuckled. In my head, Jess did too. I saw him drinking, dancing, proposing... a life with you, he’d said. That’s all I want. He’d slipped a ring on my finger, with the promise of a better one when his fortunes turned. I’d thought next week, maybe over dinner at Makoto. I’d dreamed of him holding out the box, this perfect gold band twinkling on the velvet, and a single dark ruby surrounded by pearls.

You gonna sit down?

I blinked back tears. Huh?

A scabby kid grinned up at me. A seat’s opened up. Thought you might want it.

Oh. Thanks. I sank down gratefully. My feet were killing me... and something was soaking through my skirt, something warm and wet, and I jumped back up. Little shit! What’d you do?

He waggled his phone at me. Smile. You’re on Instagram.

Really? I glanced behind me. Something brown had pooled in the middle of the seat. Coke, if I was lucky. Not funny, I said.

The bus stopped and the kid got off. I tried to escape back to my memories, but my nose was burning with the smell of vinegar. I’d sat in salad dressing, fucking Italian dressing. I wanted Jess. I wanted our first kiss, and the first time he’d sworn his love. I wanted a knife for his heart. Had he ever loved me at all? Or had I been a placeholder, a stand-in for the real thing?

I couldn’t believe that. I’d loved him wholeheartedly, stood by him through everything. I’d paid his share of the rent for two years, endured two years of his misery and self-doubt, waiting for that big break that never came. When he had found a job, it had been in fucking Nunavut—and even then, I’d been his biggest cheerleader, told him how proud I was, flown up to help him unpack. All that, and nothing to show for it.

We hit traffic six blocks from the office, gridlock all the way to the beach. The honking jolted me back to reality. I was later than I thought. Mr. Young would be steaming. I forced the door, over the driver’s protests, and took off sprinting down the block. I could feel sweat stains forming under my arms, all the way down my sides. My mascara was running, pooling under my eyes. Someone pressed a flyer into my hand. I tossed it away and kept running. Any minute, my heel would break. Or someone would trip me, or my boss would be waiting on the stoop, smoking one of his nasty Pall Malls.

I tore around the corner and my heart sank. There he was, Mr. Young, face demonically wreathed in smoke, just like I’d pictured him. The neon sign fizzed over his head. Cool Mike Studios. Who the fuck was Cool Mike, anyway? I’d run errands for everyone there, and none of them was named Mike. I slowed down and straightened my top.

Katya. My boss pushed off the wall and ground his cigarette under his heel.

Sorry. I bent over, breathless. My car wouldn’t—

No excuses. He fished out another Pall Mall and bit on the filter. I had high hopes, you know. You were my New York girl.

Mr. Young...

Uh-uh. He slapped at his pockets. Got a light?

I dug in my purse. By some miracle, I did. I flicked my lighter until it sparked. Mr. Young leaned in until his cigarette kissed the flame. He took a drag, and another, and his eyes fluttered shut.

Mm. Yeah. Good stuff.

Yes, sir.

He cracked one eye open. You are, of course, fired.

My jaw dropped. I’d expected to get chewed out, but I’d never missed a day, not in nine months. I’d never been late, never messed up until today.

Don’t beg. Keep your dignity.

Beg? My hurt curdled to fury in my belly. You think I’d beg? For your smoke blowing in my face? For some job I just took for the—

Don’t do that, either. Mr. Young’s face hardened. You gave me, what, six good months? That’s not nothing. I’ll still write you a recommendation if you shut your mouth right now.

I shut it with a snap. He had me, and he knew it. The Miami recording industry was small and tight-knit. One word from Mr. Young and I’d be out in the cold. My rage petered out, leaving me sick to my stomach. I turned to go, and his words followed me, mocking. Y’all have a good night, now, you hear?

A streetlight sputtered overhead. It blinked on and off and died in a shower of sparks. I watched my dreams die with it, embers fizzling in the breeze.

Chapter Two

Victor

I closed my eyes and focused on the radio from the car next to me. The driver had his window rolled all the way down, and it was like the DJ was in my head, broadcasting my thoughts.

Y’know what I hate? Effin’ beach traffic. Lemme tell ya. You got your oldsters, all puttering along like time’s lost all meaning, your tourists on their maps. You got kids zipping by on their scooters like they got someplace to be. Ha. Yeah. Beach traffic and hipsters. I tell ya, if I made a list...

The guy pulled ahead, taking the broadcast with him. I drummed my fingers on the wheel. Beach traffic, hipsters... and a certain kind of client. Like this guy on the phone. I’d been idling between the 7-Eleven and that crooked palm on the corner for a full five minutes, and he’d yet to quit blabbing.

It’s hurricanes, he said. Even his voice was boring, a flat, muted drone. So, this architect I read about, now, what was his name? Builds houses out there, made to stand up to the wind? There was an article in the Atlantic. Uh, one of those Internet magazines. Or is that a real magazine, too? Well, anyway, it was all about how he still got that traditional look, with the houses on stilts—what d’you call those?—but they wouldn’t blow over in a storm?

Elevated houses. I stifled a yawn. You’re talking about the Sand Palace. Deep pilings. Reinforced concrete. High enough, the storm passes under. We can do that. Now, the cost—

Gonna build me a sandcastle?

Ha-ha. I ground my teeth. Now, listen. The materials—

What it comes down to is safety. It should be us blowing our guests away, not the wind. He laughed at his own joke. Basically, what it comes down to, we want sturdy, but still with that Florida feel. The authentic experience. All the waving palms, none of the—

A honk cut him off, long and sustained. The car ahead of me inched forward.

What, are you stuck in traffic? He made a tutting sound. That’s another thing. We need access. We need to be ten minutes from everything, easy walks, easier drives. Now, the site we’re looking at...

I closed my eyes. The sun was giving me a migraine. This fucker wasn’t helping. What did he want me to do, squish the whole of Miami into a neat ten-mile circle around his resort? Build him his own tunnel network under the city?

...so, whaddya think?

I took a deep breath, then another. Well, Bill, I’ll say this. Our beaches are popular. There’s gonna be traffic. But the authentic experience, our street food, our storefronts, our local personalities, you’ll only get that on foot. And the spot you’ve picked out, that’s great for walking. No hills, new sidewalks. There are scooter rentals one block up, or you can have your own fleet.

Keep talking.

You have four Michelin starred restaurants in a five-block radius. You have nine miles of private beach, hiking trails, two bird sanctuaries, one where you can touch the birds. Seniors eat that up. Kids, too. I nosed up another inch. But, look. Obviously, I’m trying to sell you. Do your own research. See what you think. We can—

How ‘bout disability access? Like, those bird places. How much walking’s involved?

I blew out a harsh breath. Interrupt me, will you? I mean, it’s Florida. We’re all about those silver bucks. It’s all for the over-sixties. I can get you a prospectus on the area, detailed reports, but generally—

‘Cause they say wheelchair access, then it’s one wobbly ramp. Our guests, they’re in their sixties, their seventies on up. I’m gonna need actual access.

I gave my phone a shake, picturing my hands around his throat. This guy, I could squeeze the life out of him. Pound him into the dirt without breaking a sweat. I tried one last deep breath. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you come on down? I’ll give you the tour. Dinner on me, best tacos north of Culiacán. You can see for yourself, get a feel for the place.

Huh... Bill went back to his hemming and hawing, circling back to the Sand Palace. I caught up to Radio Guy. The DJ had given way to some doo-wop station, all sweet and old-timey. I nodded along to Memories of You. It brought back good feelings, Sundays at my abuelita’s, weird old cartoons, skipping rocks off the pier.

Bill’s chatter faded into the background. Maybe he was lonely, talking to hear himself talk. Maybe he was just the type