“Do what?” Elle asks. “Dick her down? Is that supposed to be the secret?”

  “Nooo . . . no dicking. Hmm. Actually, that might be involved too. But I mean the proposal.”

  Elle gasps and then shouts, “Oh, my God! He’s proposing to Harper?”

  “Shh!” I hiss, both because she’s gonna ruin the surprise and also because she’s being so loud right in my ear. But then I ruin the librarian impersonation with another hiccup. That one was a bad one. It almost became . . . wet.

  “Ewwuhh.” Elle sighs. “Do you have a ride home?”

  There’s a moment of silence, and I realize . . . oh, I have to answer her out loud. “Bartender says he’ll get me a cab. But I don’t want to take a cab by myself like this. I’ll end up on Newsweek. Poor Tiffany Young, beloved friend, sister, and daughter, found murdered in a landfill.” I feign a news anchor voice, or at least the best I can manage right now.

  Elle laughs but argues, “You’re not going to end up in a landfill. A dumpster, maybe, but not a landfill. But we do need to get you home safely.”

  I’m usually the one who helps everyone else, and I’m really not liking that Elle is taking care of me this time.

  “I know! You should call my dad.”

  Of course Elle would say that. Her dad has always been there for her, the quintessential good guy who takes care of her unconditionally. He’s the best father in the world.

  But he’s not my dad.

  “I can’t do that, Elle. He’s my boss. That would be morti-shi-fying, and career suicide.”

  “Tiff, please. He knows you, and he knows that you’re professional,” Elle argues. “And he’ll be discreet. He won’t say a word past checking that you’re okay on Monday.”

  I sigh, knowing she’s right. Daniel Stryker is that sort of good guy.

  That sort of best guy.

  Which is the real reason I don’t want him to see me like this. But I don’t really have any other choice. It’s that or a sleazy cab driver dude who might kill me and will definitely overcharge me.

  “Okay, okay . . . I’ll call him.”

  “Okay, babe. Be careful, okay?”

  “That sounds funny when you say it over and over. Okay . . . okay . . . ohhh-kaaay.”

  “Tiffany! Call my dad,” Elle orders.

  “You don’t have to yell. I will, I will. Love you, bish,” I growl before hanging up.

  I hate this, which makes it extra hard as I open my contacts and call Daniel. Because I hate, more than anything, looking like a stupid little girl in front of him.

  He picks up on the second ring. “Hello . . . Tiffany?” There are questions upon questions loaded onto just my name, but I can’t focus well enough to answer any of them properly.

  “Mr. Stryker . . . Daniel . . . I . . . I . . .” I start before realizing I’m on the edge of drunk crying. Shit.

  “Tiffany, what is it, honey?” Daniel asks gently, and I wonder how deep he wants that answer. To save what little self-respect I’ve still got, I keep my answer shallow.

  “I’m at a bar, The Den,” I blubber. “I’m . . . I’m pretty shitfaced, and I already told the other girls to go home, and I don’t want to get a ride with a serial killer! I don’t want to go to the landfill. It probably stinks there.”

  “Tiffany, deep breath,” Daniel says quietly, his voice helping reassure me, and I do as he says, breathing in and out. Once he hears me settling, he asks, “Where in the bar are you?”

  “The bathroom,” I admit. “I don’t want people to see me like this.”

  “Good,” Daniel says, still quiet and warm but taking control and using what I call his Dad Voice. Which I hate, because I don’t want to hear his Dad Voice directed at me like I’m a kid.

  “Tiffany, is there a stall in there?” He waits for me to mumble an answer. “If so, go in there, but don’t sit down.”

  “Don’t sit—” I shake my head as I repeat his words.

  “So you don’t pass out,” he explains. “Just breathe. I’m still at the office, but I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’m already on my way. Can you do that for me? Ten minutes, Tiffany.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, tearing up again. “Mr. Stryker, you—”

  “I know. Ten minutes.”

  Daniel hangs up, and I stare at my phone. He said, ‘I know’, but he doesn’t know, I don’t think. Oh, I joked about it with Elle plenty when we were both single, but she never told her father what I really think about him, what I’d truly like to have with him, and do to him, and have him do to me.

  No. Pull it together, Tiffany. You are not that sorority girl at every party who gets shitfaced and ends up crying in the bathroom as everyone bangs on the door. You are not going out like this. You’re not.

  The pep talk works enough to rally me back to the sink, where I splash my face again before retreating into the stall, locking it. And then I wait.

  A minute later, a couple sneaks in, thumping up against the stall wall as they giggle in the middle of making out. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “I haven’t, either . . . but I want to with you.”

  A few moments later, I get to listen to exactly what they haven’t done before, which just makes my misery worse. Seriously, hearing a woman say she wants her lover’s tongue there is not how you should spend your drunken ugly cry times.

  That and the thought of what germs might be around in a bar room bathroom makes me gag. I want to tell them both that maybe there’s a reason they haven’t done this before.

  Then the woman says, “I have to get home early tonight. I told Levi I’d be home to put the kids to bed.”

  “Yeah, Maria thinks I’m having a quick drink with the guys.”

  Even through the fuzziness of my brain, that registers. These two assholes are not only fucking in a bar bathroom, but they’re also having an affair while their spouses think they’re doing afterwork drinks with the team.

  Fucking gross.

  Unfortunately, their admission seems to be permission to really go at it, and moments later, I’m hearing someone’s body thumping against the stall wall, combined with wet schlucking sounds.

  How do they switch from talking about spouses to that in one breath? I need to get out of here.

  Desperately taking deep breaths, I go back to the bar.

  The bartender nods and sets my drink back on the bar, adding a fresh glass of water with lime. It was nice of him to protect it for me while I was gone, but I push it away, disgusted by it’s sugariness and angry at the way the alcohol is making me feel.

  Todd-Ted comes back, obviously thinking a second attempt at conversation would be more effective than the first. “Hey, gorgeous, I was worried you got lost in there.”

  I try to ignore him, and he pushes my hair behind my ear. I pull away angrily, losing my precarious balance on the barstool. “The fuck?”

  The guy reaches out reflexively to catch me but freezes, looking over my shoulder.

  A stern voice growls, “I thought I told you to wait in the bathroom until I got here.”

  I look back, and to my relief, I see it’s Daniel. I can’t help the way my eyes eat him up, sliding down his body and then back up to his face. He’s dressed casually in designer jeans and a black sweater, a five o’clock shadow making his jaw sharper than usual, and his eyes are flaring with threat at the guy who’d dared to touch me.

  “Sorry,” I declare as best I can. “There was sex in there.”

  Daniel’s stony eyes turn to me. “What?”

  “The cheaters cheating, having sex in the next stall.” I shake my head in disgust.

  Daniel’s face softens just a little, and he nods. It’s a reassuring one, and suddenly, I feel like everything’s going to be okay. “All right then. Come on, let’s get you home.”

  He reaches out, and I half fall into his arms, smiling as he catches me with strong hands. “You really came for me.”

  “I told you I would.”

  “You’re the best, Daniel,” I tell him before letting myself drift away. All I care about are the strong, warm, safe arms around me and the reassuring voice in my ear.

  Maybe those drinks were worth it.

  Chapter 3

  Daniel

  I was surprised when Tiffany called me, but I’m glad she did. The guy I found hitting on her is looking at her like she’s a piece of meat, a conquest that he figures he can get away with since she’s clearly drunk.

  Assholes like this give men a bad reputation. Not okay for anyone, but especially for her because I heard the worry in her voice when she called.

  “Hey, man, I wasn’t—” the guy starts, but he stops when he sees the hard look on my face. All he’s going to do is dig himself a deeper fucking hole at this rate.

  “Come on, Tiffany,” I tell her quietly, threading my arms around her tighter as she sags in my embrace.

  I’m glad she called me. I don’t think she has ever done that before, for any reason. Her number is only in my phone because of Elle. And work.

  But right now, I’m glad it was.

  The asshole trying to take advantage of her altered state scurries away like the bottom feeder he is, disappearing into the crowd. Part of me wants to give him an ‘assisted walk’ out of the bar, but I’ve got to take care of Tiffany right now.

  What would’ve happened if she hadn’t called me, if I hadn’t answered, if I hadn’t shown up?

  I toss the first bill in my pocket toward the bartender, who pushes it back. “She’s square.”

  “Then use it for the next girl that asshole looks at.”

  The bartender nods and makes the bill disappear. “You her father? Glad she called you.”

  The ‘no’ is on the tip of my tongue, but deciding that might cause more problems than it’s worth, I give a barely perceptible dip of my chin. I’m just glad I can be here to help. That’s all that matters, not explaining myself to a random bartender who I gather was the one who wanted to call her a cab, prompting the worried ramble about serial killers.

  Tiffany’s almost light as a feather as I support her out the door, catching her when she starts to stumble. I remember doing this a few times in the past, when I was Tiffany’s age and was out with the guys, and had to help them into a cab or two.

  Helping Tiffany’s a lot easier.

  I get her out to my car, glad that I went with the ‘responsible’ full-sized Range Rover option the last time I traded in. It makes it easier to get her propped up and buckled in. That done, I go around to my side and get in before pausing.

  Should I take her home?

  Unexpectedly, I remember that she lives in Elle’s old apartment, so unless she’s had the locks changed, I already have a key. Maybe I can make it work.

  That’s probably the ‘safer’ option for me.

  I’m the CEO of Fox Industries. She’s an employee.

  I’m a divorced, single man. She’s a single, attractive young woman.

  The optics on this are crystal clear. But I’m worried about her health. She needs to be watched. At my age, it’s been a while since I’ve dealt with someone falling down drunk, but I remember not to leave them alone, at least.

  Tiffany hiccups loudly as her eyes clear enough to say, “Daniel?”

  But even the small movement of looking left must’ve sent her spinning because her eyes widen immediately, and a split second later, she’s got her head on the dash, puking. Some of it ends up in her lap, but a good bit of it splatters on the floorboard. I hold her hair back, keeping it out of the line of fire. Sure, it’s gross, but this is not the worst thing I’ve ever dealt with, nor is it the first time I’ve handled vomit.

  Purging her stomach must help Tiffany some, and she sags back against the seat, her eyes slipping closed again. I carefully get a tissue out of the glove compartment and dab her lips.

  That settles it—she’s coming home with me so I can take care of her.

  It’s not that far to my house, which is probably a good thing as Tiffany looks pretty damn pale when I pull into the parking garage at my building. Luckily, my parking spot is only three spaces from the elevator, which has a ‘beeper chip’ system that allows me to go directly up to the fifth floor, where my condo awaits.

  When I first moved in here, Elle jokingly called it my ‘Frasier home’.

  “Only you would find a place like this, Dad. Not an apartment, not a suite, but a condo, complete with homeowner’s association to keep the riff-raff out.”

  But as I fumble with the keys while simultaneously trying to keep Tiffany vertical, I appreciate that it’s a good place too. With three bedrooms, it’s more than a single man needs, but I’m glad to have both a spare bedroom and space for a home office right now. Also, the open floor plan means I’ve got tremendous views out the floor to ceiling windows that take up my entire rear wall, and the bathrooms are spacious.

  Which, I suspect, is going to be helpful.

  “Stay right there,” I tell Tiffany, switching her over to lean against the wall so I can get the key in the door.

  “Urgh,” Tiffany groans, sagging. Quickly, I get my door open, but she’s already sunk to her knees. I’m tempted to just urge her in that way, crawling, but whatever she was thinking when she drank that drink, she doesn’t deserve that indignity.

  So instead, I squat down and help her up again. “Upsie daisy,” I tell her in a quiet voice, although I don’t think she really understands me. “I’m going to carry you in, Tiffany. Do me a favor. Try to hold onto my neck a bit? For balance’s sake?”

  Tiffany’s grip isn’t much as I pick her up, carrying her into my place like a bridegroom on his wedding night. I kick the door closed behind me, not worrying about the lock, and carry Tiffany into the living room, hanging a quick left to the guest bathroom. She hiccups, and a wave of sweet alcohol breath wafts over me.

  Thankfully, even with a stomach full of booze, Tiffany’s pretty lightweight, or maybe the weightlifting I’ve added to my workout regimen to deal with work stress is working. Either way, I’m able to nearly run with her to the bathroom, where she pukes in the shower stall. At least that’ll be an easy clean-up, I think, grateful for the shower wand.

  When she’s done, she sags back, sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall under her own power, so she’s at least semi-conscious.

  “Feel better now that it’s mostly out of your system?” I ask. She flashes me a weak thumbs-up, eyeing me warily through half-closed slits. I’m not sure if she’s confused or embarrassed.

  Both, maybe?

  “Okay, I’m going to go lock the front door,” I tell her quietly. “Just breathe, and we’ll get through this.”

  I run back to the door, locking it and then getting back to my priority, Tiffany. When I get back to the bathroom, she’s still sitting there, still awake, which is a good sign of progress. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I whisper, sitting down on the closed toilet. “You called me from the bar. You remember that?”

  “Mmmhmm.” It’s more of a hum than agreement, and her eyes flutter. “Tankoo.”

  “We need to get you cleaned up. Do you think you can stand in the shower?” I already know the answer.

  “Nu-uh,” she groans, her dark brows wrinkling in displeasure.

  “Well, how about a bath then?” I chatter, helping her up. “The main bathroom has a tub, and Elle’s still got some clothes around here somewhere.”

  Tiffany nods, though I don’t think she understood anything I said. She leans on me, her feet barely touching the floor as I take her across the condo to my bathroom, though she does mumble something that sounds like ‘pretty’ when she sees the city lights out the living room windows through her half-opened eyes.

  She seems able to stand on her own, so I release her to draw a warm bath, dumping in a large drizzle of some almond honey scented bubble bath Elle sent me from England for my birthday. I stand, turning back to her. “Okay, then . . . whoa.”

  Tiffany’s stripped. Naked.

  It’s probably a good thing, considering her clothes, and it’s something she’d have to do to get in the tub, but this is not what I was expecting. Slitting my eyes and trying to be a good guy, I help her get in the tub safely, then grab her clothes from the floor.

  “I’m going to toss these in the washer and get you something fresh to wear.”

  “Mmmkay,” she murmurs. I can’t tell if that’s more clear or less, though.

  Quickly, I start the laundry and find an old pair of Elle’s sweats and one of my T-shirts, which should be enough to keep Tiffany comfortable while her things wash.

  “Knock, knock,” I say, coming back into the bathroom slowly to drop her things off. “I found a few things that . . . Tiffany!”

  She’s snoring, head leaned back on the tub rim and the bubbles nowhere near what they need to be to cover her, but they’re dangerously close to her chin since she’s sagging down so far. I can’t leave her like this. Any minute now, she could slip beneath the water and drown.

  Snatching a big bath towel from the stack under the sink, I stretch it out to try and cover her as much as I can to provide her with a bit of modesty. I sit on the floor beside the tub, keeping my eyes firmly on Tiffany from just the shoulders up.

  She’s beautiful, even with the bleariness of drunkenness in her system, and needs me to keep her safe and take care of her.

  I can do that. That’s something I’m good at.

  A few minutes later, my phone dings, and I check, seeing that it’s Elle.

  Did Tiff call u?

  Yes. Got her, taken care of.

  Knew you would. Thanks, Daddy.

  What happened?

  Nothing bad. Think she sucked down a drink a bit too fast, not realizing how strong it was. Guess she’s a lightweight now. LOL

  Ok. Love you!

  Guess that explains why Tiffany called me. Elle must’ve told her to. I’m still surprised she didn’t have anyone else to call. She’s been best friends with Elle since college, and there were times I felt like Tiffany’s deep streak of rock-ribbed practicality was the only thing standing between my daughter and catastrophe.