They had their fun, some of which they think I don’t know about and some I probably truly don’t know or want to know, but Tiffany was the only reason I was able to let my baby girl go out into the world. Elle says I’m overbearing. I say it’s protective because she was my everything for so long.

  But all children have to grow on their own, and I guess I did something right because Elle is thriving, managing the trusts for her husband’s family and raising my granddaughter, Neve, to be just as strong-willed as she is.

  Me?

  A grandfather.

  How did the time fly? I swear it was only yesterday that I was holding Elle as a baby. But now, she’s grown with a baby of her own, and I’m pushing fifty, at the helm of a global corporation, and the guy people look at to be in charge and have a plan.

  Case in point . . . the woman asleep in my bathtub.

  There’s a certain loss and gain from reaching my age. On one hand, I’m not the guy my coworkers invite out for a drink at a bar like The Den. And the last time I watched the sun come up after a night of raising hell, Tiffany hadn’t even been born yet. There’s a certain loss that comes with knowing those days are behind me because to some degree, they were fun.

  But there’s also the quiet pride of knowing that when shit hit the fan, my daughter and her best friend knew she could call me. I’m responsible, caring, and trustworthy. That’s a gain I would never discount.

  It’s been a long time since Tiffany and I had a real conversation. Though we technically work together, her on the first floor and me on the fifth, our connection has always been Elle, and since she’s been gone, there just hasn’t been a reason.

  I feel guilty about that right now, like maybe there’s something going on in Tiffany’s life that I should’ve known.

  She stirs, the water making a splashing sound. Her eyes open, clear and sharp, suspicious, but when she sees me, she smiles a vacant smile and her eyes brighten in delight.

  “Daddy! I mean, Daniel.” She giggles, her hands going to her mouth. “Sorry.”

  Then, in a sing-song voice, she says, “Daddy Daniel~”

  “Tiffany,” I say sharply. I can see something stormy in her eyes, and I’m not sure I want to know where this is going. I say her name again, softer this time, but it has no effect on stopping her stream of consciousness.

  “Ooh, I love this dream. Are you going to fuck me in? I mean, tuck me in.” She holds a finger in front of her lips in a librarian shushing move and whispers, “Shh, I really mean fuck me in.”

  I gawk at her in shock. What is she saying? This is bad, really bad.

  “Tiffany, it’s me, Daniel,” I remind her gently, hoping against hope that she’s just drunk enough to not be making that connection. Or maybe that she’s mistaking me for another person she knows. Whatever it is, it can’t be this . . . whatever this is. What the hell else can I do but ignore it all? “You called me for help. Remember?”

  She nods and then shivers, her pebbled nipples lifting out from beneath the towel and breaching the surface of the water. I try not to look, but I feel like I’m in Bizarro World.

  Hesitantly, I dip a finger into the water to find it’s gone cold.

  “Shit,” I hiss quietly. I was too careful, not wanting to burn her. And while the cool water might help her wake up some, it can’t be good for her body right now. I empty the tub and grab a fresh, dry towel, doing my best to help dry her.

  “Arms up,” I tell her, and she languidly sticks her arms in the air. Thankfully, it’s helpful as the oversized T-shirt tumbles almost all the way to below the bottom of her hips, and by using me for balance, she’s able to get Elle’s sweats on.

  “Okay, now hold on,” I tell her again, lifting her in my arms and carrying her to the living room couch. Part of me wants to tuck her into the closest bed, but that would be mine, and after her drunken slurring, I can’t take the risk. So instead, I lay her down on the butter-soft leather, covering her with a blanket.

  She snuggles in, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I sit down on the big, oversized sectional portion on the other end.

  A few minutes later, right as I begin to think she’s settled for the night, she sits bolt upright. Immediately, I worry she’s going to be sick again, but she just looks around and then smiles when she sees me. “Daniel.”

  “Tiffany.”

  She moves, turning around to lie down my way. Reflexively, I lift my arms up, not sure how to react and not wanting to touch her, but unfettered, she lays her head in my lap. She snuggles in, pulling the blanket up to her chin but then popping one foot out. For some reason, I get the feeling that’s how she always sleeps.

  “Better?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I stay frozen as she fidgets and tries to get comfortable. Instincts kick in, and I smooth the hair from her face, shushing her, and finally, she sleeps again. I don’t know how long I sit here, just watching her, before my own eyes grow heavy and I lay my head back, if only for a few minutes.

  I wake up to sunlight streaming into my living room. Tiffany is still asleep in my lap, her face dangerously close to my crotch. Even worse, I seem to be sporting a bit of morning wood.

  I shift carefully, not going fast since my right hand is tangled in her hair and my left arm is stretched across the back of the couch. Actually, my left shoulder hurts and is tingly with numbness because it’s not meant to stay in a stretched out position this long. Which means my swollen crotch is even harder to get out of the way when I’m effectively down both hands.

  Gently as I can, I try to move to a less compromising position as I watch her for any sign of wakefulness. I’m about three-quarters of the way extracted when Tiffany stirs, her eyes going wide in confusion, and then she realizes where she is . . . or rather, who she’s with.

  “Daniel?” Her eyes fall down to my cock, which jumps, not with delight at the attention but with my need to pee. Morning wood and the need to piss are not mutually exclusive. She blushes but says, “You’re hard.”

  “Uh, yeah, just a normal morning thing,” I try to explain, but I swear she’s looking at my dick again. I shift, trying to get up, but I’m still pinned beneath her head. “Do you remember calling me last night? You were drunk and not feeling well? I took care of you, got you cleaned up, and made sure you didn’t choke in your sleep.”

  Shit, that sounds bad and isn’t the conversational jump I’d been trying to make.

  She chokes—on a laugh, fortunately. But almost immediately, that’s followed by a painful wince as Tiffany grabs her temple and hisses like an angry cat. She rolls to her back, her head still dangerously in my lap. “How much did I drink?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She quiets for a moment, searching her memory, and then frowns. “I had a frozen pink donut. Or something like that?”

  “I guess that explains the sugary smell in my car.”

  Tiffany pales as my words sink in. “I threw up in your car?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I assure her, unconsciously running my hand over her hair. “What else do you remember?”

  Her brow furrows. “I went to pay at the bar after making sure everyone left safely. I got a water. There was a guy talking to me . . .”

  My gut clenches, remembering the guy sweeping her hair back, and if I could time travel back, I’d reconsider punching him. Maybe Elle has a point about my being overbearing versus overprotective. It’s also a reminder that I’m stupidly doing the same thing, and I stop my hand’s repetitive movement over her hair, laying both arms along the back of the couch so I don’t touch her.

  “And then you saved me.”

  I want to explore that, but there’s a loud knock at the door that makes us both jump.

  Tiffany sits up, looking guilty and a little queasy at the sudden movement.

  I feel like something shattered between us, which makes no sense because there is nothing between us.

  I open the door to see Ricky jogging in place. He’s my nephew, and as security at Fox Industries, he’s assigned to be my shadow.

  But privately, he’s one of my best friends. I feel like I’ve mentored him, watching him grow from a hot-headed teen to a thoughtful man. He’s a good guy.

  “Ready for our run?” His voice trails off as he looks past me to see Tiffany. “Oh, sorry. Thought we had a ten o’clock appointment.”

  Tiffany screeches. “Ten! It’s ten? Shit.”

  She winces as she presses her hand to her head and squeezes her eyes shut. But with one steadying breath, she turns into a tornado of action, even though she looks a little green around the edges.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go. I’m supposed to open at ten,” she says by way of explanation. But it doesn’t explain a thing.

  I look to Ricky for clarification, hoping he knows what she’s talking about, but he throws his hands out wide and shrugs.

  Tiffany continues rambling in worried tones. “Where’re my clothes?”

  “The washer,” I comment numbly, realizing I never got the load into the dryer. “Open what?”

  But she’s not answering. She’s gone into her head as her lips work, talking to herself as she looks around, grabbing her heels from where I set them by the door and slipping one on.

  Yes, with Elle’s sweats and my T-shirt.

  “Shit, shit, shit. Three minutes to get downstairs, two to hail a cab . . .” She glances toward the window and then back at her other shoe, shoving her foot into it like some reverse Cinderella. “Ten to get downtown, and I’ll only be fifteen minutes late opening.”

  “Can I take you somewhere?” I ask, but she’s not listening. Or at least, not to me.

  She’s deep in conversation with herself, though not aloud now. But the way she’s shaking her head tells me she’s answering a question she asked herself. She’s almost out the door when she looks back, remembering that she has an audience. “Thanks so much, Da–Daniel? Uh, Mr. Stryker?”

  She sighs, her eyes rolling in exasperation as though that name slip is what made this entire situation awkward and not the previous twelve hours. She slides past Ricky, who’s still standing in the doorway, and bolts for the stairs, skipping the elevator in favor of speed.

  And in a flash, she’s gone.

  I look at Ricky, who holds his hands up and lifts his brows high. “I didn’t see a thing, hear a thing, and definitely don’t know a thing. I also have absolutely zero questions.”

  I wish that were true for me. I have so many questions.

  But the only thing that’ll help me is the run I was already scheduled to go on. “Okay . . . give me a few minutes to change clothes, and then let’s run. Oh, and remind me to text the mobile detailer. I really, really need to get my SUV cleaned out.”

  Chapter 4

  Tiffany

  Ace’s business started like a lot of businesses, out of his apartment. And for the first year, that was all he needed. I don’t know how he dealt with getting fur out of the hair trap in the bathtub, but he made it work for his grooming clients. But when he expanded into the doggie daycare, he needed space, both inside and out, for the dogs to run and play, but also to sleep and eat.

  Luckily, I was able to open The Bone Zone only ten minutes late after telling the Uber driver I’d pay double if he could beat the estimated time on the directions app. He did, and I did, plus a tip.

  Since then, I gave up on the heels hours ago and have been padding around barefoot, praying I don’t step on anything wet or squishy on the smoothly polished linoleum floors. And I’m now lying on the hard, and thankfully dry, floor with the dogs, burying my face in fluffy fur and my embarrassment in sweet puppy breath.

  They don’t care that I’ve got a hangover or that my breath is technically a chemical weapon according to the United Nations. They’re just happy I was only a few minutes late and they can play today.

  Thankfully, the couple of dog owners who were waiting when I arrived were also understanding when they saw me roll up in an Uber with a messy bun, oversized clothes, and heels.

  “Been there, done that, dear. Good for you,” one lady had said as she handed me the leash to her fluffball of a dog, who’d been eyeing me with a lot more judgment than his owner. In fact, Fluffy had looked at me like I was downright suspicious until we got inside and I found the treats. He was an easy sell-out in the end, though, only costing one pumpkin spice treat to decide I could do whatever I want with my life, even if it would fuck everything up. But nope, he wasn’t judging.

  I scan the room for the millionth time, making sure everyone’s getting along and sharing the space while I nurse my hangover with the filtered water Ace buys in bulk for the dogs.

  “What the hell happened last night?” I ask the white, furry face in front of me. Miss Havisham, the poodle, not the book character, shakes her head, the poufy ponytail on top of her head flopping with the movement as if to say, I don’t know, but it was probably a man’s fault.

  If only that were true. Details later on are fuzzy, but I know I’m the one who drank that donut disaster. I should be worried about my staff, all of whom drank those donut things too. And I do hope they got home before the effects kicked in.

  But despite my raging headache and concern for my staff, mostly what I’m thinking about is waking up in Daniel’s lap, his bigger-than-I-would’ve-thought cock right in front of me.

  In that moment, I’d been sure I was dreaming, since I’ve certainly had that dream before. But this time, it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare, especially as snippets slowly start to come back to me.

  I threw up in his car.

  Daniel holding my hair while I puked again in his bathroom. Another gut twister, and probably why my stomach still feels like I did a full hour of crunches yesterday.

  A bath where he covered me, protecting whatever modesty I’d had left. I sort of remember calling him . . . oh, fuck. Nope, I’m going to let that one just drift off into the black abyss of drunken mistakes.

  And then waking up in his lap. A long-deferred fantasy, a dream that I don’t even let myself actively have any longer.

  But I fucked it up.

  My head falls, and despite Miss Havisham’s snooty sniff of disapproval, an overactive puppy named Kitten—and no, I didn’t ask why—comes up and licks my nose comfortingly. “That’s sweet, Kitty, but I don’t think anything could save my pride at this point.”

  As if she understands my rebuff, Kitten bounces off looking more like a frog doing parkour than a cat.

  I don’t want to do anything but hide, or maybe run as far away from this mess as possible. But I’ve never been one to hide from shit, so I pull up my big girl panties and handle it.

  Wait . . . I wiggle a bit, the floor hard beneath my ass, and not feeling anything, I pull out the waistband of my sweats only to realize I’m not even wearing panties.

  My head falls again in mortification, and the memory comes back. He washed my stuff. My Friday panties are in Daniel’s washing machine, or maybe his dryer right now. My panties are at . . . Daniel’s place.

  So I guess it’s only metaphorically that I pull them up and handle it.

  Chickening out a little bit, instead of calling Daniel, I call Ricky. ‘Rocksteady’ Ricky was there this morning, so it’s not like I’m causing more damage by talking to him. And if anything, I can usually handle Ricky in my sleep.

  “Yo.”

  “Hey, Ricky. Uhm . . . about this morning . . .” I start, wondering if I should just hang up and call Door Dash for an emergency delivery of undies. They can do that, right?

  But Ricky grunts, which is pretty much to be expected. I’m not sure what he thinks of what he walked in on this morning. Not that he walked in on anything wrong.

  Just . . . weird?

  But it didn’t feel weird. It felt . . . something else I can’t label, and I love my DYMO Label Maker like it’s an extension of my arm.

  Fuck it. Might as well jump in with both feet. “Hey, I wanted to let you know that I’m going to call a car detailer for Daniel’s car and—”

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “He already called. It’ll be done today.”

  “Oh. Well, good.” Not sure what else to say, I stammer for a moment before quickly saying goodbye and hanging up.

  Okay, well that’s that. I guess it’s just me and the dogs today then.

  It’s actually helpful, spending the afternoon with the dogs, letting their needs fill my mind. It’s simple but all-encompassing, water, food, treats, pats, and my favorite, running around the outside play yard with them where Ace has plastic slides and small pools set up for the dogs to play in.

  Come six o’clock, I check the last pup out, still not asking why Kitten the dog is named after a cat, and close up after triple-checking that I did everything on Ace’s list. It’s nice to be on even footing again, both of us at points in our lives to be friends and take care of each other. I lock the door with a pat, and though he’s not here, I tell Ace that I hope I did a good enough job for him today while promising that I’ll do better next time.

  I swear I’ll be on time, wearing my own clothes, including underwear, and appropriate footwear. Or you can shave my head.

  I won’t actually let him chop my hair, but it won’t be an issue. One, because he doesn’t know about the deal, and two, because I will never have a repeat of this morning’s craziness.

  I grab another Uber, this time home. After this long, it really does feel like home, even if for years, it was Elle’s apartment. Of course, when Elle lived here, it was vastly different. I love the woman, but her idea of folding her clean laundry usually consisted of a basketball-sized lump in a basket, and asking for a clean plate was usually met with an answer of ‘check the dishwasher . . . maybe.’

  She was never dirty, just . . . cluttered. Though she swears she’s better since having a baby. My guess is it’s the maid coming through several times per day.

  The apartment is more my style now, sleek and clean, the way I prefer it. Each surface gleams, the table is bare, and the couch has only one blanket, and that’s folded up neatly over the back.