The way the scent of coffee fills the kitchen feels like Sundays and summer and home, all rolled into one. Clay stands at the counter, still in his dirtied jeans and t-shirt. I walk up behind him, the tiles cool on my bare feet. It takes a moment to summon the nerve to step forward and wrap my arms around his waist. I press my nose to his spine.

His muscles clench under my hands.

I cling tighter. Is this okay? He’s made it clear he’s not my boyfriend.

That was supposed to be fine.

That’s what I wanted, too. But now I feel it. I feel it in his boundaries. I feel it in the way things change between us. How he gets distant. How things grow formal. How that squint reenters his brow, the longer it’s been since play finished.

His abdomen expands under my arms, and he places one of his huge hands over mine and strokes it. “What would you like to eat?”

A warm wave of relief fills me. “Actually, I brought something for us to have together.”

“You did?” He turns around. His face seems years younger. “What did you bring?”

He smiles. For a moment, I can’t talk. I’m looking at his smile and thinking about his laugh. How he laughed outside with me on the trampoline. How the boom of it rattled through the yard and through me.

Clay Colson. No Grinch included. Like before.

Maybe I’m bringing the old him back.

“I’ll show you.” I let go of him and skip to my backpack, take out the tin, and put it on the table.

He joins me with two coffees and sits.

I pry off the lid. “I made biscotti.”

“You did?” He leans over and peers inside the tin, then drags it over.

I lied a bit. There’s not just biscotti. I made one batch of biscotti and two batches of Greek biscuits I’d been longing to make ever since a friend took me to a Greek bakery years ago.

“I made them for you.”

With my precious almond flour.

“You made them especially for me?” He looks up from the tin, and his brow has a completely different kind of squint than usual. One that makes me fluttery.

I swallow. “Yes.”

“Then I guess I’d better try them all.” He takes one of each and lines them up in front of him.

“Well, aren’t I a lucky man?” He glances up at me and winks.

Winks. My heart skips five beats. A grin bursts across my cheeks.

I step in closer to watch him eat. I’ve only ever seen him have his gross green smoothies for breakfast but do remember observing an empty packet of biscotti in the trash bin once.

He starts with the hard Italian one with slivered almonds. The biscotti cracks and snaps between his teeth. Then he looks at me then back at the biscotti and swallows. “You made this?”

My smile feels as if it’s going to burst my face. “I did.”

“They’re excellent, Katie.” He eats the rest of the biscotti then takes a drink of coffee.

I lean against his chair. He glances at me then scoots back. I don’t need more invitation than that to climb into his lap.

He holds me with one arm and reaches for a crescent-shaped biscuit with his free hand and takes a bite.

His rumble of appreciation vibrates right against me.

“You really like them, Clay?” My throat spasms at having used his name deliberately.

But he doesn’t ease me off him.

He finishes the biscuit and sucks the powdered sugar from his thumb. “I adore them.”

Ripples of delight shiver through me. I glance at the clock, squeezing my legs together. If only I could stay longer…

Maybe I’d never leave.

He reaches back into the tin and takes another hard one and hands it to me.

I take the biscotti and eat without tasting a thing, watching him devour the last of my creations with the same eagerness as he had the first.

I stare at his mouth as he chews.

“It was very sweet of you to make these for me” He meets my gaze. “You’re a sweet, lovely girl, Katie.”

I’m hot and cold, with goosebumps and sweat all at once. I have absolutely no idea if this is Clay or Daddy talking, but I’m in big trouble.

Not the fun kind of trouble I’m desperate for more of.

I’m in danger of losing myself to our pretending.

His attention flicks to my mouth.

Oh, thank god. I lean closer, sliding my hand up his chest, tilting my face to his.

“I have a present for you, too,” he whispers.

A sigh fans out of me. Nothing less than finally kissing me is going to cut it.

He slides me off his lap. I huff and go to my own seat. He disappears out of the kitchen then returns with a shoebox under his arm and kneels down next to my chair.

I slide around to face him. “What are they for?”

He takes the lid off the box and pulls apart tissue paper.

I gasp and lean forward. My whimsical little heart does a summersault. Multicolored, freaking glittery sneakers that dreams must be made of nestle in a cloud of white tissue.

“Oh…” I press a hand to my cheek. They’re too much.

Too perfect. Too me.

He fishes for something else at the bottom of the box and retrieves brand new purple socks and puts them on my feet.

My face gets hot. I can’t sit still.

He puts one shoe on then the other.

A jitter starts in my muscles. He gave me a wonderful present. Gifts are something that are never underappreciated in my house.

And also not something I accept from men.

“They’re beautiful, but you really didn’t have to get me anything.”

My voice is barely audible, but he looks up.

He clutches my ankle. “Why did you bake for me?”

My fingers drop from my cheek. “I wanted to make you happy.”

A Daddy frown plasters his brow and makes my heart race faster. “And do you have any idea how happy it makes me when you let me take care of you?”

Let me. He says that as if it’s my gift to him.

“How happy?” My tongue darts between my lips. I know the question was rhetorical, but I can’t help myself.

“So happy.” He strokes up the back of my calves. “It’s my honor when you let me take care of you.” He looks away, and his voice gets rougher. “It makes me feel like the strongest man in the world.”

He presses his lips to my knee, and the sensation shoots through me like a knock to my funny bone, except straight to my heart.

“It makes me feel like I can do anything—conquer anything.” His breath is hot on my knees…and shaky.

I reach for his bent head and stroke his thick, sandy hair. My chest is so tight, my breath thick like honey. His words dredge through me, and I’m the one who’s honored. So honored that he would tell his feelings to me.

“Thank you, Daddy. I love them.”

He groans and presses his face to my knees as if he hurts.

“You’re the best,” I whisper. His hair slides between my fingers. I feel him twitch. “You make me feel so good.” I lean down closer. “So safe.”

He goes still then leans back, his face colored as though he hasn’t been breathing. “I need to shower for work.”

“Okay.” My throat scratches. Did I say something wrong?

He stands, not looking at me but through me, and it’s like a brick dropping on my ribs.

“You can let yourself out, can’t you?”

“Of course, Clay.” The word is so bitter, I almost call him boss.

For spite.

He leaves the room. I sit there longer than I should. Pipes rattle from down the hall.

I wipe my face and collect my things. I’ve never felt more than I have in the last few days with him, but I don’t think I can keep doing this.

Not this way.

I go to the front door and undo the latch and open the door. A figure bursts inside, knocking me back.

“What the hell is going on?” a deep voice floods the foyer.

I stumble, and it’s not even because of the knock to my shoulder—it’s from the sight of the enormous, agitated man stalking into the house.

Fuck-me-sideways.

It’s Blake Magnus.

I touch my mouth to ensure it’s closed. He turns to me. Everything in the world is wrong right now. This is Blake Magnus, the world of sports’ golden boy of sunshine and smiles, and he’s out-scowling Clay.

“Where the fuck is Clay?” He comes closer, as though I’ve got his business partner locked in the basement.

“I…” I clear my throat. “I mean he…”

“Well?” His hands go to his hips, and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s the one who barged in and bowled me over.

Also, I work here.

“He’s not available.” I grab the side of the door. “Can I help you with something?”

He snarls and looks around. “He called in late for the second time in two days.”

He starts into the living room. I follow after him. He opens the cloak cupboard and looks inside.

I shake my head. Like, really, does he think Clay could even fit in there?

“He’s been doing all kinds of strange shit.” He slams the cupboard and looks at me again. “He could barely focus at meetings, so you either tell me what’s going on…”

He approaches, and my bravado disintegrates.

“Or you get his ass to me right now,” he finishes.

I touch my mouth. Oh, shit. It all clicks. What’s been going on the last few days. This is all my fault.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distract him.”

He’d even mentioned meetings. Did his work suffer because of me?

“You?” Blake’s posture changes. His shoulders drop down, he straightens, his expression evens. “You’re what’s been going on with him?”

“I’m sorry.” I swallow.

He looks me up and down then up again, and his eyes widen.

Seriously? Did he assume I was the maid?

Is it really that hard to believe Clay could be into me?

“Look, he’s in the shower. He shouldn’t be long.” I adjust my backpack and maneuver around him back to the foyer. “But I promise I’ll try to keep social time outside of business hours from now on.”

A huge hand clamps on my shoulder.

I freeze. Oh, god. Was sorry not enough?

“Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart.” He puts his arm around me and steers me back into the house. He’s smiling like he’s posing with a trophy. “You just keep doing what you’re doing.”

What? Wasn’t he just annoyed?

“Thanks for your approval, but I’m trying to go.” I duck under his arm, back toward the door. “I have things to do.” I freeze at the entrance. A red, spaceship-looking, something-expensive is parked behind my blue rust-bucket. “And you’ve blocked me in.”

He pulls the front door shut. “So I have.”

I frown at him. He’s still smiling like a weirdo, hands shoved into his pockets, and rocking back on his heels.

Did he take a few too many baseballs to the head during his career?

“Well, could you move, please?”

He tosses his keys up in the air and catches them. “You got it, sweetheart.”

I fish my keys out of my backpack and go to my car then buckle myself in. His engine roars behind me. I reverse out of Clay’s drive. The sports car dashes off ahead of me.

If I hadn’t just fucked one baseball star while screaming for Daddy this morning, I’d say this right now was the strangest thing to ever happen to me.

* * *

She’s late.

I don’t bother getting up from my armchair, just glance at Dixie gnawing on her treat on her mat in the corner. Dix would let me know before her car even made it down the driveway.

That’s what she does every morning. Let’s me know when Katie’s here.

It’s ridiculous she ever thought she could sneak in without my knowing. But this isn’t morning.

Why isn’t she here?

I take a gulp of apple juice, it’s sweetness making my tongue click. Wish it where fucking anything else—beer, Jack, battery acid.

But I need to keep my head.

My phone buzzes. I jerk it out of my pocket and look at the screen. Gah. It’s only Blake.

Are you coming to watch the game with me?

I punch out my reply—No.

There’s no point explaining further. Nothing good would come from telling him what’s happening tonight. That I’m going to Daddy the fuck out of my little dogwalker until she’s properly owned. Again. Properly.

I breathe out hard.

Why hasn’t she called?

But I know.

I set the cellphone down on the arm of the chair. I’ve blown it. Maybe I went too hard too fast? My teeth grind. Maybe I didn’t go hard enough?

Fuck. I was weird after I gave her the shoes.

“You were always too cranky and brooding to talk to me.”

I let out a groan. Should’ve talked to her more. Girls like conversation. She said she likes talking to me. But why would a sweet, pretty, playful twenty-three-year-old like her want to mess around with a sour, sad asshole like me?

A Grinch.

She’ll probably quit.

Leave Dixie. Leave me. Leave us.

Never come back.

I glance at the phone. An hour. It’s a full hour later than she said. If she quits, I don’t know what I’ll…

I lean my head on the seat. For the last year, she’s kept me rolling. Baseball used to keep me rolling. When that went, there was nothing.

Nothing.

A great, consuming nothing.

The thickening of dread in my guts reminds me what it was like before she came. How the nothing bound me. Until there was someone arriving every morning who I needed to get up to let inside. Not just someone but a sweet, busy, infuriating someone. Katie. And it wasn’t enough to be up. I had to be showered, dressed, shaved, because when I opened that door for her, I wanted her to see a man.

A real man.

A whole man.

I grab the cellphone and dial her. The line clicks.

“Katie,” I growl, half wishing I could soften it.

Her breath shudders down the line. “Clay…”

My heart plunges. “Katie, what’s wrong?”

She breathes louder, and I hear her swallow. “Clay, I need you.”

I’m standing. I’m ready. I’m there.