Dark Daddy Valentine Read online

  Dark Daddy Valentine

  Tilly Pope

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Also by Tilly Pope

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Tilly Pope

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About Dark Daddy Valentine

  He’s so dark and delicious. Like a box of Valentine’s Day chocolates.

  Stacy

  I might be a bad girl.

  He says he can “train it out of me”

  Like a dog? Uhm…no thank you!

  But after one Valentine’s Day surprise with my next door neighbor, Kane, I’m hooked.

  Well… tied.

  Can he turn me into a good girl?

  Or will I stay bad and enjoy the ride?

  Kane

  Stacy is a very bad girl. She’s also my neighbor.

  But, I have just the fix for her.

  A Valentine’s Day she’ll never forget.

  By the end of the night with me, she’ll be calling me daddy.

  Short, hot, and over the top! If you love possessive alpha males, totally unrealistic insta-love romance, this one’s for you! No cliffhanger, no cheating, and a guaranteed HEA!

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  For all my super yummy over the top readers!

  Who’s your daddy?

  1

  Stacy

  Lightning bolts tear through the blackest sleep I’ve ever been in. I sit up and stare at the spinning room trying to remember who I am, how I got here, and what the fuckity-fuck that noise is.

  The high-pitched beep, beep, beep screams through my skull again and I grip my head in both hands.

  “I’m up.” I groan as things drift back.

  I’m Stacy Marks.

  I work at Blue Lagoon hair salon and spa.

  I’m in my bed, my home that I live with my bestie, Vivian.

  And I’m hung the fuck over.

  How did we even get home last night? I remember flashing lights, clubs, loud music. Viv rubbing up on me in our usual keep-the-guys-away defense mechanism designed to make the wanna-be bad boys think we’re lesbians so they leave us in peace to just dance. I remember throwing my hands up, the low cut shirt I’d used double-sided tape inside of to keep my tits from popping out the sides and middle, and the stares of guys while we lost ourselves in the music.

  And drinks.

  I remember pounding shot after shot after shot.

  Not because my heart had been broken. Not because I’m a party girl. But because I’m a normal girl going through an existential crisis.

  I look in the mirror and wonder who the hell I am. What am I doing with my life? Where am I going?

  Those thoughts, at twenty-four, are the bane of my existence.

  I’m some woman that’s stuck in what feels like a dead end job. I’ve given up on my high-powered dreams of going somewhere and being someone. I’m not going to be a microbiologist like I’d wanted to be. I’m not going to be married by thirty, unless I meet someone and fall in love like yesterday.

  The rat-a-tat-tat of a jackhammer on concrete pierces my skull like a tattoo needle to the brain and I wince at the reverberation of hung over headache pain. With one arm wrapped protectively around my head like I can keep out the noise, I rub the sandy grit out of the corners of my eyes. My fingertips come away black and I groan. I didn’t take off my makeup last night! I bet I look like a raccoon.

  Reaching over to my nightstand, I notice the slow, lazy spin of the world. I drank way too much last night. I’m not sure if I’m hung over or still drunk. Maybe both. Running my fingers through my short blond waves, I pull a makeup removing wipe out of the package from my nightstand.

  Rubbing the thing over my face, I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Until that freaking beeping starts up again.

  “Are you kidding me?” I demand of the universe before throwing back my blankets. This has to be some cosmic punishment. Maybe for the misdeeds I don’t remember from last night. I mean, there’s no stranger in my bed and I’m in my home, in my bed, so it couldn’t have been anything too bad.

  Right?

  I stand up and the arch of my foot comes down hard on one of my high heels, which are upside down next to the bed. Pain tears through my foot and I suck in a hissing breath. Yep, karma’s coming after me. I’m being punished.

  Lifting my foot, I gently rub the throbbing spot as more loud noises begin to crowd in. Guys yelling at each other, beeping machines, jackhammers, a collective shout as something wooden crashes to the ground and breaks.

  The double sided tape sure as heck should earn a war medal for bravery in battle because my tits are still contained. Still, I’m not about to go outside and do a walk of shame while trying to shame the person doing loud construction work at…

  I pick up my phone to check the time.

  …One pm.

  It’s already one in the afternoon?

  Don’t I have to work today?

  I search my still-fuzzy brain in a panic before remembering that it’s Tuesday; my first day off. Which was part of the reason we’d been out partying last night. Because I didn’t have to work today and neither did Viv.

  Viv! Is she still sleeping?

  Standing up—careful not to step on my shoes this time—I head to the bathroom off my bedroom. The house is old money. Viv’s grandmother had left her the place when she passed away two years ago and we’d moved in right away and never looked back. But the place is the kind of money where all eight bedrooms have their own attached full baths complete with tubs that would put a spa to shame and showers that make me swoon. As a girl who’d grown up in a poverty-stricken neighborhood with big dreams, it was the kind of place I’d always hoped to live in but never really thought I’d get to live in.

  Viv isn’t impressed with money. We’d bonded at the tender age of ten over a mutual love of horses—of course—while I was working in a barn for some cash. She boarded her horses there and we’d met when I’d easily walked into the pasture and haltered up her favorite horse.

  She’d asked me how I did that, since the gelding wouldn’t even let her close. I’d shrugged. All the time I’d spent with him had made him trust me, I guessed, and we’d been fast friends ever since. Because—as girl logic dictated—if her horse trusted me, she could trust me.

  We’d outgrown our insane love of horses over time, but we hadn’t outgrown our friendship.

  “Ay, Viv!” I called out to my friend over the noise but heard no response.

  Which didn’t surprise me; she often slept with earplugs in. How she puts them in drunk, I have no idea. For once, I wish I’d followed her example. But I don’t like not being able to hear; what if there’s a fire?

  I step into the bathroom, looking for my robe. Stumbling over the cord to my curling iron, I watch the thing fly off the counter and hit the hardwood.

  “Damn it.” I can’t catch a break this morning. I pick it up and put it back on th
e counter, looking for my robe as the noise increases, along with the tinny ringing in my ears. It’s almost as if a baker is slamming two big, aluminum baking sheets together inside my head.

  The robe isn’t hanging behind the door and I remember I left it on the back of the chair in my room. So I turn off the light and leave the bathroom. My little toe finds the door jamb and pain screams through me as I stub my toe.

  “Shit!” I sit down and touch the bright red little toe. The fire-engine-red polish is chipped and I can see the skin starting to turn purple around the base of the toe.

  It’s going to be a bad day. I know it. I should go right the fuck back to bed. Right now. This instant. But as the construction noises continue, I know there’s no hope of going back to sleep and starting over again.

  I’m going to have to go out there and demand some peace and quiet.

  So I pull myself up and hobble toward the chair with sheer force of will alone. Focused on the red satin gown-like robe that could almost pass for an elegant, old-fashioned ballroom dress, I tell myself that I can do this. Splitting headache and all.

  I’ll march outside and scream at everyone to shut the fuck up.

  And Lordy help them, they better listen.

  Otherwise, I’m gonna have to bring out my crazy side.

  And that bish likes three things: alcohol, fighting, and rough sex.

  She only comes out when I’ve been drinking, usually, but I bet she’ll stick up for me when I’m at the low point I’m at today. I shrug into my robe and put on my game face.

  Time to let some loud bastards have it.

  I’m going to get some peace and quiet today. No matter what I have to do to get it. And I’m sure as heck not going to let this headache, my hurt foot, my stubbed toe, karma, or some hot, sweaty construction workers stop me.

  Wrapping the elegant robe around my slim waist, I glance down at my full breasts. It’s a love-hate relationship. I love that they’re full and large and sexy, but I hate that they make me look chubby even though I’m slim, I hate that they point straight ahead rather than up in that perky way I prefer, and I hate that no one takes me seriously because I have big tits.

  Still, they make low cut shirts more fun to wear. And I love showing off side-boob and cleavage. But right now, when I want people to listen to me and take me seriously, they’re just going to be in the way.

  I sigh.

  I’ve got this.

  Pain stabs through my brain and my stomach twists. I grab my head and swallow the flood of saliva that fills my mouth. I’m not going to throw up.

  Slipping on my heels and hating them for a moment, I wonder if I can even walk in them. The world is still slowly spinning when I focus on things. But if I let my eyes relax, the spinning stops. It’s strange and gut-wrenching and I want it to stop.

  With the robe around me, and my feet firmly wrapped up in my cute, strappy heels, I walk for my bedroom doors. Pushing the double doors open like a queen on a rampage, I head for the front door.

  They’re not going to get away with making so much noise.

  Not on a weekday. Not while I’m hung the fuck over. Not while I need silence.

  What am I going to say?

  That I’m sick! I’ll say I’m sick. It’s not technically a lie. It’s not exactly the truth, either, but that doesn’t matter as much.

  Lifting my chin, I storm out of the house and down the street.

  The construction crew is down the block a way and I wish we’d taken the time to formally meet our neighbors when we moved in. Is that Beatrice’s house? The old widow that brought us pie when we’d moved in and reminisced about Viv’s grandmother and the good old days?

  No, she was down a few more houses… wasn’t she?

  Another lightning bolt slices through my brain and I grit my teeth as I go blind for a second. Stumbling a bit, I catch my balance and keep moving. Every step winds up my guts more like I’m going to puke and I swallow back saliva.

  I’m not going to throw up. Oh, hell no!

  I’m going to get some peace and quiet.

  And maybe meet some hot construction worker too.

  Because why the hell not?

  I deserve some fun and to blow off some steam.

  I didn’t bring home a stranger from the club last night. That’s commendable. I’m proud of myself.

  Besides, I’m horny, hungry, and maybe still drunk.

  A dangerous and fun combination for a single girl that’s not sure what she’s doing with her life.

  This is the time to make mistakes, right? While I’m young, dumb, and realizing life freaking sucks.

  2

  Kane

  “Things are going well!” The shift lead, John… Don—I can’t remember exactly what his name is—smiles at me and gives a thumbs up.

  “Excellent.” Despite the noise of the crew and my neighbor’s obvious unhappiness with my little construction project, I’m thrilled. We’re on time and on budget, no small feat for any construction crew. In my experience, any crew that can be on time and within budget is a winning group of people I want to be able to count on.

  I don’t like the glares out windows I’ve been receiving since the crew arrived and began work at noon, but I’d started work late in the day as a courtesy to my neighbors.

  It isn’t just for my neighbors, though. Scheduling the crew at noon meant I’d been able to go for my morning run and spend another three hours in my in-home gym just to keep up my routine. Still, as I watch these guys work, I wonder if I’m missing something in my morning workout. They all manage to be huge in the biceps, chest muscles, and the forearms.

  Not that I’m small or anything. These guys just seem to maintain so effortlessly. Maybe I need some tips. I’m not an average guy myself, but with all the hours I put in, you’d think I could put all these guys to shame. But no—they’re all cut motherfuckers.

  I run a hand through my short dark hair. Despite the expensive finishing products, I still wound up with thick, dark curls. Not that I mind, chicks seem to dig the look, but it isn’t easy hair to manage. “So how far do you think we can get today?” I shield my eyes from the early morning sunshine as I glance at him.

  He lifts both shoulders as I tuck a hand under my opposite elbow. With my arm across my ribs like that, I know I look bigger than I am. It’s an old throwback to being a kid growing up on the wrong side of the tracks. I was lucky; tall, dark and handsome as well as speaking fluent Italian meant no one fucked with me, but I was also an outcast. A poor immigrant boy from a poor family.

  But I pulled myself up by my bootstraps. An interesting phrase. Originally it meant something impossible. An impossible task. But it had grown to mean something else in America. It meant being strong, pulling yourself up through sheer will and internal fortitude to make something of yourself and bettering your situation through grit alone.

  I’d done that.

  I founded my own company.

  I’d gone from a poor boy of immigrant parents to a young man with a startup company.

  That startup had grown from a seed to a full on media company making video games your mother has probably played on her phone while waiting for you to finish with your dentist appointment or whatever. And we’ve branched into console games with the launch of Armageddon; The Beginning of the End, a zombie survival game that’s more fun that Zombieland, more challenging than The Walking Dead, and more interesting than World War Z.

  And now, with all that money from this insanely great idea I’d thought up in a fever dream, I’m adding on to my master bedroom. An addition that will be more fun when I have someone to share it with.

  But I have all the time in the world to find someone; I’m only thirty-five.

  “I think we can get a good chunk done today.” The contractor’s blue eyes focus on me.

  I nod, pleased with this outcome. “So keep on going. I want this done quickly. Bonus if you get done sooner rather than later.”

  He nods, dollar signs in hi
s eyes.

  I glance over in time to see a young woman—the same young woman that had stumbled home at four am with her roommate… lesbian lover?—march up in her red satin bathrobe. Somehow, she’s regal as a queen despite her walk of shame attire.

  With her arms tightly crossed and her eyes darting side to side like she’s either really mad or really drunk, she locks eyes with me and her brows shoot up.

  “Good afternoon.” We hadn’t been introduced, so I don’t have her name to fully greet her. Good afternoon will have to do. I notice the makeup smeared across her face, though she’d clearly tried to clean up before coming over. It looked like she’d used a baby wipe and just smeared whatever leftovers were on her face from last night’s partying.

  She snorts.

  And I try not to notice how beautiful she is. Sure, she’s clearly hung over and maybe even spoiled, but she really isn’t my type.

  “Are you aware that it’s one in the afternoon?” She peers up at me as if she has no idea how insane her words sound. Maybe she’d already had this whole conversation in her still-drunk mind and it made sense… but I can’t make heads or tails where she is coming from now.

  “I am. How is your day going?” It might be a cruel question. I know she’s hung over. Likely nursing a mean headache.

  “Awful. I need sleep. I’m sick.” She gives a pathetic cough that wouldn’t convince a child, much less myself. “So if you could do anything to quiet this noise…” She peers up at me, leaving me confused. Is she offering a favor for me to make things quiet for her? Is she still drunk?

  “What are you thinking?” I can’t help but push. Not because I want her to actually offer what I think she’s offering, but because I’m curious if this whole moment is real.