Filthy Daddy (Her Billionaire's Baby Book 3) Read online

“Holy shit,” she said under her breath.

  “What?” I asked, automatically defensive of Emmy’s card. “It’s a sweet picture of the three of us. She probably liked that we all spent time together last night.”

  “Is that what it is?” Raven asked skeptically. “Three people just hanging out? Or did she draw a family?”

  I hadn’t thought about it like that, but now, when I glanced back down at the card, it’s all I could see, a family of three, holding hands, smiling.

  Shit.

  I opened the card and I was surprised to see that the message inside wasn’t written in Emmy’s jittery penmanship. Rather, the message inside was scrawled neatly in black pen ink. Somehow, I knew immediately that it was Caleb’s handwriting.

  I instinctively pulled the card closer to my chest, trying to hide the message from Raven. The message was short and to-the-point, but it still took me about twenty attempts at reading and re-reading it before the words sink in:

  “You turned what could have been the worst night in the world, into the best. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I hope you’ll let me thank you in person. Dinner?”

  7

  CALEB

  I let go of the rubber hand grips, letting two-hundred pounds of weight drop slam back into the stack behind the weight machine. Then I leaned forward, and took a deep breath while stretching out my biceps to alleviate the hot burn that crept through my muscles.

  “You’re just a little rusty because you haven’t been coming in enough,” Aaron said, chucking a fresh white towel in my direction. I caught it, even though it meant flexing the same muscle that were throbbing in my arms, and I used the towel to dust off the fresh glaze of sweat that had formed over my head and shoulders.

  “The more you lift, the easier it gets my friend,” Aaron said, as he slapped me on the back and chucked his own towel into the hamper and strode across the gym to bench the pair of dumbbells he’s hoisted up.

  Aaron Richie was one of the first neighbors I met here at The Camden, and he was probably my closest friend in the building. He had made his fortune young when he launched a tech startup out of his garage in Queens. The company spread like wildfire, and after a few years in business (and a billion in profits), he sold off his shares in the company and retired early.

  Aaron still invested here and there, but his main passion in life was fitness. The Camden’s private gym was basically his kingdom, and I would almost always find him polishing off a set of bicep curls at the weigh rack or lecturing one of the new guys on the merits of high-intensity interval training at the treadmill.

  Aaron was spending so much time at the gym that he finally decided to launch his own personal training business last year. He didn’t do it for the money. In fact, he didn’t even bother charging most of the guys here at The Camden. Aaron just did it because he loved working out.

  I was his first client, and Aaron helped me create a fitness routine that fit in with my busy work schedule. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been the best about keeping my routine lately and now my stiff muscles were the price I had to pay.

  “Talk to me, Caleb,” Aaron said, swinging around a chair and sitting down to face me.

  “What?”

  “Something’s on your mind. I can tell when someone isn’t focused.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said dismissively. “Just the usual, family stuff, life stuff.”

  “Ok,” Aaron said, refusing to give up. “Start with the family stuff.”

  I let out a heavy breath and shifted around on the weight bench, stretching my arms out again.

  “The family stuff…” my voice trailed off, and I shook my head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t charge by the hour,” Aaron joked. “Is this about your sister?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “Calista.”

  I’ve tried to explain the strange dynamic between my sister and I before, and I was actually touched that Aaron remembered.

  “She’s not doing too well. I don’t know if it’s drugs or alcohol or both, maybe. All I know is that I got a phone call a few days ago, telling me that my niece has nowhere to go if I don’t take her in.”

  “Damn,” Aaron shook his head. “How’s the kid handling it?”

  “She seems to be doing well,” I shrugged. “Better than she should be, considering the circumstances, I guess. But I don’t know, I guess I just feel in over my head. I’ve never really been around kids before.”

  “That’s not true,” Aaron protested. “You’re great with Morgan.”

  “That’s different,” I shrugged, and recalled the last time I had seen Aaron’s daughter, Morgan. “Spending a few minutes talking to a kid is a lot different than raising one.”

  “You made quite an impression on Morgan,” Aaron said with a shrug. “She named one her Ken dolls after you.”

  “Really?” I looked up, surprised. Aaron nodded.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly. “Fatherhood isn’t easy and things have been especially tough since everything that went down between Morgan’s mother and I.”

  He was referring to his messy divorce from Morgan’s mother, a former supermodel whom Aaron had loved and adored, right up until he found her in bed with another man. The divorce had left Aaron cynical towards love, but had only strengthened his resolve to be a good father for Morgan. He talked about her all the time.

  “Anyway,” he said quickly, “I always thought you’d be a good dad.”

  “Why?” I ask, stunned.

  “Just a hunch,” Aaron shrugged. “Some people seem like they’re cut out to be fathers and you always seemed like one of those guys to me.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I was surprised, maybe even partially flattered. But there was something about raising kids that also made me a bit nervous.

  The idea of fatherhood has crossed my mind a few times, but after growing up and watching my family shatter, I never trusted myself to start a family. I didn’t like making promises that I couldn’t keep, and I felt like starting a family was the ultimate promise. I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to make a promise that big.

  “Maybe you’ll feel differently once you’ve met the right person.”

  Immediately my mind went to Daisy. I remembered how stunning she looked the other night, her blonde hair in loose waves and her blue eyes reflecting the want that I felt for her. I remembered how she felt in my arms, how her lips tasted. I felt myself get hard just imagining how good her body would taste. I shifted around on the weight bench awkwardly.

  Maybe I should have used more restraint that night. Maybe I should have held back, or kept things platonic between us. I was tempted by beautiful women on a daily basis, and I have no problem saying no. I don’t know what made Daisy Wright any different. I don’t know why I couldn’t keep my hands off of her. Why I felt so certain that I needed her. And I don’t know why watching her rush out of my apartment left me feeling so confused and conflicted.

  All I knew is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since then.

  I had to see her again.

  8

  DAISY

  By the time Friday rolled around, I somehow rebranded Caleb’s dinner invitation as a ‘teacher meeting.’ You know, the sort of meeting that a concerned parent (or, in this case, emergency custodian) arranged with a sympathetic teacher (in this case, me) to discuss the academic future and developmental well-being of their precocious child (in this case, Emmy).

  During my tenure at Bellamy Day, I have played the role of sympathetic teacher at plenty of these dinner meetings. I’ve listened compassionately as housewives fretted about their child’s pending admission to prep school. I’ve soothed absentee fathers who wondered why their kid had turned into a playground bully.

  These meetings usually took place somewhere sterile and uninspired; over bento boxes on Lexington Avenue, or bodega sandwiches nibbled on a bench in Central Park. These �
��meetings’ definitely did not take place in a Michelin-star rated restaurant, and definitely not over a bottle of Jacques Selosse champagne that cost more than my monthly share of the rent payment back in Williamsburg.

  As soon as I reached the doors of the NoMad Hotel to meet Caleb, all of my carefully crafted convictions of this being a strictly-business ‘meeting’ arranged to discuss Emmy’s well-being at Bellamy went straight out the window.

  As soon as I saw him waiting, hands tucked into the pockets of a sleek black slim-fit suit, face illuminated in the glow of a street lamp, I realized that it was, indeed, a date.

  And I was screwed.

  Caleb reserved a table for us in a dimly-lit corner of the NoMad Hotel’s restaurant. The restaurant was full of the chatter of fellow diners, but our little corner felt blissfully private. I was the sole object of Caleb’s attention.

  And sitting there, under the intense scrutiny of his gaze, the memory that I had tried so hard to suppress all week -- the memory of our kiss -- was suddenly on the forefront of my mind.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked me after the waiter pours our champagne and scurries away.

  “Not at all, Mr. Preston,” I fibbed, hoping he doesn’t see the way my heart was pounding furiously against my rib cage.

  “I insist you call me Caleb,” he said, almost sternly.

  “Mr. Preston,” I repeated stubbornly, intent on holding my own in this conversation. “I prefer to keep things professional with the parents of my students.”

  “Miss Wright,” Caleb said, trying out my name and smiling, like he was savoring the taste of it on his tongue. “Let’s drop this charade. We wouldn’t be sitting here if we hadn’t already crossed that line.”

  “That was a mistake,” my cheeks turned hot pink. “A lapse of judgement.”

  “Was it?” Caleb asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “The way your heart’s about to burst through your blouse suggests otherwise.”

  I flicked my eyes down to the low neckline of my black silk blouse, an item I borrowed from Raven’s closet when my own wardrobe failed to provide anything suitable for my not-a-date with Caleb.

  He took a coy sip of champagne, reveling in watching my nerves simmer.

  “Why did you agree to meet me tonight?”

  “I was under the impression that we could clear the air, Mr. Preston, share a professional meal and discuss how this transition is going to impact Emmy’s performance at Bellamy.”

  I hated the sound of those words as they came out of my mouth. It was the same kind of canned, generic phrasing that the administration at Bellamy just loved to use when discussing a “problem child.” I hated that kind of talk, and it was obvious from the disdain on Caleb’s face that he hated it too.

  “Drop the act, Daisy,” Caleb said sharply. “If I wanted a parent-teacher conference, I would have barged into the headmaster’s office already. We both know that I’m not here to play the role of whiney Upper East Side parent, alongside the fact that you’re not here to play the mousy little teacher.”

  I gulped on my champagne, forcing myself to swallow and breathe. If anyone else spoke to me that way, I’d be furious. Growing up in Brooklyn, I learned early on to stand my ground. But I did not feel an ounce of anger then, simmering in the heat of Caleb’s stare. I felt wildly turned on, like my entire body was engulfed in the energy between us. And while every instinct I had told me to resist, my brain could not stop my panties from growing wetter or my heart from hammering harder.

  Caleb Preston was different tonight. This was not the same Caleb that sat in my office a few days ago, or the one that served Ramen noodles and watched a Disney movie with his niece. He was in his element. Powerful.

  “So why are we here?” I asked, forcing myself to match the intensity of his tone.

  “You already know the answer to that, too.” He moistened his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, and I remembered how he tasted that night.

  “You should know that I don’t date,” I said firmly.

  “Good,” he smiled. “Neither do I.”

  “And I don’t do,” I paused, struggling to find the right word, before finally settling on, “whatever this is.”

  “This is just dinner,” Caleb said, flashing an innocent smile.

  Before I had a chance to protest, the waiter intruded to take our order. I hadn’t even opened my menu yet, but Caleb ordered for us both, and my mind was racing with so many flustered, conflicting thoughts that I barely listened as he did.

  “I’m surprised that you picked this place.”

  “Why?” Even with one word, one syllable, his voice had a way of challenging me. Issuing an unspoken dare. He had made his point loud and clear. We were on his territory now, and he was the one in charge.

  “It’s a hotel,” I said, taking a sip of champagne and making a mental note to pace myself. My body already feels drunk on Caleb’s presence. I did not need my head to go, too.

  “Isn’t a hotel the perfect place for a d-” he paused, for dramatic effect, eyeing me coyly before finishing: “Dinner?”

  I don’t bother pointing out that my usual dinner selections are limited to microwave meals and PB&J sandwiches. I certainly did not frequent five-star hotels and restaurants.

  “Maybe it’s because I grew up in hotels,” he speculated, his eyes wandering around the moody little restaurant now. “But I’ve always found something so sensual and exciting about them.”

  “Really?”

  “People aren’t themselves in hotels. They’re strangers exploring a foreign land, and that somehow inspires them to become someone better, a more exciting version of themselves. They dress up, they order room service, they upgrade to the junior suite, they pay extra for a bottle of champagne instead of prosecco. And the best part is, that if two of these fascinating strangers meet and the mood strikes, pure bliss is just a room key away.”

  “I thought only junkies rented hotel rooms by the hour,” I said defiantly.

  I know what you’re trying to do, Caleb Preston. But I was not falling for it.

  “Besides,” I added, pausing for a sip of champagne, “What you’re describing isn’t sensual. It’s just so empty.”

  “How so?” he frowned.

  “Fake people having fake conversations with other fake people in a hotel bar, until they’ve mustered enough fake intimacy to have some fake sex in a fake hotel room?” I scoffed. “It sounds completely contrived and meaningless.”

  “Life is contrived and meaningless,” Caleb said deeply. “And you want to talk about fake? Relationships are fake. Intimacy is a lie. Love dies, marriages break apart, people cheat, people hurt each other, people abandon their families. But connecting with another human, even if it’s a stranger, even if it’s only for a few fleeting moments of passion in a hotel room, that’s real.”

  My heart was pounding through the veins of my neck and I was not sure if it’s Caleb or the champagne, but my head was spinning.

  “I disagree.”

  “Why?”

  “Intimacy means different things to men and women.” My own cynicism was the only thing keeping me grounded now, and I took a deep breath before continuing. “Sex isn’t fulfilling to everyone. I think women need more than that, to feel true intimacy. I think women need love.”

  “Sounds like you haven’t been having sex with the right kind of people,” Caleb eyed me intently.

  ...or at all, I wanted to add, but I bit my tongue, determined to keep a level head through dinner. I sat back in my chair, and tried to clear my head. I tried to remember why I thought this was a good idea.

  “Aren’t hotels like this technically your competition?” I asked, trying to change the conversation.

  “All the more reason to come,” Caleb shrugged. “There’s plenty of room in the sea for different kinds of fish.”

  “I’m not sure that’s how the analogy goes.”

  “No?” his eyes twinkled up at me, challenging me again. “Remind me, then, how does it g
o?”

  I felt my stomach twist and my heart hammered against my ribs, and I could feel the effect of his intense gaze all the way down to the slick heat growing between my thighs. It was becoming all too easy to soothe my nerves with champagne, and I know that I should stop.

  “The saying is that ‘there are plenty of fish in the sea.’”

  “But surely not all the fish are the same,” he added, raising an eyebrow like it’s a question that I’m supposed to answer.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, there are little fish: minnows, guppies…” his eyes flickered meaningfully, but he not smiling anymore. His words weren’t just a challenge anymore. They were a warning. “And then there are big fish. Sharks.”

  It was obvious what he wanted me to ask next, and I could not stop myself from indulging him.

  “What kind of fish are you, Mr. Preston?”

  His eyes flashed darkly and he smiled, then he takes a long sip of champagne.

  “The kind you should stay away from.”

  9

  CALEB

  Broadway was a nightmare at night, but the thought of seeing Daisy lit up under the glittering lights as we strolled uptown was enough to make me stomach the trek after dinner.

  I offered her my arm when we left the restaurant, and she didn’t protest. She tucked her hand into the crease of my elbow, and I felt a throb of hot excitement when she pressed her body against mine.

  A few years ago, when I was still impatient and impulsive, I wouldn’t have made it through dinner with a girl like Daisy Wright. Especially not with her tits tempting me through that silk blouse. Especially not with her legs crossing and uncrossing eagerly under the table, shifting around in her soaking wet panties. Especially not the way she defied me, practically begging to be punished.

  The old Caleb Preston would have thrown her over his shoulder, right there in the hotel dining room, and carried her all the way to the concierge desk to demand a room. The old Caleb Preston would have brought her upstairs, thrown her onto the bed, and teased and tantalized every inch of her body, until she cried out in defeat, admitting that I was right about sex and intimacy.