Page 64 of Small Town Daddy

Since taking charge of my renovations, Marcus had been helping other people around the town. Mrs. Henderson needed some repairs to her place before winter, and Marcus had stepped in to help.

"Clearly." I stepped closer, swiping a finger against his shirt and holding it up. White powder coated the tip. "So, when are you going to tell me what’s going on upstairs?"

"Upstairs? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grinned, slow and crooked, the kind of grin that always got me in trouble.

"Daddy Marcus." I crossed my arms, trying to look stern. "You’ve been sneaking around that room for days now. What are you working on?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," he said, leaning in. His hand found my waist, pulling me closer. "Not yet, anyway."

"Not yet?"

"Mm-hmm." His lips brushed mine, barely there. Just enough to tease. "You’ll see when it’s done."

"That’s not fair," I murmured against his mouth.

"Life's not fair, baby girl," he whispered back, and God, the way he said it—low, rough, like he was tasting every word. My knees nearly buckled.

"Marcus—"

"Shh," he said, kissing me properly this time. Thoroughly. Like he had all the time in the world. His fingers slid up my spine, tangling in my hair, anchoring me to him. I melted, same as I always did, and forgot whatever argument I thought I’d been making.

When he finally pulled back, I was breathless. And suspicious.

"Don’t think you can distract me, Daddy," I warned, poking his chest. "I’m gonna figure out what you’re hiding."

"Good luck with that," he said, smirking as he grabbed his tools and headed toward the stairs. His boots thudded against the steps, each sound a reminder of the secret he still wasn’t telling me.

"Marcus!" I called after him, but he didn’t stop. Just waved over his shoulder like the cocky bastard he was.

I huffed, crossing my arms again. Whatever he was up to, I’d get it out of him eventually. One way or another.

Dinner was chicken Parmesan, the kind Marcus made when he wanted to spoil me. The kitchen smelled like garlic and basil, and the low hum of his playlist—classic rock tonight—set an easy rhythm as we ate. I twirled a strand of spaghetti around my fork, watching him across the table. His hands were still dusted with bits of sawdust, even though he’d washed them before sitting down. It clung to him, just like the mystery upstairs.

"Do you remember that pipe bursting?" I asked, smiling around the memory. “Funny to think that was this house. Life seems so different now.”

He glanced up mid-bite, brow lifting. "How could I forget? You screamed bloody murder."

"Well, excuse me for not expecting Niagara Falls in my kitchen," I shot back, laughing. "That was not a normal amount of water, Marcus."

"Well this place hadn't seen proper maintenance in years," he said, pointing his fork at me. "You’re lucky it didn’t come crashing down altogether."

"Hey, don’t insult her!" I wagged a finger at him. "She had good bones. Just needed some love."

"Yeah," he said, quieter now, his gaze softening. "Kind of like someone else I know."

I felt the heat crawl up my neck, but I ignored it, stabbing at my salad instead. "Anyway, if it weren’t for that stupid pipe, who knows where we’d be now?"

"Probably still dancing around each other at The Daily Grind," he teased. "Me trying to find excuses to talk to you without looking desperate."

"Please," I snorted. "You were about as subtle as a freight train."

"Worked, didn’t it?"

"Debatable," I muttered, but my grin gave me away.

We fell into an easy rhythm after that, trading memories like cards. The carnival date came up next—the night where we really started to feel like a couple. Then there was Emily, the misunderstanding that nearly wrecked everything before it started. Marcus grimaced when I brought her up.

"God, that was a mess," he said, shaking his head.

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