Page 23 of Daddy's Girl

His grip tightens on my waist, fingertips digging into my hip bones. "Nope. Only when you’re around. I’ve resigned myself to having a hard-on for the rest of my life."

The rest of his life.

The casual way he says it—like we have a future beyond next week, beyond next month—catches me off guard. My breath hitches, and I feel him go still behind me, sensing the shift.

"That scare you?" he asks, voice dropping lower. Not a challenge, but a genuine question.

I swallow hard. "No.” I answer, but the truth is much more complicated.

Am I scared? Yes. I’ve fallen down into a deep hole with Jack and if he decides that play time is over, I already know my heart will never recover.

His chin comes to rest on top of my head, his chest expanding against my back with a deep breath.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and those two words light up my nervous system like a Christmas tree. He steps back, rummaging for something in the wooden tackle box a few feet away.

He told me he built it himself when he was only ten. Made from scraps he found behind his father's woodshop. I asked about his father and his demeanor changed.

"He was a mean drunk," Jack said. "Cheated on our mom. Hit her once. Only once." His voice turned dark and heavy. "Me and my brothers made sure of that."

I left it alone after that. I don’t want to push, and sometimes, less is more.

I focus on the fishing, the water, the way sunlight filters through the pines. The day stretches lazy and warm around us.

That's when I see them—gleaming just beneath the water's surface, twenty feet downstream. The distinctive honeycomb pattern of Petoskey stones, partially buried in the riverbed where the bank cuts sharply away.

Jack is busy re-baiting his hook, crouched down, his back to me. I want to surprise him, bring back a perfect Petoskey, which for me is like giving someone a diamond or a new truck. Neither of which are even close to my budget, so a free rock might not seem like much, but to me, it’s precious.

I lower my rod to the grass and edge away, keeping my footsteps quiet on the soft earth. The bank narrows as I approach the stones, mud giving way to a sloping gravel incline. I crouch carefully, extending my arm toward the submerged treasures.

My fingers brush cool stone, slippery with algae. Almost there. The largest one, easily the size of my palm, sits tantalizingly within reach. But next to it—something glints with that florescent yellow. Could it be a Yooperlite? This far from the Upper Peninsula? But maybe, that would be a hundred times more precious than a Petoskey and I want to give that to him. A gift for Daddy.

I’m balancing on the balls of my feet within the oversized boots. I shift on the mud.

In less than a blink, I’m face first in the freezing water. The shock has me sucking for air but instead, I draw a full gulp of water, choking and coughing as the rubber boots fill instantly with icy water, turning to anchors dragging me deeper as the current catches my legs. My knee scrapes hard against a submerged rock, skin tearing as I scramble for the disappearing bank.

"Jack!" I gurgle, flailing as water rushes over my chest. Me and this river are not going to be exchanging gifts this Christmas, I can tell you that. I remind myself of my golden rule: showers, baths, hot tubs and water are all good, but rushing rivers are not my type of water.

“Jack!” I shout again, gulping air between being dunked in the freezing river, then, “Daddy! Fire!”

In seconds, strong hands scoop me under my arms, hauling me up and out like I weigh nothing. Jack's face is right there as I spit and gasp, his features like stone.

Not panicked. Not angry. Something worse—disappointed.

"What part of don’t go beyond that tree did you not understand?" His voice is low, controlled, but vibrating like a wire pulled too tight.

"I saw Petoskey stones," I stammer, teeth already chattering from the cold water, the boots lost in the river leaving me in sodden white socks, mud squeezing through my toes. "I was just—"

"Putting yourself in danger," he cuts me off, voice dropping to a dangerous register.

He doesn't wait for my response. In one fluid movement, he hauls me up and tosses me over his shoulder, driving the little air I managed to inhale out again. Blood rushes to my head as my wet hair dangles, water streaming down my face.

"Jack!" I squeak, hands finding purchase on the broad plane of his back. "My knee—"

"Is exactly why you're not walking," he growls, bending to collect our gear with his free hand, not even slightly unbalanced by my weight. His palm lands on my ass, holding me in place with a possessive grip that has heat swirling again in my center and those telling little muscle spasms start up again.

I can feel it in the tension of his shoulders beneath my hands, each step in the measured cadence of his strides making me more wary of what’s going to happen when we get back to the cabin.

"Icanwalk," I insist, even as pain throbs in my ankle.

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