Page 40 of Daddy's Girl

"Last night," he says, his large hand coming up to grip my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Look at me, baby girl."

I freeze, caught in his intense blue gaze.

"I am so fucking proud of you," he says, each word deliberate and heavy. "Standing up to him like that. Not hiding. Not running."

Something melts inside me, a warmth that starts in my chest and spreads outward until my knees feel weak. No one has ever said those words to me before. Not my father. Not anyone.

"I had backup," I whisper, blinking against sudden tears.

His thumb brushes my lower lip, his grip on my chin still firm. "You didn't need it. You're not some victim I rescued anymore. You're steel now. My steel."

“Thank you.” I smile and I see how it melts him.

“Come. I’m going to feed you my famous FlapJacks.”

“I can feed myself.”

He answers with a swat on my ass. “Sit. I’m feeding you. It makes me hard.”

I snort. “Shocking.”

We finish breakfast and I clear the table, my belly full of five pancakes he fed me, when he comes up behind me.

"Got something to finish," he murmurs, his body caging mine as he presses his lips to my neck. "Won't be long."

I lean back against his chest, my hands still soapy. "I'll be here."

He squeezes my hips once, hard. "Damn right you will."

Then he disappears down the hall toward his shop. I dry my hands, pour another cup of coffee, reminding myself we need to get some juice or something from town, and pad around the cabin, letting the silence thrum with comfort.

I ease down the hall, remembering when I first walked in his shop, watching him work himself up and down, because of me.

I listen at the door to the rasp of sandpaper. The thump of solid wood on workbench. A low hum under his breath. Bob Seger on his classic rock playlist belting out, “Against the Wind”.

The door is partially open, a shaft of sunlight cutting across the wooden floor from the windows that line three walls.

He's there, shirtless, as usual, back taut and glistening as he leans over something curved and smooth and dark.

A rocking chair.

No, not just any rocking chair. Something special. The arms curve gently, the seat wider than normal, the back angled in a way that looks intentional. It takes me a second to realize what I'm seeing—it's made for a woman holding a baby. A nursing chair. I've only seen them in old movies, but this one is beautiful. Real.

I stop in the doorway, breath caught. He hasn't seen me yet.

His hands are steady. Gentle. Sanding a carved swirl into the armrest like it matters. Like it means something. Next to the chair, half-hidden by a tarp, I glimpse the beginning of something else—curved slats, small enough for a cradle.

"You made that?"

He turns slowly. Doesn't flinch. Just nods. "Been working on it since before you showed up."

He runs his palm over the seat, checking for snags. "Didn't know who it was for until last week."

My throat goes tight. "It's beautiful."

He shrugs one shoulder, like it's nothing. But I see the truth in his eyes.

"I like working with my hands. Keeps me still. Gives me something to leave behind." He pauses, thumb dragging along the edge of the wood. "Didn't always. I used to build things just to feel useful. Like maybe if I made enough, I'd earn the quiet."

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