Page 40 of Hero Daddy

Before I could respond, Chad turned to her with perfect courtesy. "I hope you don't mind if I steal her away. I've been looking forward to this all morning." His smile was polite but held none of the warmth he'd shown me.

"Not at all," Mrs. Henderson replied, suddenly flustered under his direct attention. She patted her freshly polished nails against her chest. "We were just finishing up."

I glanced toward Trina, unable to resist. She stood frozen, her face a study in conflicting emotions—disbelief warring with jealousy, curiosity with something that looked almost like respect. Our eyes met briefly, and I saw the exact moment when understanding clicked into place—this was the "someone" I'd mentioned, and he was nothing like what she'd imagined.

"Let me grab my purse," I said, carefully placing the rose on my station.

"Allow me," Chad replied, reaching for my bag that hung on a hook behind my chair.

I quickly helped Mrs. Henderson from her chair, confirming our appointment for next week. She nodded distractedly, her gaze still fixed on Chad with undisguised curiosity.

"Your nail technician is in excellent hands," Chad told her. "I'll have her back in time for her next appointment."

As I slipped off my work smock, revealing the simple blue dress I wore underneath, I caught sight of my reflection in themirror. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright, my posture straighter than usual.

Chad's hand settled at the small of my back as we turned to leave – a light touch that was unmistakably possessive. The warmth of his palm seemed to burn through the fabric of my dress, a brand that marked me as his.

***

TheOldFrogBistrooccupied a corner building with weathered brick and gleaming windows, its wooden sign hand-painted in muted greens and golds. Inside, the atmosphere was all warm woods and soft lighting, with crisp white tablecloths and the gentle clink of silverware against china.

"Reservation for Wakes," Chad told the hostess, whose professional smile warmed considerably as she took in his broad shoulders and confident stance.

"Of course, sir. Right this way."

She led us to a table near a window, where dappled light filtered through potted plants hanging in the alcove. Chad inspected the table with a quick, assessing gaze, then frowned slightly.

"Is there a problem, sir?" the hostess asked.

"This table seems a bit unsteady," he said, giving it a gentle test with his hand. "Do you have another available? I wouldn't want our drinks to spill."

The minor correction was delivered with such calm authority that the hostess immediately apologized and guided us to a better table in a quiet corner. I watched, fascinated by how effortlessly Chad created a secure, comfortable space for us—checking that my chair was steady before seating me, ensuringwe weren't beneath an air conditioning vent that might leave me cold.

"Is the temperature comfortable for you?" he asked quietly as the hostess departed.

I nodded, unexpectedly touched by his attentiveness to details I wouldn't have thought to consider.

"So," he said once we were settled, his gray eyes warm with amusement, "I think I made quite an impression on your colleagues."

I laughed, feeling the last of my tension from the salon melt away. "You could say that. Trina practically swallowed her tongue."

"Trina being the one who was giving you those looks?"

I tilted my head, surprised. "You noticed that?"

"I notice everything about you, Little One. Including who treats you well and who doesn't." His voice remained casual, but there was steel beneath the words. "She seemed . . . surprised to see us together."

"She was." I traced the edge of my water glass with my fingertip. "She made some assumptions about what kind of man would be interested in me."

Chad's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he kept his expression neutral. "Her narrow vision doesn't define your worth."

Our server appeared with menus, temporarily halting our conversation. The offerings were written in elegant script—comfort food elevated to bistro sophistication, with prices to match. I automatically scanned for the less expensive options, a habit formed by years of careful budgeting.

Chad watched me over the top of his menu, those perceptive eyes missing nothing. "Order whatever your heart desires, Daliah," he said. "Don't even look at the prices. Daddy wants you to have exactly what you want."

The endearment, spoken low enough that only I could hear it, sent a warm shiver through me. In this public setting, it felt like a secret handshake, a reminder of the deeper connection we shared.

The truffle mushroom pasta caught my eye—rich, indulgent, hardly diet food. My stomach growled appreciatively, but years of ingrained food anxiety made me hesitate. Before Chad, before last night, I would have automatically chosen something "sensible"—a salad, perhaps, to avoid judgmental glances or unwanted comments.

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