Page 39 of Wild Daddy

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." I sink onto his beautiful handmade couch, feeling lost and small. "This is your world. Really your world. And it's amazing, but..."

"But?"

Tears come without warning. "You hate academia. You hate everything about my world—the pretension, the politics, the way people like my parents think they're better than people like you." I wipe my nose on my hand, destroying any academic sophistication I might have left. "And my world would never accept you. They'd see exactly what they want—some uneducated mountain man who corrupted their precious prodigy."

Cade crosses the room and kneels in front of me, hands gentle on my knees. "Baby, what brought this on?"

"I love you," I say, words torn from my chest. "I love you so much it terrifies me. But I don't see how this works."

"Look at me." His voice goes firm, authoritative. "You think I give a shit what your professors think of me?"

"It's not just that. If I change my thesis, I'll still need to defend it. Present to a committee of academics who think people like you are quaint curiosities to be studied, not equals to be respected. So much has happened in such a short time. My brain is short circuiting."

"So present it. Defend your work. Show them there are different kinds of intelligence." He cups my face, forcing eye contact. "If they don't like it, that's their fucking problem."

"But what about after? When I graduate and start my career? The conferences, the networking events, the politics of academia. You'd hate my world, Cade. You'd be miserable."

"Would I?" His eyebrows rise. "You sure about that?"

"Yes? You said yourself you hated school."

"I hated being told I was stupid because I learned differently. I hated being made to feel less than because I couldn't sit still in a classroom." His thumbs brush my cheekbones. "That doesn't mean I hate learning. It doesn't mean I hate intelligent conversation. It means I hate the bullshit hierarchy that says one way of being smart is better than another."

"But—"

"No buts." His voice goes stern, cutting off my protest. "You're going to write the thesis you want to write. You're going to defend the work that matters to you. And you're not going to worry about whether I can handle your world, because that's my job to figure out, not yours."

"Cade, I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking. I'm telling you." He stands up, towering over me in that way that makes me feel small and protected and completely owned. "You focus on your work. Let me worry about everything else."

"I don't understand how you can be so calm about this."

"Because I love you, little girl. Because I'd rather spend one day in a world I hate with you than a lifetime in paradise without you." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Now, I need to run into town to check on my storefront. You're going to stay here and work on your thesis. The real one, the one that matters to you."

"Cade—"

"No arguments. When I get back, I want to see pages. Real pages, not academic bullshit designed to impress people you don't even like." He grabs his keys. "Can you handle that?"

Despite everything, I nod. "Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl." He pauses at the door, looking back with intensity that steals my breath. "And Marley? Stop trying to protect me from your world. I'm a big boy."

The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone in his perfect paradise with my laptop and the growing certainty that I have no idea what I'm doing.

Hours later, I'm surrounded by crumpled pages and thesis carnage. Every time I try to write about transformative pedagogical frameworks, the words feel hollow. Academic jargon designed to hide the truth.

The truth is simpler: I fell in love with a man who taught me that intelligence comes in many forms, that trust requires courage, and that the most profound learning happens when you stop trying to prove how smart you are.

But how do you write that for a committee without sounding insane?

I'm contemplating whether to just withdraw from the program entirely when I hear Cade's truck rumbling up the drive. Relief floods through me—I need him to hold me, tell me it's going to be okay, help me figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with my life.

I abandon my laptop and rush outside, ready to confess that maybe I should give up on the whole thesis idea. Maybe some things can't be translated into academic language. Maybe some experiences are too transformative to be reduced to research methodology.

But when Cade steps out of his truck, words die in my throat.

He's wearing a suit. A perfectly tailored, charcoal gray suit that fits his massive frame like it was made for him. His beard is trimmed, hair combed back, and he looks like he stepped out of a boardroom.

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