Page 5 of Becoming His Perfect Daddy
After several long minutes of absolutely no typing whatsoever and even more completely unsuccessful attempts at ignoring the intrusive thoughts that told me I’d never find the perfect man for me, I sighed loudly to no one but my standoffish cat, Prickles, who was lounging in a patch of rare winter sun streaming in my office window. He was aptly named, because the moment I brought him home from the shelter a few months ago after a particularly brutal date—somehow both better and worse than the one tonight—he’d snubbed his nose at me and every singleguest who walked through the door with the exception of my self-proclaimed bestie, Tristan. The guy didn’t even like cats, and yet, Prickles set aside his snobbery in exchange for pets from my best friend. Tristan was always happy to oblige, kind soul that he was.
By the next month, I’d somehow managed to maneuver my way into second place by associating myself with Tristan, and Prickles would reluctantly cuddle me when he sensed I most needed it.
Like now, apparently. Because at the sound of my resignation, he sauntered over to me and leapt into my lap. I bit back tears. They didn’t come as easily as they had pre-testosterone, but my emotions were on a hair trigger at this point and about to overflow. It had been happening more frequently since I’d given up on love I wasn’t even sure I deserved. Life had shown me time and again that I wasn’t good enough to be cherished the way I longed for, anyway.
I lightly stroked the silky brown fur on my cat’s back as I let a single tear fall, the loneliness overwhelming and complete.
Sniffling, I wiped my eyes before carefully setting Prickles back on the ground. His cuddle limit was about to be reached, and I was suddenly dead on my feet, even though it was barely seven.
So I just went to bed alone. Again. Always.
Chapter three
Sam
Itook a deep breath as I stepped off the elevator on our floor, anticipating the receptionist’s reaction to my drastically different appearance. Normally, I loved chatting with Jessica when I arrived in the office, but today I was glad she’d stepped away from the desk for a moment. I quickly ducked down a side hallway that led directly to our corner of the open space.
I’d been working a few hours when the first person noticed, a sweet lady in her fifties from HR named Sally. “Oh my word, Samantha! Your hair! It looks so good on you!”
My hand flew to my now bare neck, and my fingers played with the short hairs there as I blushed. “Thank you,” I replied as she oohed and aahed over my short cut for an appropriate amount of time then moved on. Sally was being sweet, and I appreciated it, but one thing stood out above the others.
My name.
It’s Sam, I wanted to say. Shout. Hire a fucking skywriter. I stopped being Samantha the moment I knew I was a trans man, and I hated that I couldn’t tell anyone that. I hated that no oneknew the real me—no one ever had, really, even me. But now that I knew, I wished everyone else did, too.
I twisted back around in my chair as she went back to her office, adjusting my binder under my new white button-up shirt covered in tiny blue flowers that I’d paired with khakis, both from the new men’s store I’d found. God, it was so euphoric shopping there. I’d dropped a good portion of my paycheck revamping my wardrobe over the last month, but it was money well spent. I looked goddamn good in my new clothes—but even better, I felt more like myself.
Hormone replacement therapy, however, felt more daunting. More real. More . . . permanent. It felt an awful lot like commitment, and that wasn’t really my thing. I needed time to process, time for things to sink in, time for me to be able to make such an important decision.
Plus, doing it this way—cutting my hair, dressing in masculine clothes—felt good. Kind of. I mean, yes, it was euphoric, but who I was inside still didn’t match up with who I saw in the mirror. I mostly avoided my reflection, because I still didn’t feel like me.
I got back to work, and the loneliness crept in again. I thought I’d been lonely before, living as a straight woman with hardly any friends and acquaintance-esque relationships with my family, but knowing this major thing about myself and keeping it inside? I’d never felt so alone.
My job kept me busy, but while I worked, I mulled over an idea I’d had last night while reading Cameron’s latest email. He’d never hidden the fact that he was trans himself. Maybe he would understand where my head was at, perhaps more than anyone else I knew.
Maybe I should reach out—anonymously, of course. Maybe I should just start a conversation, see where it went.
From his author pictures and the one or two author interviews I’d seen online, the man was goddamn sexy. I always did go forhis type—blond hair, blue eyes, slim build—but I hadn’t even started taking testosterone yet. He’d never want to date someone like me if he met me in person, say nothing of taking me to bed.
So maybe I could reach out online, where it was safe. Where he couldn’t reject me for not looking like the man I now knew I was. Where I could stay anonymous and see if we had a spark.
God, that would be amazing if we did.
After work, I made myself a hot cocoa to feed my chocolate addiction, settled into my couch, and reread the email Cameron had sent this morning. Then I hit reply and typed up and sent an email before I could talk myself out of it.
My stomach flipped at the notification that popped up informing me the email had been sent, but a strange exhilaration thrilled through my veins. I was mostly a coward about everything—I took way too long to make decisions and rarely stood up for myself and what I wanted—but I’d been taking small steps toward the life I knew was meant to be mine, and this was just the next step. It felt right. Good. Ironically honest.
I smiled into my hot cocoa, took a sip, then lifted the mug into the air in a toast to myself.Here’s to being brave. Again.
Chapter four
Cameron
Jay and Jesse’s book was doing a little better than I’d hoped, but I still had a ways to go to hit my first-month goals. I didn’t have time to dwell on that much, though, because my bookkeeping jobs were keeping me busy. The work I had for my year-round clients was steady and provided a good financial foundation, and tax season would hit in a few short months, but if my book sales kept climbing, I wouldn’t even need those.
Of course, marketing my books seemed to take even more time than writing them, but I knew that’s what it took to get them into the hands of readers. So I’d scrimped and saved to pay for access to online courses and communities that would help me do things like running ads, finding quality editors, hiring the right cover designers, and even connecting with a few mentors who’d been invaluable along my author journey.
All that plus staying active in a variety of online book recommendation groups, managing all the other aspects of my author business like my website, social media presence, and email newsletter, and keeping my bookkeeping clients happy leftme less time than I would’ve liked to actually write. But the writing itself was what kept me going, sustained me. Helped me relax, decompress, get out all my pesky stuck emotions.
