Page 4 of Daddy's Little 1

I sigh sadly. “I wish I could remember her. I’m glad I’ve had you to fill in some of the blanks,” I say with a grateful smile.

“Here. Happy birthday. I’m proud of you. You’ve grown into a bonnie lass,” Roman says, sliding another gift toward me.

I open the square-shaped package, a jewel-encrusted photo frame holding a picture of me as a baby with my mom. I’ve seen the photo of her and Dad on his nightstand the day they married, but this is the first one of her and me together. She’s looking at me with so much love in her eyes it causes my breath to catch in my lungs, and another tear trails down my cheek.

“This is…” I shake my head, lost for words. I look up at Roman. “Thank you.”

He smiles, and sexy little crinkles form at the corners of his eyes. “My pleasure. He gestures to the bottle of champagne still sitting in the center of the table. “Would you like to do the honors, birthday girl?”

My eyes light up, and I nod, looking for the bottle opener.

“Ah, shite. Sorry. Knew I’d forget something,” Roman says, starting to stand.

I place my hand on his arm to stall him, trying to conceal the shiver that works up my spine, pebbling my nipples. “Let me.”

I stand and head to the kitchen, adding a little extra sway to my ass as I walk away in case he’s watching. Doubtful, but a girl can hope. I rifle through the kitchen drawer, plucking out the bottle opener, and return to the table.

Which is when I realize I’ve never opened a corked bottle of anything before, let alone champagne. Sure, I’ve had beer, but those caps pop off effortlessly. I recall the numerous times I’ve watched Dad do it. Can’t be that hard, surely? Yeah, this is a great opportunity to impress Roman with my sophisticated bottle-opening skills.

Picking up the bottle, I push the metal corkscrew into the cork and twist it until it’s buried. Step one complete. Holding the neck of the bottle firmly, I pull up, easing the cork from its home. Step two complete. Easy peasy.

Roman moves to stand next to me with two champagne flutes just as the cork releases with apop,and the champagne explodes from the bottle like a geyser. Panicking, I cover it with my mouth, trying to catch the foaming liquid before it saturates the remaining food on the table. Unfortunately, I’m not prepared for thewhooshof the champagne as it fires up my nostrils. Something between a sneeze and a cough—a snough?—erupts from my mouth and nose, and I involuntarily lurch forward, spraying champagne—and possibly a little snot—down the front of my dress and Roman's expensive shirt.

Well, shit.

“Ohgodohgodohgod. I’m so sorry,” I splutter, reaching for a handful of napkins from the table and blotting uselessly at his shirt, which now clings wetly to the muscles of his enormous chest.

Roman snags my hand, halting my attempts to soak up the champer-snot. “Some things never change,” he says, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Still little Brenna Bumble.”

Huh.

The nickname shouldn’t irk me as much as it does coming from Roman’s lips. But it does because I don’t want him to see me as little Brenna Bumble. I want him to see me as Brenna Bewitching. Brenna Bootylicious. BrennaBeddable.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeat miserably, raising my eyes to his. “I’ll pay your dry-cleaning bill.”

“No, you will not. It was an accident.” Waving off my apologies, Roman smoothly pours champagne into the two flutes and hands one to me. “Happy twenty-first birthday, Bren,” he says, clinking his glass with mine.

So much for showing Roman how mature and sophisticated I am.

ChapterThree

Roman

Brenna is goingto give me a stroke.

Right now, I’m lingering behind as she goes on a shopping spree at the outdoor mall, courtesy of my black card.

But it isn’t her incessant chatter or how much money she’s spending. I expected that. It’s what I want. It’s about making her holiday the happiest even though her da had to be out of the country.

No, it’s how she keeps eyeing me shyly, her cheeks pink with pleasure and her mocha eyes twinkling with happiness. Oh, and the fact that she’s dragged me into a lingerie shop, and now I can't stop imagining her in every tiny scrap of material she holds up.

I shouldn’t blame her. I’m the same age as her da and have known her for years. I watched as James struggled to raise her and make a life for his family no matter the cards he’d been dealt. Yet, here I am, thinking about what it would be like to taste her plump lips and every inch of her smooth skin.

It started when she was eighteen. Her metamorphosis from chubby teenager to curvy woman was something I tried damn hard not to notice. I felt like a perv, lusting after my best friend’s daughter. I’ve told myself all the reasons it’s wrong, but there’s a separation between my rational mind and my traitorous body where Brenna is concerned.

I watch from afar, leaning against a wall with my hands in my pockets, trying not to look like a creep as Brenna peruses a selection of outfits along the back wall.

Something inside me panics at the idea of some other man seeing her like that, and I instinctively move closer when Brenna pulls something off the rack.

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