The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

I chew another spoonful before I answer. “Should I not talk to her at all?”

“You can be polite, but if she asks you for something, you let me deal with it. You don’t answer to her. You’re mine. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl. This looks very pretty.” He lifts the parfait glass. “Does it taste as good as it looks?”

I nod. “Yum-yum.”

“As good as those crepes you made?”

I feel a trap yawning at my feet. He’s not happy I gave my crepes to Miranda.

“It seemed like the polite thing to do. Are you mad at me?”

“Not mad. Slightly annoyed.”

“This is really good, though.”

He grunts and slides another spoonful of granola, yogurt, and berries into my mouth. “I want crepes again for breakfast tomorrow.”

I finish chewing before I answer. “Of course, Daddy.”

He kisses my forehead before feeding me the last spoonful. “That’s my girl. You martyr yourself for no one. Are we clear?”

Well, except for him. By the end of the day, my butt is definitely going to feel martyred. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Okay, sweetie. You’ve got free time while I go see Hendry and then it’s little-Daddy time before lunch. What do you want to do today?”

I wiggle happily on his lap as I consider. We haven’t had scheduled little-Daddy time since we went to the park. I’d love to go to the park again, but not with Miranda. “Could we play Scrabble, or work more on a puzzle?”

“Either of those is good by me.”

“Should I ask Miranda what she’d like to do?”

“No, I don’t really care what she wants to do. Little-Daddy time is your time to spend with Daddy. We do what you want to do.”

Melting. How did I ever find a daddy this wonderful?

“Puzzle, Daddy.”

“Puzzle it is.” He kisses me on the forehead before he lets me slide off his lap with another rub of my bare bottom.

I see Daddy to the door with hugs and kisses, then collect the grooming kit that came with all the cat supplies, sit down cross-legged on the floor next to my sunbathing kitty, and ply the little wire-bristle brush from the kit through his fur. For the first few strokes, Sable watches me warily, before he begins licking my knee.

I take that as a win.

Tons of fur comes off him. Tons. Enough to make a whole other kitty. I don’t think Sable’s been groomed in a long time, and although I’ve seen him licking himself, I think maybe he’s been too depressed over losing his eye to take care of his coat properly.

I’ll help until he feels better.

When his coat is smooth and gleaming in the sunshine, I take the funny-shaped clippers out of the kit and pick up one of Sable’s soft paws, press gently until his claws extend, and nip off just the end of each claw with the clippers.

He lets me do his front paws without complaint, but when I try to clip his back claws, he kicks madly at me, catching the soft skin of my inner forearm. When I draw back in pain, Sable hisses and darts under the couch.

“Shoot,” I say, looking at the long scratches as they fill with blood. Logan will not be happy. His mother was a nurse and he has a serious thing about wounds. No matter how heavy our play gets, he almost never breaks my skin. Holding my bleeding arm out, I rise and move over to the sink.

I wash the scratches, first with cold water and then with dish soap, which I figure is antibacterial. The washing makes the scratches sting like hell and release a stream of red into the clear water swirling down the sink.

“You need to get pressure on that,” Miranda says, leaning over me to peer at my arm.

I twitch, then hold myself still. With the water running, I didn’t hear her come up behind me, and I really don’t like her being this close to me.

“Okay.” I use the excuse of grabbing paper towels to move away from her. As I hold a pad of paper towels against my arm, they stain pink.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Miranda asks.

We do, but it’s downstairs in the playroom, and I’d have to open the security doors to get it. That seems like a big bother for a couple of scratches. “It’s fine,” I tell her.

She arches a golden-brown eyebrow at me. “I’m a doctor, Emily.”

From what Logan’s said, she’s more of an administrator, since she hasn’t treated a patient in years. But I’m not going to argue with her.

“I’ve washed it and I’ll keep pressure on until it stops bleeding. When—” No, I’m not going to call him “Daddy” right to her face. Not without him here. “Logan gets back, he’ll get me a band-aid.”

Hopefully a Winnie the Poo one.

“I cure cancer, Emily. I can put a bandage on you.”

I really don’t want her touching me that much, but I can see this is a losing battle.

“Um, okay, the first aid kit’s in the playroom.”

She was Logan’s sub for five years. Presumably she knows where the playroom is and how to get into it.

She makes her buckled-asphalt face again. “Then we will have to wait until he gets back.”

Actually, we won’t.

“I can open the playroom doors.”

Her face creases even further. “You can open them.”

“Yes.”

I don’t tell her to follow me, but she does. Through the locked door at the top of the stairs, down through the outer playroom, and through the second locked door into the inner playroom.

I feel like my heart’s attached to a helium balloon that keeps tugging upwards with each step. It’s clear that Logan didn’t trust Miranda with the door codes.

But my daddy trusts me.

She’s silent until we reach the inner playroom. Then she gravitates to the sex swing, gives it a push and says, “This was always Logan’s favorite.”

The helium balloon pops and my heart sinks to somewhere in the region of my ankles. How will I ever look at the swing again