Page 2 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

“What happened?” he asks as his scent tickles my nostrils. I’d know it anywhere. It’s this dark spicy cologne I’ve given him every Christmas for years.

Being the daughter of the principal is no picnic to begin with. Making friends is like playing some lawless LARP game. You never know who really wants to be your friend and who is about to stab you in the back with a foam sword.

I shake my head. “Nothing happened.”

I tap the toes of my regulation black lace up Mary Janes on the black linoleum floor.

He steps closer. Goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of my legs where the hem of my navy-blue plaid skirt rests mid-thigh.

“What. Happened.”

My throat dilates. Mouth like the Sahara. “It was just a picture—”

“A picture?” His voice turns to thunder. “Someone posted a picture of you?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “No. Yes…not reallyposted, Tyler sent it. From his phone. Someone from gym class must have taken it. I don’t know how many people he sent it to.”

His eyes darken. “What kind of picture.”

I cover my face.

But he doesn’t let me hide. “Show me.”

Large, warm hands close gently over my wrists and tug my arms down. My lip trembles, but his touch is…not angry. He’s never angry with me.

With mom, he was. A lot.

Especially when she would berate me for random things.

Like not keeping my room as spotless as a surgery suite. Or, her favorite, not cooking her daily breakfast omelet exactly how shewanted it. Slightly runny in the center but crisp and fluffy on the outside.

Adding some bravery to my spine, I untuck my phone from under my leg, tap the screen and hold it up so my dad can see it. The photo is of me in the girl’s locker room, wet from the shower, white towel open, the full Monty on display.

My classmates tease me about my flat chest. I’ve barely developed compared to most of them. I have only a hint of hair down there and I’m still in a training bra.

His teeth grind and it takes all my courage not to bolt out of his office. Silence is all he gives in return as he releases a shaking breath and darkens the screen on my phone, setting it on top of my backpack next to my feet.

“You’re shaking,” he’s right in front of me, and for a second, the storm in his voice breaks. “Baby, why didn’t you come to me?”

I suck in a breath.

Because even after everything—after Mom vanished and he had to put the pieces of an abandoned teenage girl back together, I stilldreamabout him standing at my bedroom door, saying, “Ready for a story, princess?”

Because I’ve never felt safe with anyone but him and I have a secret fear that if I’m too much trouble, he’ll toss me out like yesterday’s garbage.

Not that he’s ever done anything that hinted he would consider it, but the whole situation has always felt precarious.

I whisper. “I didn’t want you to be mad.

His jaw ticks.

Then—God help me—he lifts me.

Just scoops me into his arms like I’m made of porcelain and forbidden dreams. “When have I ever been mad at my little girl?”

He carries me to the leather couch by the window and sits down with me in his lap, my legs over his, one of his hands already pressing gently to my lower back, the other cradling the back of my head.

And I melt.