Page 25 of Master Daddy

Luke yelps, then giggles, spinning around with mock outrage.

“Hey! I was quality testing!” Luke protests, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Quality testing with your fingers in my sauce again and you’ll be eating standing up tonight,” I warn, but I’m grinning.

I love this side of Luke—playful, bratty, trusting me enough to push back.

We plate up generous servings, pour the wine he brought, and carry everything to the heavy oak table by the big window overlooking the lake. The sun is setting, painting the water in oranges and pinks.

Luke moans around his first bite and I feel stupidly proud.

“This is incredible,” Luke says between bites. “You cook like this on the rig?”

I chuckle. “Not even close. Out there it’s mostly reheated shit and whatever the mess hall slops together. This… this is home cooking. This is how my mother used to make it. Damn. Those were the days.”

“Family is important to both of us, I can tell,” Luke says, our bond deepening by the moment.

Conversation flows naturally. The boy asks about my work, and I lean back in my chair, beer in hand now that the wine’s mostly gone.

“It pays well,” I tell him honestly. “The danger pay, the overtime, the isolation bonus… I’ve built up a solid nest egg these last ten years. Enough that when I finally quit, I won’t have to worry about money for a long time. But the downside…” I meet his eyes. “Months away at a stretch. No real signal. Coming home exhausted and half-feral sometimes. It’s not a life I’d want to drag someone else into long-term.”

I watch Luke’s face carefully.

I can see it—the flicker of worry he tries to hide.

It’s been on the boy’s mind. Of course it has.

“If there was a way I could walk away from the rig tomorrow, Luke, I would,” I say quietly. “In a heartbeat. Especially now that… you know.”

He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’ll think of something. We both will. You’re too good at taking care of people to be stuck out there forever.”

Luke’s words settle warm in my chest. We move on to his job. He tells me about his year in finance in the city: long hours, cutthroat colleagues, soul-crushing pressure. The way he describes it, I can see how much it broke something in him.

“You can’t stay in retail forever though, little one,” I say gently when he finishes. “You’re smart. Driven. You need something that challenges you. Something that lights you up the way training does.”

He bristles for a second, fork pausing mid-air. “I’m happy where I am. The jobs are easy. The people are nice. No stress.”

I give Luke a steady look. “You’re settling. And you know it.”

Luke huffs, but after a moment his shoulders drop. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just… after that finance year, I swore I’d never put myself through that kind of pressure again. And then there was Patrick…” he trails off, poking at his food. “He was part of that world. And he made everything worse.”

The name Patrick hits me like a gut punch.

Jealousy flares hot and ugly in my chest—some city asshole who had Luke, hurt him, made the boy doubt himself. I want to hunt this piece of crap down and make sure he never comes near Luke again. But I push it down, keep my voice calm.

“He’s not here anymore,” I say, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “And you’re stronger than whatever he tried to break.”

Luke gives me a grateful little smile, and the conversation softens again.

We finish dinner, clear the plates together, and settle on the big leather couch in front of the stone fireplace. I light a fresh fire while he picks Last Action Hero from my DVD collection, giggling at my collection of 90s action flicks.

We don’t make it far into the movie.

Halfway through, he’s curled against my chest, and the chemistry that’s been simmering all night finally boils over. One kiss turns into another, deeper, hungrier. His hands slide under my shirt, tracing my abs. I pull him into my lap, gripping his ass as he grinds against me.

“Mason…” Luke breathes.

I stand, lifting Luke easily, and carry him down onto the thick rug in front of the roaring fire. Clothes come off in a rush… his sweater, my flannel, his shorts, my jeans.