Page 31 of Master Daddy

The words are reasonable, but the tone is off. It’s too clipped. Too final.

I want to argue, to pull him back into the warm bubble we had when we first sat down, but I can tell his mind is elsewhere now—probably imagining worst-case scenarios involving Patrick. I hate it.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly, gathering my little crossbody bag. “Let’s go.”

The walk back to my apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Usually we swing our joined hands, tease each other, steal kisses under streetlights. Tonight Mason’s hand is in mine, but it feels tense. His stride is longer than usual, like he’s trying to outpace the uncomfortable thoughts in his head. I keep glancing up at him, searching for the easy smile that was there earlier, but his jaw stays tight, eyes fixed forward.

When we reach my building, Mason stops at the bottom of the steps.

The silence stretches out before us…

“Mason…” I start, stepping close and wrapping my arms around his waist.

He hugs me back, strong and solid, but there’s a distance in it. “Night, Luke. Sleep well. I’ll see you at the gym.”

I rise onto my tiptoes for a kiss. It’s quick—affectionate, but lacking the heat and hunger from previous nights. No tongue, no growl, no hand sliding down to squeeze my ass. Just a press of lips and then he’s pulling away.

“Night, Daddy,” I whisper, hoping the honorific will bring him back to me.

Mason nods once, brushes a strand of hair from my face, and turns to walk back toward his truck parked down the street.

I stand on my steps and watch him go, arms wrapped around myself against the evening chill. This time he doesn’t stop at the corner. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look back and wave, or catch the kiss I blow after him.

My chest aches.

I let myself inside, lock the door, and lean back against it, staring at the ceiling. Buster is waiting on the couch, but even his fluffy presence doesn’t fix the knot in my stomach.

I pull out my phone and stare at Patrick’s message again. One stupid text and it feels like it’s already cracked something fragile and beautiful between Mason and me.

I type out a quick reply to Patrick before I can overthink it:

LUKE: Good to hear from you. A surprise, but good. I’ll think about meeting for coffee. I’ll let you know.

Then I mute the chat for now so I don’t obsess. I change into my cloud pajamas, make my usual bedtime milk and cookie, and curl up with Buster on the rainbow quilt. But sleep doesn’t come easily. I keep replaying the stiffness in Mason’s shoulders, the way he didn’t look back…

Mason is jealous. Protective. Maybe even a little scared.

I get it. But I hate that my past is reaching out and dimming the light between us.

Tomorrow at the gym I’ll make it right. I’ll show him with every rep, every “yes, Daddy,” every smile that Patrick means nothing.

I’ll show that my heart is already leaning hard toward the gruff, paddle-wielding, stew-cooking mountain man who makes me feel stronger and safer than I’ve ever felt.

And if Mason still can’t see that I’m not interested in Patrick, then he’s an absolute fool.

Chapter 10

Mason

I slam the truck door harder than I should and drop into the driver’s seat, the whole cab rocking with the force of it. My fist comes down on the steering wheel once, twice—thud, thud—hard enough that the horn gives a weak little bleat.

“Fuck,” I growl into the empty cab, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

I hate this.

I hate that I let myself get wound this tight over some city asshole I’ve never even met. Jealousy isn’t new to me, but this? This sharp, gnawing feeling in my gut every time I picture Luke sitting across from Patrick, listening to his smooth apologies, maybe remembering the good times before he turned into a controlling prick… it’s eating me alive.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and stare at the screen. My thumbs move before my brain catches up.