Page 43 of Master Daddy

Well, here’s hoping anyway.

I’m so lost in my daydream that I don’t notice the hand on my shoulder until it’s already there. Only one man would touch me like that, but I sense right away that it’s not Mason’s hand on me.

I spin around, heart jumping—and freeze.

Patrick.

He looks exactly like I remember: tall, slick, polished in an expensive charcoal suit that probably cost more than three months of my rent. His hair is perfectly styled, jaw clean-shaven, and that same smug, charming smile is plastered on his face. It’s a smile that used to make me feel special… before it started making me feel small, and not in a good way either.

“Luke,” Patrick says smoothly, like we’re old friends who just bumped into each other. “You look good. Really good. This little town seems to agree with you.”

My stomach twists. I take a small step back, clutching the strap of my bag. “Patrick. What are you doing here? This isn’t what I said in my text.”

Patrick shrugs, glancing around the pretty tree-lined street with mild distaste.

“You said we should meet for coffee. Figured I’d surprise you,” he smirks. “Though I have to ask, does this place even have anywhere decent for coffee? Or is it all diner sludge and tourist traps?”

The casual rudeness toward my town—the town I love, the town I chose to return to—irritates me instantly. But I remember what Taron and Milo said…

Closure.

All I need is one conversation. Then I can shut this door for good.

I force a tight smile. “There’s a nice café just up the block. We can talk there.”

“Lead the way,” Patrick says, falling into step beside me like he belongs here. Like he belongs anywhere near me.

My phone burns a hole in my pocket.

I should text Mason.

I know I should.

But something stubborn in me wants to handle this myself first, to prove that I can face my past without needing my Daddy to rescue me every single time.

Still, as we walk toward the café, Patrick already launching into some story about his latest big deal in the city, a nervous flutter settles in my chest.

This doesn’t feel like closure.

It feels like trouble walking back into my life at the exact wrong moment.

* * *

The diner is busy with the early lunch crowd, but I barely notice the chatter and clinking of silverware.

I slide into the booth opposite Patrick, my stomach already twisting into knots.

The cheerful red vinyl seats and the smell of fresh coffee and pie suddenly feel too bright, too normal for whatever this conversation is about to become.

I fold my hands in my lap and wait, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

Urgh.

Why am I even here?

Let’s get this over with…

Patrick leans back, looking every bit the slick city guy in his expensive suit. He glances around the diner with open disdain, lips curling like he’s smelled something bad.