Dear Diary (Love, Daddy 7)

I expect him to tell me thanks, but no thanks. All politeness and business. I know he has way more important things to do, even at two in the morning, than wait for my moist red cake with rainbow icing.

And, yes, I used the word moist, because…cake, it’s okay.

Instead, of giving me a reserved brush off, he shuts the car door and runs his fingers down my cheek.

“I’d love a piece of your cake.” The way he says it sends a racing shiver down the center of my back. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You serve it to me personally. Right now, in your kitchen.”

“Uh...” I twist my lips, trying to figure out a way out of him coming upstairs and seeing my insignificant and somewhat embarrassing living arrangement, not to mention my laundry strewn everywhere. “You want to come up…”

“Lead the way.” His strong body is positioned toward the entrance of the house, his one arm extended forward while his other now rests firmly between my shoulder blades, guiding me.

“I'm not really a pro baker. I just do it for fun. So, don’t get your hopes up.”

“That’s alright. My mother baked. Red velvet is one of those cakes, people love it or hate it. I love it. It’s quite divisive, as baked goods go.”

I whirl around. “Oh, man, mine will never be able to measure up to a mother’s cake.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

His lips pull up just a touch on one side, a flash of those perfectly-imperfect white teeth, and I reach into my purse and fumble for my keys.

We ascend, and I turn my head to see his eyes locked onto my rear end.

“Be careful on this next step.” I nod down tapping my right foot on the loose spot. “Stay to the left. The center is broken.”

“Your landlord needs to fix it.” His voice is tipped with anger.

“I know. I told him about it. Like, five times.”

Jack grunts as we reach the top of the stairs and I work my keys into the three separate locks and swing open the door.

As we step inside, I look at him again in the brighter light, taking note of the lines on his face. If I looked up Daddy in the dictionary, it would be his face I’d see, and he’s right here, in my crummy, three hundred square foot abode.

Dirty dishes overflow in the sink and a few sad furnishings that came with the place are covered with my laundry because I didn’t want to have to pay for the dryer at the laundromat.

I stifle the urge to lean against him.

He lifts a brow and I realize I’m staring.

I burst into conversation. “I’m not big on chores. I spend most of my free time baking and decorating my cakes over the weekends. Reading. Writing.” His lips curve in a smile and my frenzy to fill the silence increases tenfold. “I can’t cook to save my life. But, baking is so precise, it’s a science really.” I let out a nervous giggle, the sound coming out a choked sob as I avert my gaze.

“Tell me more about your cakes. Do you sell them? Eat all of them?”

I force myself to look at his face, grateful that he’s humoring my blabbering rant. “I usually…give them away.”

“To?”

“Neighbors. Friends. Coworkers. But I always save some for me.”

He chuckles. “Can’t wait to take that first bite.”

My throat tightens, hoping maybe his comment isn’t just about the cake.

I set my purse on the little table inside the door and Jack closes it behind us. As he takes a few steps forward, I wonder if my apartment was always this small or if it just looks that way because he’s so big.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets. His black suit has to be custom made. He’s no off the rack sort of guy and even if he was, I don’t think they make suits his size for the general public.

His brows furrow as he scans the space. The small kitchen is to the left of the door and an open living room doubles as a dining room with two chairs next to the window. It’s the only window with a view—a view of the apartment building next door complete with its peeling terracotta paint and broken gutters.

I try to always be happy with what I have, but that doesn’t stop me wishing for something more. Or just different.

“I know, it’s really small. But it’s home. It’s the first time I’ve lived on my own, so I’m still sort of getting the hang of it.”

“It’s cute.” His eyes fall to the white fuzzy oversized bean bag chair next to the window. My one indulgence since moving here. “That looks comfortable.”

I grin and take the glass top off of the cake plate. “It is. I’m in lurve with it.”

“What else do you love in this place?”