I carried the plate over to the sink, where a mountain of dishes waited to be rinsed and placed in the dishwasher. In my eyes, this was what Leftover Day was all about. Finding the good stuff, enjoying the leftovers, in a house that looked like a war zone after the guests had gone home. So I took a few pictures of the plate where the dishes in the sink were visible in the background and thought it would make for a fun, relatable post. That Daddy would no doubt leave for Clara or me to write.
If only Daddy’s four million followers knew how little he contributed on his own account.
“When you’re done takin’ photos of the dirty dishes, maybe you should show me your new obsession,” he said.
Oh, but Daddy…
I snickered to myself, because I was an evil genius. With what I’d learned, it wasn’t so much my new obsession as I hoped it would be my Daddy’s next obsession.
The man wasn’t perfect for me. Okay, that was going too far. He was exactly my type too, but it was Daddy’s perfection I was searching for.
Over 300 pictures and posts from an Insta user named Anthony Fender had given me the confidence to at least hope for some seduction if we played our cards right.
A good beginning to our search for that missing piece of our puzzle.
Once I was done taking photos, I stowed away the camera and swiped up my iPad to show Daddy.
I stepped between Daddy’s legs as he retrieved his phone from his pocket, and he gave me more screen time.
“Username,” I mumbled to myself, typing it in. I’d learned the “TFI” in Mr. Fender’s username stood for The Fender Initiative. He ran a music academy and could not look sexier holding a guitar. Or sitting by a piano. Or all the other instruments he evidently played.
“He’s a musician?” Daddy asked.
I nodded. “And a teacher. He has his own school for music.”
Daddy rested his chin on my shoulder and absently brushed his hand up and down my back. It gave me the shivers.
“A New Yorker like you,” Daddy murmured.
That was all the info we were given in Mr. Fender’s bio. It merely said “Brooklyn. The Fender Initiative.” And his name, of course.
I wasn’t sure I could call myself a New Yorker, though. Not anymore. I was born in Staten Island, but we’d moved to Charlotte when I was ten. After that, I’d stayed there until I’d attended college in California, where I’d met Daddy. He still had his restaurant in LA, but his flagship was here in Nashville.
The top photos in Mr. Fender’s feed were of instruments, a couple shots taken in a park, one of a little girl, but I’d deduced she wasn’t his child. She seemed to be the daughter of a friend. Farther down the scroll was the picture that’d made me stop the first time. Aside from a freaking gorgeous profile picture that revealed the hint of a smirk on a partly shadowed face, this was the one. A picture of Mr. Fender and his younger brother. The caption read, “Beer, wings, and rehearsal with Nicky.” And Nicky had taken the photo, flashing a wide grin while Anthony looked more like he was humoring his brother.
“Look at those eyes, Daddy,” I said quietly. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
The brothers shared similar features, brown hair and green eyes, but Anthony stood out. He was significantly older than Nicky, who I guessed was around my age, midtwenties or something. Anthony looked to be around forty. He had the sexiest laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and he had that soulful appearance. Not unlike Daddy, actually. Maybe it came with age for some people? Either way, it was one of the most attractive attributes to me. When you could see the whispers of a person’s life journey, when childhood hell-raisin’ mingled with grown-up wisdom and experience.
Anthony Fender had that look.
“He’s definitely handsome,” Daddy agreed.
I scrolled down some more, showing photos of Mr. Fender’s life. Guitars he built and repaired on his own, students at rehearsal, more pictures of his brother, and a very, very, very sweet photo of Anthony and his grandmother, both smiling and holding up pastries. She was a short little thing next to him, and that was saying a lot coming from me. I’d been teased mercilessly throughout my childhood for being so short.
“So you’re lookin’ for some eye candy for the festival, huh?” Daddy kissed my neck, smirking against my skin.
I smiled to myself. “Yes, Sir.” Total lie. I had a plan. I just couldn’t clue Daddy in yet, because he would become the galaxy’s biggest party pooper.
“Who’s that?” He pointed to a photo.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Some guy.” I kept scrolling instead. Having studied Mr. Fender’s pictures a little too hard, I knew very well that the guy was likely The Boyfriend.