My Accidental Sugar Daddy

That smile, though, triggers something--a memory that I can’t quite place. I pause for a moment, unable to speak, stunned by her beauty. When I finally manage to get a few words out, they come in a stammer. “I-I feel like I’ve seen you before,” I confess. “Have I?”

It could absolutely be misconstrued as a bad pickup line, and I wouldn’t blame her if she interprets it as such. But that smile… I’ve definitely seen it before. But how in God’s name can I not remember when, or where? How the hell can I not remember this breathtaking woman if I’ve met her before?

Shut up, Tate, my subconscious commands, and I do. But then a sudden realization strikes me as I look at the woman again. Oh shit. I’d been so stunned by her natural beauty that I didn’t notice her clothes, and now I see that they’re raggedy. Those jeans have multiple holes in them, and her top looks faded and stained. There are two tattered bags at her feet, probably with all her worldly possessions stuffed inside, and she’s halfway through one of those free sandwiches they hand out to people in need.

She’s homeless, you dumb fuck, the voice in my head growls. Of course I’ve seen her before; I’m in this park nearly every day, so I’ve probably passed her a million times without really looking at her face. Shit. Either this is her primary residence or she goes between the parks, shelters, and overpasses of New York where the homeless are forced to congregate.

I see a blush rising on her face, as well, and immediately feel like a dick.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “That was insensitive. I run in this park almost every day, so I’m sure I’ve seen you here. Can I help you with anything?”

It sounds lame, I know. But this woman is so goddamn gorgeous, a flawless diamond in the rough, and she’s in my line of vision, right now, right here. There has to be something I can do.

“Um,” she stammers.

“Can I get you something to eat?” I suggest, inwardly wincing at the look of panic on her face. “Is that sandwich enough?”

She jerks for a moment, looking startled, but then smiles weakly.

“Oh, no, no thank you,” she says. “I’m all set.”

But this woman is thin, and before I know it, I start babbling like a madman.

“Why don’t you come over to my place and I’ll make you a real meal?” What? Why did I just say that? Who invites homeless people to their apartments? But something about this radiant woman has got me all turned around. I would never invite a random person into my home, much less someone who might rob me blind. But whether it’s the elegant lilt to her voice, the innocent look in her eyes, or the way she’s just too goddamn beautiful to be out here on her own, I’m unable to tell.

Get it together, Tate, I command myself. But when she smiles at me again, I’m just as bamboozled, if not more so.

“Um, really?” she asks, surprised. My heart contracts. Poor thing. She’s probably used to being invisible, and hasn’t been in a private residence in ages. She needs shelter.

“Yes definitely,” I say with a firm nod of my head. “It’s no trouble. I live really close and you could get a hot meal. I’m not much of a cook, but I promise I can do better than a cold PB&J.”

She jerks again, unable to hide her surprise. I tell myself it’s probably because she’s unused to such generosity. Without me, a cold PB&J could be the only thing she has to eat today.

But the woman shakes her head. “I don’t know…” I cut her off.

“What’s your name?”

She hesitates. I imagine she’s not used to the question because not many people try to get to know their local homeless person. “Laurie,” she murmurs.

“Laurie,” I repeat. “I’m Tate. It’s good to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Tate.” She bites her lip. “So are you serious about the meal offer?”

I am. But another idea has wormed its way into my brain, and suddenly, it seems that the CEO in me has taken over. After all, I’m a tough negotiator. I didn’t get to where I am professionally by being a pushover, and when I offer something, I expect to be remunerated in return, whether via money, favors, or even priceless artwork. Life ain’t free, and I’m well aware of that fact.

Don’t do it, Tate, the angel on my shoulder says. After all, the idea forming in my mind is risqué, even for me, and that’s saying something. But the more I look at this beautiful woman, lost and alone on a park bench, the more I think that she deserves a place to stay… and that that place could be my home.