My Accidental Sugar Daddy

“Come on,” I say. I reach and grab her dirty bags off the ground. Poor thing. They’re shockingly light, so she must be even worse off than I thought. “Is this all you have?”

She stares at me for a moment.

“At the moment, yes,” comes her quiet voice.

“Then come on,” I say in a jovial voice. “My place is just down the street. I’ll make you something delicious, and we’ll talk about plans.”

“Plans?” Laurie repeats, looking skeptical.

I flash her a winning smile, my heart already beginning to pound in my chest. “Yeah, it’ll be fine. We can talk, and it’ll be more comfortable to do so indoors. It’s sweltering out here and I’m beginning to melt. Come on, I’ll fill you in over some homemade zuppa toscana. It’s good, I promise.”

Then, I take off towards my townhouse, carrying her bags, not bothering to look over my shoulder to see if she’s following me. But something tickles the back of my neck, and my sixth sense tells me that Laurie’s trailing behind my large form, her steps light and cautious. I smile, although she can’t see. Today started off miserable, but it’s looking much better already.

4

Laurelin

* * *

What. The hell. Am I doing?

I keep attempting to focus, but it’s impossible. As the dark-haired, blue-eyed god of my dreams continues talking, I revert from a moderately intelligent, well-spoken woman to a dunce with nothing going on upstairs. I manage to speak, somehow, but I feel like none of it makes any sense. Tate keeps talking to me, though, so I must be doing something right.

Or am I doing something horribly wrong?

As soon as I realize that I’ve met him before, I realize that the jig is up. I have to be honest. Tate clearly thinks I’m a homeless person, and has no clue that I’m actually his friend’s little sister whom he met a year ago.

It was, admittedly, a brief interaction. My niece Trixie had just turned one, and we were all celebrating at my brother Channing’s house. It was a small gathering of family and intimate friends, so I was surprised to see a gorgeous man present. Most of the time at these shindigs it’s just us, so this was a nice surprise.

My brother introduced me to the handsome stranger as Tate and said they were old college buddies who had recently reconnected. I said hi, Tate said hi, and then Trixie tugged insistently on my hand, begging me to play dollies with her. Tate and I didn’t have any time to chat.

But I’m embarrassed that I didn’t immediately recognize him today. How could any woman forget a face--and a body--like that? The memory of his tall form filling out that blue button down still haunts my dreams sometimes, with his broad shoulders, strong arms, and long legs. Not only that, but he’s got the features of a movie star, and I saw how that doggie-mom was eyeing him up and down. He was immune to her charms though, despite the fact that she wiggled her hips more than a few times.

By contrast, it makes far more sense that he doesn’t have any idea who I am. Tate seems like the type who’s always in the company of beautiful women, all of them glossy and dressed to the nines. Now that my society days are over, I can hardly remember what lipstick even tastes like. Which probably isn’t good, seeing that the last date I went on was a full six months ago and was nothing to remember. Robert was two inches shorter than me, pasty, pale, and so nervous that he was shaking during the date. It was that bad.

But I have missed the company of an attractive man--someone attentive and gorgeous and funny; someone, I must admit, with a bit of an “alpha male” air. Then again, what am I thinking? Alpha males are usually Grade-A assholes with smirks on their handsome faces. But I have to say that I miss getting thrown around by a man in bed. It’d be nice to have a good time in the sack, no holds barred, with no limits and endless pleasure.

So when Tate invites me to his place, I almost laugh. There’s no way he would ask a sweaty, makeup-less woman on a park bench over to his home for any other reason than pity. Plus, he thinks I’m a vagrant! So why would he do this?

I’m about to say no, and to reveal that actually, Channing Saint is my older brother, but then the gorgeous man takes things into his own hands. He hoists my bags over his shoulders and just starts walking, like he expects me to follow.

I stand there, stunned with shock. Who the hell does he think he is? I’m not a puppy, trailing adoringly after its owner.

But Tate doesn’t stop. He merely keeps walking, his stride sure and confident. It’s almost like he knows that I’m going to follow. And then, to my chagrin, my feet begin to move. OMG, I am trailing behind him, like the aforementioned puppy I just swore that I wasn’t.