DADDY ISSUES: A SINGLE DAD ROMANCE Read online

  DADDY ISSUES

  A SINGLE DAD ROMANCE

  LIV Morris

  DADDY ISSUES

  Copyright © 2019 Liv Morris

  Editing by Word Nerd Editing

  Proofreading by Proofing Style

  Faye Howe and Tracey S.

  Cover Design by RBA Design

  Photograph by Scott Hoover

  Cover Model David Filipiak

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Bossy Nights

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Connect with Liv

  Also by LIV Morris

  DEDICATED TO KIMBERLY M.

  1

  Lucas

  After finishing my workout, I grabbed a towel and wiped away the sweat of yesterday’s sins—even as they were still lying asleep in my bed. I walked toward my gym’s wall of windows and caught the first rays of sun lighting up the eastern horizon, awakening Manhattan from its slumber.

  People would call me lucky to start my morning with such a spectacular view, but all I saw was another day where I had to plaster on my perfected game face—conquer my demons until time recycled into another sunrise and the masquerade started all over again.

  I closed my eyes, trying to delete the sad, philosophical track stuck on repeat. I needed to focus, unleash the power inside me, and all the other crap self-help mantras I’d heard on late-night infomercials. Those shows worked for one thing only: helping insomniacs fall asleep.

  “Excuse me, sir.” A perfect distraction from my thoughts presented itself. It appeared my workday was starting early.

  I spun toward the door where my personal assistant stood in a black suit and politician red tie, his trusty tablet in hand. It was like looking at a snapshot from a Brooks Brothers ad campaign—minus the megawatt smile.

  He graduated from UPenn’s prestigious Wharton School of Business. I selected him because his middle name was Ambition. I also paid him more than his classmates, who were still slugging it out at underperforming hedge funds, hoping to save the day and catch the owner’s eye. My assistant’s one-page nondisclosure agreement summed up our relationship: if he fucked with me, it would be the last time he got his jollies off in this town.

  “Yes, Jared.” My response was curt and to the point.

  I didn’t like being caught off guard or when he entered my domain without notice. I reigned as king of this castle in the sky. My feet shuffled toward him as he swiped away on his tablet, his brows knitted in concentration.

  “Your father called an emergency meeting this morning.”

  Jared glanced up at me. I thought he was smarter than tossing a bomb in my direction, especially when I was close enough to punch his clean-shaven jaw. His eyes scanned over my face, looking for a fracture or tiny fissure in my resolve, but I learned long ago to cool my features at the mention of dear old Dad. I couldn’t stop my shoulders from tightening, or my hand from forming a fist, but he wouldn’t see the simmering anger on my face.

  I exhaled a deep breath laced with years of resentment, choosing to focus on how Jared ended up standing in my gym without my assistance.

  “I suppose that would explain you entering the penthouse.” Sarcasm concealed the concern stirring up inside me.

  “I did knock.”

  I lifted a brow, waiting for him to continue. A slight tip of his lips cracked his usual concrete, stick-up-his-ass demeanor.

  “Barbie answered the door.”

  “Did she?” I scoffed, thinking of Barbie greeting Jared fresh out of my bed.

  I breezed past him and headed down the hallway to my soulless granite and stainless steel kitchen. The heels of his Italian shoes clicked against the marble floor behind me.

  “Yes. She was on her way out, I believe.”

  “At least she was dressed.” Not that he would care. He would be more interested in her brother, if she had one.

  “Find out what he wants. I don’t plan on walking into the meeting unprepared. And make me my usual protein shake. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”

  “Yes, sir.” The bedroom door shut as his words made it to my ears.

  The sheets on the empty bed were twisted and turned like a river running through a canyon. My housekeeper would change the bedding, removing all remnants of last night. It gave her something to do besides searching the penthouse for a speck of dust.

  I entered my bathroom and walked toward the reason I’d purchased this apartment: the million-dollar shower.

  The shower’s wall was floor-to-ceiling glass with an unobstructed view of the outside world. My building towered over the south end of Central Park; nothing but trees and green grass for over fifty blocks.

  If I believed in a God, this would be my church, the water running over me like a baptism, washing away my sins, with the heavens almost in reach. I’d never shared this sacred haven with anyone.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed in a dark blue suit and coordinating tie, downing my protein drink in the back seat of my personal sedan. My driver sailed down the lanes of West Side Highway toward my office on Wall Street, the world’s money mecca.

  My family’s business paid homage by keeping the gears of capitalism turning. It had made generations of my family filthy rich, but our souls were as worthless as the buy-and-sell cards trampled underfoot on the exchange floor.

  My sister, Chloe, was the one exception to the Shaw family madness. Her heart wasn’t stained with betrayal and lies, and I promised myself daily to keep her innocence out of our deceit.

  Jared sat on the opposite end of the luxury leather back seat. He barked into his phone as he tried to find out the reason for the meeting. Sweat formed above his brow as answers eluded him. Even my father’s personal assistant, Vanessa, who’s been with him for twenty-five years, claimed to have no clue.

  I tapped my forefinger in a slow, rhythmic pattern on the armrest. Sometimes I won at the games my father played, but today felt like a loss before
I even heard a word out of his mouth. Whatever he wanted to dish out wasn’t just close to the vest, it was buried beneath his thick skin.

  My phone vibrated with an incoming text. I removed it from my suit pocket and unlocked the screen. A message from Barbie popped up, along with a photo of her pouty lips blowing me a kiss. Long, golden hair framed her model-perfect oval face. What was most important, though, was the emotions reflected in her blue eyes. They hinted of mischief without an ounce of rejection or sadness. I chose her from the agency knowing, when I ended our relationship, she’d walk away richer and wouldn’t try to dream up a fairy tale.

  Barbie: I enjoyed our time together and hope you find what you’re looking for in life. You’re a good man. xo

  What utter bullshit. I blocked her number and removed every trace of her from my phone. Would a good man do that?

  2

  Maggie

  “Hey, Maggie. Getting ready for your interview?” I glanced up to find my best friend and roommate, Tessa, leaning against my bedroom door, wearing a pale pink dress—her signature color. It was a total middle finger to the normal black attire found in Manhattan, and somehow, she pulled it off.

  Tessa and I were both small, petite, but polar opposites in almost every other way. Her blond hair contrasted with my raven locks. Her skin was a soft golden tan from the summer sun and trips to the Hamptons with her boyfriend. I was a ghost haunting the streets of New York City—basically Malibu Barbie’s Dita Von Teese-style BFF.

  She owned being calm, quiet, and collected. I tended to whirl around like a tornado. Just one look at our bedrooms gave this away. Her floor was visible. Mine resembled a scene from the movie, Twister.

  Basically, she was the sane to my crazy. The truest friend I’d ever had. I was a lot to handle on a good day, and since I arrived in New York City, I’d had a couple of bad months with today being no different.

  “I woke up an hour early, and I still might be late if I don’t light a fire under my ass.” I scurried around the room as I stuffed my black stilettos into my large tote bag. “Have you seen my flats? The black ones.”

  After arriving here with a box full of four-inch heels, I realized Sex and the City lied. Only rich people with drivers at their beck and call waltzed around New York in shoes like that.

  I traveled like the majority of New Yorkers, via the subway. It required walking for blocks on uneven sidewalks, passing over sewer grates that loved to swallow spikey heels, and taking umpteen flights of stairs. I’d change into my stilettos once I arrived at the building for the interview.

  “I see them! Under your dust ruffle.” Tessa pointed to an area near my nightstand, and I spotted an inch of shiny leather.

  “How did I miss that?” I pushed the dust ruffle aside and grabbed the pair of shoes I’d destroyed my room trying to locate. I took a calming breath and exhaled as I wiggled my feet into them. “Good thing my head’s attached.”

  “Yeah, good thing.” She laughed at me with kind eyes. No one could top her patience with me. “What’s your subway stop for the interview?”

  “Wall Street.” I rechecked my wallet for the one-millionth time to make sure I had my subway pass, eyeing the bright yellow MTA card. I’d already lost two of them, and both had been almost fully loaded.

  “It’s the intern interview Barclay helped arrange for you, right?”

  “Yes. Please tell him thanks again. Once I get my foot in the door somewhere, I can dazzle them with my charm and brilliance.” I batted my lashes and flipped my hair, southern pageant style, but nerves knotted in my stomach. I had nothing else lined up after this interview.

  Barclay was Tessa’s boyfriend and CEO of the publishing company where she landed her dream job. It took her less than a week after we graduated from college to find it, and him, when she arrived in the city. Everything fell into place for her.

  Me on the other hand?

  I thought New York City would embrace me with big open arms, and then I’d hit the ground running. I’d find a good entry-level job, maybe meet a handsome man to show me the cool places in the city, but nothing even remotely like that had happened. I felt like I was living my worst life in spades.

  On lonely nights, I would almost call my mother and tell her that I was coming back home. I didn’t know how long I could survive here if things didn’t change. I hated being a quitter, but my dreams were fading fast.

  After applying for countless entry-level positions online, all I had to show for it was an email folder full of rejections. My psychology major, with a minor in business, from a small Alabama university didn’t appear to be in high demand in the city of hedge funds, startups, and Ivy League degrees.

  No one wanted me, and the disappointment hurt like hell, especially when friends saw Tessa’s success. I couldn’t help but wonder what was the matter with me. Maybe in the end, Manhattan and I weren’t a good fit and the universe was trying to send me a sign, like get the hell out of dodge.

  “What’s your schedule like tonight?” Tessa asked. “Barclay has a dinner meeting with clients. I thought maybe we could order Thai and watch something on Netflix.”

  “I wish I could, but I’m babysitting the Wilsons’ kid while they attend some school fundraiser. It’s for preschool, and Mrs. Wilson is going all glam with a full-length gown. She said this school puts her toddler on track for Harvard. Between you and me, they need to break the munchkin’s habit of eating crayons first.”

  “They sound so intense.”

  “You have no idea. I actually like the kid and may be the only fun little Andrew has in his life”

  I met the Wilsons the old-fashioned way in a city of eight million people.

  Fate.

  I was walking down the sidewalk near our apartment, contemplating my lack of job prospects and wondering how I was going to pay my half of the rent when I’d noticed a panicked woman chasing a toddler. She was waving her arms in the air, screaming, “Andrew! Andrew!” The little tike was closer to me than his mother and ready to dash into Manhattan traffic.

  Without hesitation, I ran toward him, scooping the wild child up in my arms before he hit the street. I pulled him to my chest, with his little legs motoring in circles like they were still touching solid ground. The kid had gusto and wore a bratty smile. His mother was visibly shaken with tears welling up in her eyes when I handed the tiny delinquent over to her.

  Mrs. Wilson introduced herself and thanked me over and over again for saving her “headstrong” son from running into the street. One thing led to another, and until I found a permanent position, I agreed to work for them as an interim nanny. Mrs. Wilson didn’t work outside the home, so I could take time off for job interviews, which sadly had been few and far between.

  Finally ready to head to my interview, I followed Tessa into the living room slash kitchen of our small apartment—and by small, I meant we lived in a modified hotel size room someone converted into a two-bedroom apartment.

  I grabbed two water bottles out of our fridge and added them to my tote. The August heat transformed the subways into underground saunas, so I needed to stay hydrated.

  “Okay, I’m out of here.” I waved at Tessa over my shoulder before pulling the front door open.

  “Break a leg,” Tessa called out to me.

  “Will do.”

  I pushed the down button on the elevator and waited for the car to ascend to our floor. I turned toward the large mirror on the wall next to the bank of elevators and assessed my appearance.

  I’d chosen my linen, boring as fuck black suit with a white lace camisole beneath the jacket, which I kept tugging at in hopes it would magically become comfortable. I looked professional, but it felt like a straitjacket squeezing the last bit of originality out of me. I conformed for one reason: I needed a damn job.

  My hair was twisted and pinned high into a tight bun. A fake leather tote hung from my bended elbow. Thanks to the knock-off vendors on Canal Street, it resembled a real Prada. Tessa’s perfect strand of pearls ly
ing just below my collarbone replaced my usual crystal necklace. When I touched the cool ivory beads, my skin tingled. Nerves.

  Desperate to rebel in an acceptable way, I swiped my favorite lipstick, Golly That’s Red, across my full lips. It was a silent scream against my pale skin. I entered the elevator praying I wouldn’t bomb the interview.

  Thirty minutes later, slightly wilted from the steamy subway, I stood in front of a towering building on Wall Street with the letters IG glowing from a marquee above the stately steel and glass entrance. My palms were sweating—and not just from the heat. My stomach knotted knowing how much was at stake with this interview. This opportunity was either a beginning or a dead end.

  I popped into the coffee shop attached to the building and sat down at an empty table to change into my stiletto power heels. Since my interview was in fifteen minutes, I didn’t have time to grab a coffee, but I’d do it after when I called my mother with an update, hoping I’d finally have good news to share.

  Leaving the comforting smell of coffee behind me, I stepped through the revolving door entrance of the IG building. The inner sanctum greeted me with shiny marble floors and an open ceiling extending at least four stories. The place was stark and as cold as cash. A sea of stern looking professionals weaved through the lobby like sharks on the hunt.