Baker Daddy (Small Falls #3)

Chapter 10

Dwight

T here is nothing as sweet as a new beginning.

I worried for a while that I was kinda addicted to them. To the thrill of leaving the past behind and turning a new leaf. This though, felt different. Like it might be the last new leaf I’d ever need to turn.

The bakery smelled like potential—paint, cleaner, and that faint metallic tang of new machinery. I ran my fingers over the smooth surface of the counter, felt the coolness of the stainless steel beneath my palm. My ovens hummed low as they warmed up for the first time, their brand-new screens glowing a soft blue. I checked the gauges, kneeling to get them eye-level. Perfect.

"Morning, boss," one of the contractors called from near the front door, where he was putting finishing touches on the trim.

"Morning," I said, nodding with a quick smile. I didn’t stop to chat. Not today. My chest buzzed with a different kind of energy, more than just the anticipation of opening day. Marie’s face flashed in my mind, her teasing grin and those wild curls bouncing as she laughed. She was due to come by today to see the place. And tonight? Tonight we’d finally have time—real time.

I glanced at my watch, then the door, half hoping she'd surprise me early. No sign of her yet, though. I straightened and fiddled with the knobs again, making sure everything lined up to the specs I’d memorized down to the decimal.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I swiped it up fast, thumb already anticipating her name. Sure enough: Marie . Just seeing it made something settle and twist all at once in my chest.

"Busy day, got a surprise delivery to deal with. Can I cancel and see you later tonight, Daddy?"

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, half disappointed, half amused. Of course she’d still find a way to make me smile even when she canceled. That "Daddy" at the end hit, though. It always did.

I typed back quickly, thumbs moving instinctively now. "Of course, sweetheart. Don't stress about today, okay? I'll be counting down till tonight." I hesitated, added: "Thanks for keeping me updated. You're doing great." Then I hit send. She sure did love to be praised.

Her laugh filtered into my head as soon as I set the phone down. I could picture her saying something sarcastic or playful right now, calling me out for being too earnest. But she'd blush anyway, and we'd both know she loved it.

It had been fun having our daily check ins, and each time a message from her buzzed onto my phone, it made my heart race, and made me think back to how beautiful she’d looked when she’d taken her clothes off for me.

It had been such a rush to ask her to do it, and thrilling that she’d obeyed me. Fuck, I couldn’t wait until tonight.

The door creaked open behind me. For a second, I thought maybe Marie had swung by after all and my chest jumped. But the footsteps were heavier, slower—boots on tile, not her light step.

I turned, wiping my hands on my jeans out of habit, and saw, to my surprise, Brett. He stood just inside the doorway, hands stuffed into the front pocket of his fire station hoodie like he'd wandered in off the street by mistake. His gaze swept the room, taking everything in with that same unreadable expression he always wore.

"Hey," I said, forcing a small grin to keep it casual. My shoulders tensed anyway.

"Hey," Brett answered, chin jerking up in acknowledgment. He stepped further inside, boots echoing off the freshly polished floor. "Smells like . . . progress in here."

"Progress smells like fresh paint and oven cleaner, I guess," I replied, brushing off the comment but feeling that weird mix of pride and self-consciousness bloom in my chest. "Still ironing out the last details."

"Looks good." He paced over to one of the ovens, peering at the sleek dials and spotless glass doors. "Real professional setup you’ve got going here."

"Thanks." I leaned back against the counter, watching him. His tone was polite, neutral. I’d not seen him much since Marcus’s wedding, but the few times we’d met, we’d been cordial. Still, the air between us still carried tension. History didn’t vanish overnight.

"Opening day must be soon?" he asked, dragging his fingers lightly along the edge of a countertop. He didn’t look at me.

"Couple days, yeah. Almost ready to roll." I crossed my arms, waiting for whatever this was to unfold. Brett wasn’t exactly the type to drop by just to talk appliances.

"Uh-huh." He nodded, still wandering, eyes scanning the bakery like he was inspecting more than just the craftsmanship. Finally, he stopped and turned toward me, rocking back on his heels. "Heard some buzz around town," he said, voice easy but layered. "A little birdie says you’re seeing someone."

I blinked. Not what I’d expected. My jaw tightened out of reflex, but I kept my face steady. "Yeah? Small towns love their gossip."

"True enough." He shrugged, but there was something in the way he watched me now, sharper than before. "This time, though, figured I’d hear it straight from you."

"Why’s that?" I asked, tone edging toward cool without meaning to. Defensive. Damn.

"Just curious." Brett held up his hands, palms out like he could ward off any blow. "Not looking to stir the pot or anything. Just wondering if it’s serious."

"Serious?" The word came out half a snort, and I immediately regretted it. But his question dug under my skin, and I couldn’t quite tell why.

"Yeah, man. Serious." His voice stayed calm, but his eyes pinned me down. Not accusing, exactly—more like he was reading something I hadn’t even written yet. "You’re not usually one to . . . settle down."

"People change," I said, sharper than intended, but I held his gaze.

"They do." Brett leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest now. He didn’t push, didn’t pry, but the space he left for me to answer felt bigger than the whole damn bakery.

I exhaled through my nose, letting some of the tension bleed out. "Yeah. It’s serious," I admitted, quieter but firm. Because it was. It felt as though it was the first time I’d admitted it to myself.

Brett’s gaze stayed steady. “Who is it?”

“Marie,” I said. “From The Daily Grind.”

Brett’s eyebrows lifted a fraction—not enough to be smug, just surprised. He didn’t say anything, so I kept going, my voice low but solid. "It’s not . . . casual or whatever. I want it to mean something. With her." My chest tightened as soon as I said it, like I’d cracked myself open a little too far. But it was the truth, and I wasn’t about to walk it back.

"Marie, huh?" Brett tilted his head, his mouth twitching at the corner. He looked like he was trying to figure out if he should smile or frown. "Didn’t know you were into coffee shop girls. Thought you liked groupies."

"No,” I said, quickly. “I don’t. And Marie isn’t a coffee shop girl. She’s more than that," I snapped, sharper than I meant to. His face didn’t shift much, but I caught the way his shoulders straightened, like he’d been testing me and I’d just given him his answer.

"Alright," he said after a beat, voice calm. "More than that. Got it."

"Look," I said, dragging a hand over the back of my neck. It felt hot, like I’d been standing too close to the ovens. "She’s the first person in a long time who makes me feel like I can be myself. Like I don’t have to pretend to be a soldier, or a crazy rockstar. I can just be me, Dwight. You know what I mean?" Brett didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk or throw it back in my face.

His eyes sharpened though, narrowing slightly like he was reading between lines I hadn’t written. Then something shifted—a flicker of ease, maybe even approval. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms loosely. “So. Who are you? Who is Dwight?”

“I’m still working that out. Honestly, I think I’m a baker. Not much more. I’me fed of performing. I just want to make people smile with simple things.”

"Guess that explains why you’ve been walking around looking less like a kicked dog lately."

"Thanks for that," I muttered, but my lips twitched despite myself.

A pause settled between us, easier than before. Then his expression turned thoughtful. "You’re serious about her, right?"

"Yeah," I said without hesitation this time. "I am."

"Good." Brett nodded, his tone still casual but with an edge of something deeper. "Small town relationships . . . they ain’t easy. People talk. People interfere. You ready for that?"

"Not like I haven’t had people breathing down my neck before," I said, shrugging. "This feels like it’s worth it."

"Hope so," Brett said quietly, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting mine again. "So. Have you spoken to Marcus?”

“Not since the wedding. He kind of made me feel like he didn’t want to talk much to me."

"Sorry to hear that," Brett began, his voice careful now, like he was navigating a minefield, "but you know if you keep showing him you’ve changed—" he gestured vaguely to the bakery, to me—"he’ll come around eventually. Kid’s stubborn, but he’s not blind."

"I get it. He doesn’t owe me anything. But I miss him. I hope that he gives me another chance." I exhaled hard through my nose. "But yeah, I know it’s gonna take time. And that’s okay."

"Good," Brett said simply. His eyes softened, and for once, the weight of his gaze didn’t feel like judgment. Just understanding. He gave a small nod, like it was settled. Like he’d decided I wasn’t about to screw this up. “When things are better between you, I’ll have you both round for dinner. Plus Lucy and Marie, if things work out. I love you, brother, even if I barely see you.”

“I love you too.”

Damn, that felt good.

There was a moment, when it felt like we might hug. It didn’t happen, though. Maybe he needed a little more time to pass, too.

Eventually, Brett shifted his weight, then slapped my shoulder with enough force to jolt me forward a step. It wasn’t just a pat—it was a half-hug wrapped in brotherly approval.

"Stable relationship will do you some good," he said, his tone somewhere between teasing and serious.

"Yeah, maybe," I said, nodding once. My chest felt tight, but not in a bad way—more like something inside me was stretching, trying to make room for all this . . . newness. Him not being an ass about Marie helped.

There was something unspoken there, though. We both felt it. That damn awkward layer neither of us wanted to peel back. He was a Daddy Dom. I was a Daddy Dom. Marcus was a Daddy Dom. We were all part of the same world, I just couldn’t bring myself to admit it. Not yet. I didn’t want to out Marie—no, I wouldn’t out Marie. No matter what. I’d never make that mistake again.

"Alright," Brett said finally, stepping back. "I’ll let you get back to... uh"—he waved vaguely at the ovens—"whatever this is. Sniffing your new equipment."

"Calibrating," I said, smirking. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Don’t screw it up." He shot me a grin over his shoulder as he headed for the door, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, turning back to the controls. The click of the door shutting behind him echoed in the quiet space. I stared at the temperature gauge for a second, letting the stillness settle around me again. Then I exhaled hard, rubbed the back of my neck, and got back to work. I had pastries to prepare.

***

By late afternoon, I was back at the motel, towel slung around my shoulders as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. The steam from my shower had fogged it up, but I didn’t bother wiping it down. I wasn’t looking at myself—I already knew what I’d see. Same tired green eyes, same streaks of silver threading through my dark hair. The same guy who’d spent years screwing things up, now trying like hell to get it right.

I glanced at the nightstand when I stepped out, catching sight of the contract where I’d left it. The notebook we’d used to jot down rules and notes sat next to it, her handwriting looping neatly across the page. A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth as I picked it up, flipping to the latest update she’d added. Something about bedtime texts, and—yeah, there it was—a cheeky little doodle of a cupcake in the margin.

"Brat," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head. But the warmth spreading through my chest wasn’t irritation. Not even close.

I yanked a comb through my damp hair, gave up halfway through, and tossed it on the counter. Grabbing my jacket off the chair, I shrugged it on and checked my phone. No new messages from her since earlier, but that didn’t stop the knot of anticipation from twisting just a little tighter in my gut.

"Alright," I said to myself, locking the door behind me as I stepped out into the cool evening air. "Let’s do this."

***

I saw her before she saw me. Leaning against her front door, one foot propped casually on the curb, arms crossed over her chest. The streetlamp above cast a soft yellow glow that tangled in her curls, turning them into a halo of messy gold. She was scrolling through her phone, biting her bottom lip like she did when she was focused. Confident, sure, but there was something else—an almost shy tilt to her posture, like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself while she waited.

I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets as I walked up, heart kicking against my ribs in a way that made no sense. We’d been texting all day, hell, we had a contract , but seeing her now, like this? Felt different. Realer.

"Hey," I said, stopping just close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. I loved the stuff, the vanilla sweetness, the twist of citrus. It was fresh and sweet, just like her.

Her head snapped up, a smile breaking across her face that hit me like a sucker punch. "There you are," she teased, sliding her phone into her pocket. "Thought maybe you got cold feet."

"Not a chance." My voice came out rougher than I meant, so I softened it with a grin, stepping forward and tugging her into a quick hug. Her body fit against mine for all of two seconds, warm and solid, before I forced myself to let go. Didn’t want to come off too eager. Still, the pull in my chest lingered, sharp and insistent. Yeah, I missed her more than I wanted to admit.

She rocked back on her heels, her brown eyes flicking up to meet mine. "You ready?"

"Born ready," I shot back, pulling the diner door open for her with a small flourish. She rolled her eyes but brushed past me with a chuckle, and I followed her inside, already feeling lighter just standing next to her.

***

The booth vinyl squeaked under us as we sat down, her across from me, elbows resting on the table like she owned the place. She didn’t even look at the menu, just flagged down the waitress with a bright smile.

"Milkshake and fries, please. Oh, and extra whipped cream if you’ve got it. Thanks!"

"Burger," I said when the waitress turned to me. "Medium rare. And coffee."

"Coffee this late?" Marie asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Helps me focus," I said, deadpan.

"On what? Plotting your bakery domination plans?"

"Maybe." I smirked, leaning back just enough to watch her laugh. God, that laugh—it bubbled out of her like it couldn’t be contained, filling every corner of the tiny diner. People turned to look, not that she noticed. Or cared.

"Alright, Mr. Focused," she said, resting her chin on her hand. "I’m sorry I couldn’t come by today. My delivery guy got the date wrong and I ended up with a week’s worth of coffee beans, baked treats and milk to unpack. And Sam called in sick today so it was just me.”

“Shoulda told me. I could have helped out.”

“No, silly, you were busy too. How are the new ovens?”

We were talking to each other like I hadn’t made her moan with pleasure the last time I’d seen her. Like she hadn’t agreed to let me use her body whenever I felt like for physical pleasure. Like she didn’t want me to spank her if she got out of line.

“They’re good, thank you.” To my delight, I felt her foot against mine under the table. Her eyes widened with excitement. “I did some prep today with some dough for bread and pastries. Have some cold proofing going on over night. Can’t wait to test them out tomorrow morning.”

“Will there be anything to spare?”

“You asking if you can be my guinea pig?”

“Maybe.” She grinned.

“Of course.”

“You must be excited about opening. Bet you’re counting the minutes."

"Something like that. What about you? Good couple of days? Stressful.”

"Ugh," she groaned, dragging out the word. "Don’t get me started. Let’s just say, if I have to explain the difference between a cappuccino and a latte one more time, I might lose it."

"Sounds brutal."

"Brutal doesn’t even cover it." She shrugged, but her smile stayed put, softening the edges of her words.

For a while, we kept it easy. Banter about customers, coworkers, small-town drama. But then the food came, and somewhere between her first fry and my second bite of burger, her tone shifted.

"Y’know," she said, twirling the straw in her milkshake, "in most of my past relationships, I always ended up being . . . the one in charge. Not like what—" she blushed, “—what happened when we were together the other day.”

“Interesting. How did that work out?” It felt so obvious to me that Marie was a sub, and a Little. It seemed bizarre that she would have been anything but that in a different relationship.

She bit her lip, looking down at her fries. "At first, it was fine. Fun, even. But it never really worked long-term. I guess . . ." She trailed off, her fingers tightening around her straw.

"Guess what?"

"I guess I always wanted someone who could take the lead. Not all the time, but . . . y’know, enough." Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper now.

"Enough to feel safe," I finished for her, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Her eyes snapped up to mine, wide and startled, like I’d just read her diary out loud. But she nodded, a slow, hesitant movement.

"Yeah," she said softly. “Plus, it’s kind of relaxing. Makes me feel like I can just enjoy the moment.”

"That makes sense," I said, setting my burger down and wiping my hands on a napkin. "I’ve kinda been on the opposite end of that. Never really had anything serious. Army life was chaos, and after that . . ." I shook my head, memories flashing uninvited. "Touring with the band wasn’t much better. Groupies throwing themselves at you for all the wrong reasons. It got old fast."

"Sounds lonely," she murmured, her brow furrowing.

"Yeah," I admitted. "It was."

Her hand moved then, just a little—like she wanted to reach across the table but stopped herself halfway. Instead, she wrapped her fingers around her milkshake glass, gripping it tight.

"Well," she said, breaking the silence with a small smile. "Guess we both know what we don’t want, huh?"

"Guess we do," I said, and this time, when I smiled back, it felt easy. Natural.

Plates clattered around us, forks scraping against ceramic, bursts of laughter rolling from a booth behind me. I leaned forward, elbows on the table, my voice low enough that only she could hear.

"Can I be honest?" The words came out rougher than I intended, but Marie tilted her head, curiosity lighting up her brown eyes.

"Of course," she said, pushing her fries to the side, like she was clearing space for whatever I was about to drop between us.

I exhaled hard. "I've never been good at being open. Vulnerable. I mean, it’s not exactly something they teach you in the army or—" I gave a dry laugh, shaking my head. "—on a tour bus full of sweaty guys."

"Yeah, I can see how an open, honest discussion about feelings might kill the vibe," she teased. There was softness in her smile. No judgment. Just an invitation to keep going.

"Point is," I continued, staring down at the napkin I’d been shredding to pieces, "it’s new for me. Letting someone in. Saying what I want. What I need." I looked up then, meeting her gaze squarely. "It’s not easy, but I want to try. With you."

Her hand moved across the table, slow and deliberate, until her fingers brushed mine. A light touch, almost hesitant. My chest tightened at the contact. She didn’t say anything right away, just let the moment stretch, her thumb tracing a small circle against the back of my hand.

"That means a lot," she finally said, her voice steady but quiet. "Because I get it. I’ve spent so much time trying to take charge, control things, thinking that’s what I had to do to make it work. But—" She paused, biting her lip, her hand still resting against mine. "It always felt wrong. Like I was forcing something instead of letting it happen naturally."

"Like you were carrying the weight alone," I offered, my thumb brushing over hers now. Her lips parted, and her breath hitched—just barely, but I caught it.

"Exactly," she said softly. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide and unguarded, a vulnerability there that matched my own. "And when they couldn’t meet me halfway—when they wouldn’t—I pushed them away. Every time. It was easier than admitting what I really wanted."

"Which is?" I asked, my voice dipping lower, the question hanging heavy between us.

"Submission. Being with someone I trust to take the lead.”

"I can do that," I murmured, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I know you can.” She glanced around, making sure no-one was close enough to hear. “Daddy.”

A few moments later, the waitress swung by with the check, cutting the tension. Marie pulled her hand away reluctantly, and I missed the warmth immediately. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her curls bouncing as she grinned at me.

"Alright, Dwight," she said, her tone lighter now, teasing. "What’s next? Can’t end the night on all this emotional unpacking, can we?"

"Depends," I said, grabbing the check and tossing down some cash. "You up for a little competition?"

"Always," she shot back, leaning forward with a challenge in her eyes. "What’ve you got in mind?"

"Bowling," I said simply, sliding out of the booth. Her laugh was instant, bright and unrestrained, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables.

"Bowling?" she repeated, standing and grabbing her purse. "Do you even know how bad you’re setting yourself up right now? Because I’m gonna wipe the floor with you."

"Big talk for someone I’m about to crush," I fired back, holding the door open for her as we stepped into the night. The cool air hit, but it didn’t matter. The spark between us was enough to keep me warm.

"Mm-hmm," she hummed, smirking as she slid into my truck. "We’ll see, Wilkins. We’ll see."

***

The bowling alley smelled exactly how I remembered: stale popcorn, greasy pizza, and that weird chemical tang from decades of spilled soda and shoe disinfectant. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a faint, electric glow.

"Wow," Marie said, slipping her feet into a pair of worn rental shoes. "This place hasn’t changed since high school."

"Good," I said, lacing up my own shoes. "I’m counting on a little nostalgia to distract you and throw off your game."

"Keep dreaming," she drawled, heading toward the counter to grab a ball. Her hips swayed just enough to make me lose track of what I was here for. By the time she turned back, cradling a bright pink bowling ball against her hip, I was already swallowing hard.

"Ready to lose?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not happening," I shot back, grabbing a ball of my own. It was heavier than I remembered, but I wasn’t about to let her see that. I needed to hit the gym. It had been a while.

"Alright, tough guy," she said, "let’s see what you’ve got. Can’t believe I’m about to beat a soldier," Marie said, her grin sharp enough to cut glass. She stood back with her arms crossed, leaning lightly against the ball return as I lined up my first shot.

"Prepare to be amazed," I muttered, adjusting my grip on the smooth black bowling ball. I squared my shoulders, stepped forward, and . . . released.

The ball veered immediately into the gutter with a loud thunk .

"Wow," Marie said, biting back laughter that spilled out anyway. "That was . . . something."

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled, turning to face her with a mock scowl. "It’s called strategy. Gotta lull you into a false sense of security. I’m something of a hustler."

"False sense of security? Hustling? Whatever you say," she teased, her laugh bubbling over again. Her eyes sparkled under the neon lights, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back, scowl forgotten.

"Alright, hotshot. Let’s see you do better," I challenged, stepping aside and gesturing dramatically toward the lane. "Show me how it’s done, Miss Pro Bowler."

"Watch and learn," she quipped, grabbing her bright pink ball and sauntering up to the line like she owned the place. Her stance was confident, hips cocked just so, and for a second, I forgot we were even in a bowling alley. Then she swung her arm back and sent the ball rolling down the lane. It curved gracefully before knocking over seven pins.

"Boom!" she said, spinning on her heel to face me, arms raised in triumph. "That’s how you do it."

"Beginner’s luck," I shot back, though I couldn’t help but laugh at her theatrics. She stuck her tongue out at me, and it hit me how easy it was being around her. Like breathing.

By the third frame, I’d managed to knock down a few pins, but Marie was wiping the floor with me. Not that I minded. Watching her get excited every time she scored a spare—or fake-pout when she didn’t—was worth every gutter ball on my record. Plus, it never got old to watch the curve of her bottom as she leaned over to release the ball. Somewhere between our turns, she pulled out her phone.

"Smile, Daddy," she said, leaning in close and holding it up for a selfie. The word sent a pulse of heat through me, but I kept it together, even though I caught a whiff of her wonderful perfume. It felt strange to have her take a photo of the two of us together, but it also felt good. Like we were doing something so normal, the kind of thing other couples did. After the first snap, she pulled a ridiculous pouty face and took a couple more.

"Let me see," I said, reaching for her phone. She held it just out of reach, laughing as I tried to grab it.

"Uh-uh. You’ll see them later," she teased, tucking the phone into her pocket. "Focus on your game, Wilkins."

"Game?" I said, gesturing to the score screen overhead. "What game? This is a disaster zone. You’re demolishing me."

"Well, maybe if you stopped trying to look cool and actually aimed, you’d stand a chance," she said, smirking as she picked up her ball for another turn.

"Cool?" I asked, pretending to be offended. "You think this"—I gestured to myself—"is me trying to look cool?"

"I know it is. I recognize that look from your music videos. All scowly and brooding," she said, still smirking.

“That’s not my fault—the director made me do it.”

“It’s kinda hot.” Her eyes flashed.

“Is that so? Hey, you watched my music videos?”

Even with the dim, neon light, I saw the blush on her cheeks. “I’ve had a crush on you for a while, Daddy.” She bit her lip.

Something stirred in my gut.

“Let’s finish up this game,” I said. “I’ve got an idea for what we could do later.”

“If I were you,” she said, leaning in so close she had to whisper, “I’d focus on the game, and not,” she reached down and rubbed my crotch, “what’s going on between your legs.”

Thank God she was so close there was no chance anyone could see.

“That is cheating,” I said, as my cock instantly throbbed with desire. “Cheating has consequences, little girl.”

“Oh really? I guess you’ll have to punish me later, Daddy.”

“Maybe I will,” I said, stepping away. “Now, time to dominate you on the lanes.”

"Sure," she said, clapping slowly. "At this rate, you might break fifty points by the end of the night."

"Keep talking, Johnson," I said, shaking my head. "We’ll see who’s laughing after the last frame."

Spoiler alert: it was her. By the end of the game, she’d beaten me by ten points, and she wasn’t shy about rubbing it in.

"Alright, alright," I said as we walked out into the cool night air. "Maybe I let you win."

"Let me win?" she repeated, stopping mid-step to stare at me. "Dwight Wilkins, you are such a liar."

"Am not," I said, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets to keep from reaching for her. "I’m just a generous guy. Thought I’d boost your ego a little."

"Boost my ego?" She laughed, shaking her head. "Please. Admit it—you tried your best, and I still wiped the floor with you."

"Fine," I said, smirking. "You’re the queen of Small Falls Bowling Alley. Happy?"

"Very," she said, grinning as we reached her car.

“Now,” I said, moving my hand down her back and letting it rest on her ass, “there’s just the small matter of your cheating to deal with.” I gave her toned flesh a gentle pat.