Discipline Daddy (Small Falls #4)

Chapter 1

Rebekah

Y ou ever wish that “time” hadn’t been invented?

I wished it every single Monday morning.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“I get it, I get it,”I groaned as I slapped my phone's snooze button for the third time, only to realize it wasn’t snoozing—it had been buzzing with a notification. My heart sank as I blinked at the screen. 8:47 AM.

I was already 17 minutes late.

"Shit-sticks."

I threw the blanket off and scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over a stack of sketchpads I’d left on the floor last night. The room was an explosion of chaos—dried paint palettes balancing precariously on the edge of a table, mismatched socks draped across the back of a chair, and a half-empty mug of tea I definitely shouldn’t drink now. Not even five seconds upright, and I was already stepping on something sharp—a rogue bead from my latest bracelet project.

"Ow!" I hissed, hopping on one foot before giving up and shoving my other into yesterday’s sneakers. No time for socks. Again.

My jacket was slung over the easel by the window, and I grabbed it while simultaneously pulling my hair into what might generously be called a ponytail. It felt lopsided, but I didn’t have time to care. Time wasn’t just slipping away; it was sprinting ahead of me, laughing over its shoulder.

"Where’s my bag?" I muttered, turning in circles before spotting it under a pile of fabric scraps on the kitchenette counter. “Bag, bag, bag!” The strap was tangled around a hole-puncher, because of course it was.

By the time I managed to wrestle it free and race out the door, I was already mentally bracing for Denise’s Judgy Eyebrow of Doom.

L uckily, my commute to work was short. I actually lived above the store, which was very handy. The moment I pushed open the glass door to The Treasure Trove, the little brass bells above it jingled so violently they sounded like they were tattling on me.

"Good morning," Denise said without looking up from behind the counter, her tone sharp enough to cut through craft paper.

"Morning!" I chirped, too brightly, as if enthusiasm could cover up my tardiness.

She finally glanced at me, her lips tightening when she took in my disheveled state. My jacket hung open, the hem of my paint-streaked shirt peeking out underneath. I tugged at my ponytail, feeling the bump near the crown, and tried to smooth it down without making it worse.

"Margaret noticed you weren’t here when she checked in this morning," Denise said, her voice low, polite, and absolutely dripping with thinly veiled disapproval. She tapped her pen against the clipboard in front of her, each click like a countdown to a full-on lecture.

"Yeah, sorry—" I began, but she raised an eyebrow that shut me up faster than any actual words could have.

"Just . . . catch up," she said instead, gesturing vaguely toward the back with the air of someone who had resigned herself to being perpetually unimpressed with me.

"On it," I mumbled, ducking my head as I scurried toward the counter where the day’s supplies waited.

When I reached the service counter, my stomach sank. The mess was worse than I remembered—half-emptied boxes slumped against each other like exhausted soldiers after a battle, their contents spilling onto the countertop. Strips of craft paper curled lazily over scattered tangled ribbons, and glitter dusted everything like it had snowed chaos overnight. This was my doing, of course. I’d told myself last night I’d finish sorting it all before closing, but then I got distracted sketching ideas for a new mural.

"Okay," I muttered under my breath, tying my apron tighter around my waist like I was preparing for war. "We can do this."

But as I reached for the first box, my elbow bumped a jar of buttons perched precariously near the edge of the counter. The sound of it tipping was loud enough to make my heart leap into my throat.

"No, no, no—"

Too late. The jar hit the surface with a sharp clatter, its lid popping off on impact. Buttons of every color and size exploded outward, bouncing off the counter and scattering across the floor in wild arcs. It sounded like hail pelting a tin roof, drawing the attention of Denise, who glanced up from her clipboard with a raised eyebrow.

"Great," I hissed under my breath, dropping to my knees to scoop up the runaway buttons. My hands worked quickly, though not quickly enough to keep heat from rushing to my cheeks. Each button seemed determined to roll just out of reach, forcing me to crawl further under the counter.

"Nothing to see here," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else, as I snatched up a rogue yellow one trying to escape behind the register. My ponytail slipped loose again, strands of hair falling into my face, but I didn’t dare pause to fix it. If a customer walked in now, I’d just apologize for looking like a frazzled gremlin hoarding buttons.

Once the last of them was back in the jar, I stood and set it firmly at the center of the counter. Safe. Secure. Not going anywhere. But the damage was done—my nerves were already a frayed tangle, and the looming mountain of supplies waiting to be sorted only made it worse.

I needed a moment. Just one moment to breathe.

"Be right back," I called toward Denise. She side-eyed me. I didn’t blame her.

I ducked into the stockroom, closing the door softly behind me. The scent of cardboard and paint greeted me, familiar and oddly comforting. My eyes darted to the shelf where I kept my secret stash, hidden behind a lineup of acrylics. Reaching up, I pulled down my battered tin lunchbox, its faded stickers peeling at the edges.

Flipping it open revealed the treasures inside: a miniature coloring book with slightly worn corners, a sheet of sparkly unicorn stickers, and a tube of bubble gum lip gloss. My fingers hovered over the lip gloss for a second before I grabbed it, twisting off the cap and applying a quick swipe. The sweet, sugary scent immediately filled my senses, grounding me.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I opened the coloring book to a page of whimsical unicorns mid-gallop through a field of stars. My hands moved instinctively, pulling a purple crayon from the small pack tucked into the box’s lid. As I filled in the mane of the lead unicorn, my breathing slowed, the tension in my shoulders easing.

"Just a minute," I whispered, promising myself. "Then we’ll go back out there."

The faint scrape of crayon against paper was soothing, each stroke a reminder of simpler things. Here, in this tiny pocket of calm, the world outside didn’t feel so overwhelming. The buttons, the boxes, even Denise’s disapproving glances—they all faded into the background.

One more star. One more swoop of blue in the sky.

Finally, I closed the coloring book and tucked it back into the lunchbox, snapping the lid shut. The bubble gum flavor lingered on my lips as I stood, brushing off my apron.

"Alright," I said softly to myself, squaring my shoulders. "Let’s try this again."

With the lunchbox safely returned to its hiding spot, I pushed open the stockroom door and stepped back into the shop, ready to face whatever the day threw at me next.

Thankfully, the day had coffee in store. I smelled the brew before I saw her. Lucy’s voice followed a second later, lilting and bright as she pushed through the shop door.

"Morning, Bex! Look what I’ve got!"

Lucy breezed in like she always did, radiating sunshine even if the world was crumbling around her. Her hair was tucked under a knit beanie, soft curls spilling out to frame her face, and in each hand, she held a to-go cup with the Daily Grind logo.

"Is one of those for me?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Of course," she said, grinning as she placed the cup on the counter next to me. "Double-shot caramel latte, just how you like it." She perched one hip against the edge of the counter, blowing lightly across the lid of her own coffee.

"Thanks," I murmured, taking a sip. The warmth seeped into my hands, and the sweetness spread across my tongue. It was comforting, grounding. I hadn’t even realized how much I needed it until the first sip.

"Rough morning?" Lucy tilted her head, her tone light but knowing.

Lucy was one of my best friends. Together, we ran the Littles League, a club for Littles and Bigs that met once a week at the community center in Small Falls. She was a sweetheart.

"Not really," I lied, forcing a shrug. "Just the usual chaos."

"Uh-huh." Her eyes flicked toward the scattered mess still dominating the counter—boxes haphazardly stacked, papers askew, and a stray button or two I must have missed earlier. "Sure looks like it."

"Don’t start," I muttered, though there was no heat behind it. I grabbed a handful of craft paper and started stuffing it back into the box it had escaped from.

Lucy laughed softly. "Alright, alright. I’ll let you off the hook—for now." She set her cup down and leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "So, Littles League is Friday night. You coming? We’re coming, right?We’re making friendship bracelets this time. Glitter beads, pastel cords—the works. Marcus and Dwight are gonna be there."

My hands stilled mid-motion, the tissue paper crumpling slightly under my grip. Recently, I’d not really been going to Littles League. Things had been getting hectic for me. It wasn’t just work. It felt like everything was piling on top of me. "I don’t know, Lu," I mumbled, keeping my eyes on the mess in front of me. "I’ve got . . . a lot going on."

"Rebekah," she said, drawing the word out in that teasing sing-song way of hers. "You always have a lot going on these days. That’s why you need this. Come on—it’ll be fun!"

"Maybe," I hedged, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. Her expression softened, and for a moment, she looked less like the bubbly Little who could charm anyone and more like the wise friend who’d been by my side through everything.

"Think about it," she said gently, nudging my arm with her elbow.

Before I could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"Rebekah."

I froze, my stomach dropping. It was Margaret. My boss. She stood in the doorway to the back office, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her expression was every bit as stern as her clipped tone.

"Hi, Margaret," I said weakly, straightening my apron and trying not to look as guilty as I felt.

"Can I speak with you for a moment?" she asked, though it wasn’t really a question. Her gaze flicked pointedly to the disaster zone on the counter. "It seems we need to have a conversation about punctuality—and organization." I knew this was coming—I knew I deserved it—but it still felt crappy.

"Right." My cheeks flamed as I quickly set down the stack of papers in my hand. Lucy gave me a sympathetic look but wisely stepped aside, retreating to the display shelves near the window.

"Rebekah," Margaret began, her tone firm but measured, "this isn’t the first time you’ve been late, and it’s certainly not the first time I’ve seen the counter in this state. You know this reflects poorly on the store, don’t you?"

Any time I got criticized, I thought back to my parent. When I’d been young I’d kind of been an overachiever. Always was at the top of the class, always wanted to please everyone. Trouble was, my parents had such ridiculously high standards that I could never please them

I remember one time I got 92% on a quiz. You know what my mom said? “Why not 100%?” My dad’s favorite thing to say was, “Enthusiasm isn’t enough, Rebekah. You need hard work, too.” But the harder I tried, the more impossible it was to please them, until finally, I just gave up.

"Yes, ma’am." My voice barely rose above a whisper, and I hated how small I sounded.

"Then why does it keep happening?" she pressed.

"I—I’m sorry," I stammered, twisting the hem of my apron in my fingers. "I’ll stay late tonight and clean everything up. I promise."

"That’s not the point, Rebekah." Margaret sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You’re talented, creative, and the customers love you. But this"—she gestured at the counter—"is unacceptable. You need to get it together."

"Yes, ma’am," I repeated, my cheeks burning hotter.

"Good. See that you do." With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared back into the office.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the ground, the ache in my chest spreading. I hated this feeling—being scolded, falling short. And yet, deep down, there was something almost . . . comforting about her firmness. Like part of me craved someone to hold me accountable, to help me figure out how to stop spinning in circles.

"Hey." Lucy’s voice was soft as she sidled back over to me, her coffee cup in hand. "Don’t let her get to you, okay? You’ve got this."

"Yeah," I said, though the word felt hollow.

"Seriously, Bex. You’re one of the strongest people I know. Just . . . maybe try showing up on time tomorrow?"

I couldn’t help but laugh, a shaky little chuckle that loosened some of the tension in my chest. "I’ll work on it."

"Good." She smiled, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Now, finish your coffee before it gets cold. You’ll feel better."

"Thanks, Lu," I murmured, lifting the cup to my lips.

As the sweet warmth filled me again, I did feel better. But I knew it wouldn’t last.

I crouched by the lowest shelf, sliding bottles of acrylic paint into neat rows by shade. I bit my lip, trying to focus on the task in front of me. Scarlet next to crimson, then burgundy—orderly, predictable, unlike the mess that always seemed to follow me.

As I stood to grab the next box of supplies, my eyes landed on the corkboard in the foyer. A splash of neon pink caught my attention—a flyer pinned slightly askew, fighting for space between babysitting ads and yoga class schedules. I tilted my head, squinting at the bold lettering:

"CALLING ALL CREATIVES! COMMUNITY CENTER FUNDRAISER NEEDS YOU!"

The corners of my mouth twitched upward. Intrigued, I stepped closer, brushing stray strands of hair out of my face. The flyer practically radiated enthusiasm, with doodles of stars and paintbrushes framing a list of needs: volunteers for event planning, decoration, and activities. Words like “passionate” and “dedicated” jumped out at me, sending a spark of energy through my chest.

"Passionate? Creative?" I murmured under my breath. "I could do that."

Before I could second-guess myself, I yanked the flyer off the board, nearly tearing it at the corner. My heart thudded as I read it again, this time imagining myself surrounded by colorful booths and excited chatter, showcasing my artistic flair. This was it—this was my chance to prove to everyone that I wasn’t just scatterbrained, wasn’t just the girl who couldn’t get her act together.

Clutching the paper, I spun on my heel and all but dashed back into the shop area. Lucy was leaning against the counter, sipping her coffee, her phone balanced precariously in her other hand. She looked up as I skidded to a stop in front of her.

"Lucy!" I waved the flyer like a victory flag. "Look at this! The community center’s doing a fundraiser, and they need volunteers. Creative ones. Like me!"

Her brows lifted, and she set her cup down, taking the flyer from my outstretched hands. As her eyes scanned the text, her mouth curved into a cautious smile. "It sounds cool," she said slowly, handing it back. "I didn’t even know that the community center needed funds. But . . . are you sure? Something like this is going to be a lot of work. Deadlines, meetings, staying organized—you know, all the things you hate."

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, gripping the flyer tighter. "That’s why I have to do it. I need to show that I can handle responsibilities, Lu. I’m tired of feeling like . . ." My voice faltered, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Like I’m just floundering all the time. This is my chance to prove I can be an adult. A real one. Plus, the community center is where we have the Littles League. I have to support it!"

Lucy crossed her arms, giving me one of her trademark skeptical looks. "Bex, I love you, but you’re talking about coordinating with adults who probably have spreadsheets and planners and—" She shuddered dramatically. "—color-coded binders. You really think you can keep up with all that?"

"Yes!" I said, maybe a little too loudly. My pulse quickened, not with doubt, but determination. "I’ll meet every deadline. I’ll stay on top of everything. I’ll blow them away with how capable I am. You’ll see."

"Okay, okay." She held up her hands, palms out. "If you’re sure, I’m not going to stop you. Just . . . don’t overload your plate more than it already is."

"Don’t worry about me," I said, smoothing the creased paper against my stomach. "This is the start of a new Rebekah. No more late mornings, no more messy counters. I’m turning things around."

"Uh-huh." Her eyebrow quirked, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Well, when you’re drowning in post-it notes and RSVPs, don’t say I didn’t warn you."

"Noted," I retorted, sticking my tongue out at her. But as I folded the flyer carefully and tucked it into my apron pocket, a thrill of excitement surged through me.

"Rebekah!" Denise’s sharp voice pierced through our conversation, jolting me upright like I’d been caught red-handed. Her head poked out from the back office door, eyebrows arched in that way that made my stomach sink.

"Margaret wants those inventory sheets filed before closing," she said, her tone clipped but not unkind. "You know how she gets about deadlines."

"Right! Yes, of course," I replied, already fumbling for my phone. My heart sank when I saw the time: thirty minutes behind schedule. Again. I nodded to Lucy, and left her to get working.

With an irritated huff, I scanned the register area, taking in the scattered files and half-organized chaos that was entirely my doing. Mismatched folders leaned precariously against a stack of unsorted receipts. The stapler—where was the stapler? My pulse picked up speed as I realized I hadn’t even started inputting the numbers yet.

"Okay, okay, get it together," I muttered under my breath, yanking open the nearest drawer and rifling through it with far more force than necessary. A jumble of pens, tape rolls, and stray sticky notes tumbled over each other, but no inventory sheets. My chest tightened as frustration began to bubble up—hot, sticky, and all too familiar.

"Why do I always do this?" I groaned, slamming the drawer shut harder than I meant to. The sound echoed in the empty shop, making me wince. My fingers curled into fists at my sides as I fought the urge to grab my lunchbox stash and retreat to the stockroom. But I didn’t have time.

If I had someone—someone who cared enough to keep me on track, who wouldn’t let me slip through the cracks like this, someone like a Daddy Dom—I wouldn’t be drowning in this mess. The thought hit me hard, a pang of longing spreading through my chest. But I shoved it down, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand.

"Just find the stupid sheets," I told myself, diving back into the clutter. Papers fluttered to the floor as I searched, my movements growing more frantic with every passing second. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small, mocking voice whispered, Look at you. Falling apart over a missing stapler. You could never run a fundraiser.

I shook my head, trying to drown it out, but the pressure kept building. My breathing quickened as I grabbed at another messy pile, only to knock over a stack of receipts. They spilled onto the counter and fluttered to the ground like confetti, taunting me with their disarray.

"Great. Just great," I hissed, dropping to my knees to scoop them up. My hands trembled as I gathered the papers, each one feeling like a reminder of how far behind I was. My vision blurred slightly, and I pressed my lips together, willing the sting of tears to back off. Littles League would have a field day if they saw me like this. I could almost hear their giggles now, teasing but affectionate, as they imagined me flailing around like some sitcom character.

"Come on," I whispered, clutching the crumpled receipts tightly. "You don’t need stickers or crayons to fix this. You can do it. Adult mode. Now."

By the time I finally slid the last inventory sheet into its designated folder and shoved it into the filing cabinet, my shoulders ached from hours hunched over the counter. The crinkle of paper under my fingers was oddly satisfying—it felt like proof that, for once, I’d finished something on time. Well, almost on time. Margaret would still have words for me in the morning, but at least I wouldn’t have to see her tight-lipped disapproval tonight.

"Done," I muttered under my breath, letting out a shaky sigh. My gaze swept over the now-clean counter where earlier chaos had reigned. The display rack I’d rearranged stood neatly by the window, stocked with bright, cheerful craft kits that seemed to beam smugly back at me. I grabbed my notebook from the corner of the register and jotted a quick list for tomorrow—"restock glue sticks" and "check ribbon spools" among the tasks—before snapping it shut with a sense of finality.

Flipping off the shop lights, I made my way to the front window. The darkened street outside glowed faintly with the soft halos of streetlamps, their warm light pooling onto the cobblestone sidewalk. Main Street looked so peaceful at this hour, the stores lining either side locked up and quiet. My eyes drifted toward the distant outline of the community center’s roof, just visible above the row of buildings.

Upstairs, my apartment greeted me with its usual whirlwind of color and clutter. Paint-stained brushes crowded my desk in mismatched jars, and half-finished canvases leaned haphazardly against the wall. The sight, normally comforting, felt overwhelming after such a long day. I tossed my bag onto the nearest chair and collapsed onto the bed, the flyer for the fundraiser still clutched in my hand.

Setting the flyer carefully on my nightstand, I changed into my favorite soft pajamas—pink polka dots with frayed cuffs—and padded barefoot to my desk. My Little notebook sat there, waiting to spill open to pages full of doodles and stickers, but tonight, I reached for a clean sketchpad instead. If I was going to volunteer, I needed to start thinking like a planner, not a dreamer.

Ideas flowed quicker than I expected, my pencil moving in soft arcs across the page. A booth for kids to create their own crafts. A mural station where volunteers could paint together. Even a glittery donation jar shaped like a treasure chest. The more I sketched, the faster my excitement built, drowning out the doubts that had plagued me earlier.

When I finally set down the pencil, my fingers smudged with graphite, I exhaled deeply. Tomorrow, I’d walk into that meeting and sign my name. I’d take the first step, no matter how unsteady it felt. And maybe if I proved I could guide myself, someone strong enough to support me might find their way into my life too.

A faint smile tugged at my lips as I climbed into bed, the flyer catching the edge of my vision one last time before my eyelids grew heavy. For once, I let myself believe I could manage it on my own.