Chapter 5 Hannah
HANNAH
Me: I honestly couldn’t think of anything I’d rather not do.
Happy: The way your pretty little pussy was gushing all over my cock last night, I think you’re bluffing, Baby Draper.
Me: I promise you I’m not.
Happy: [Dick Pic] The big guy misses you already.
Holy shit. In the eight or so hours since it was deep inside of me, I somehow forgot just how perfect Happy Slater’s dick is.
Long. Thick. Veiny. A perfectly flared head.
He even waxes which makes it look… kind of like my dildo.
Only better. God. I’m forced to cross one leg over the other from the sudden ache thrumming between my thighs.
Maybe one more time wouldn’t be such a bad idea…
“How’s work?”
Startling from my entirely inappropriate thoughts given current company, I nearly drop my phone on the table between me and my father.
Somehow, I doubt Dad would appreciate Happy Slater’s hairless schlong becoming the centerpiece of our Sunday brunch.
Collecting myself, I quickly lock the screen and turn the device face down next to my coffee.
“Um…” I clear my throat. “It’s… g-good.” I work in talent and acquisitions for the number one sports news streaming service in the country.
I always knew I wanted to work in the sporting industry, but after a brief stint interning at the New York Thunder, thanks to good old-fashioned nepotism, I knew that as much as I love my father, I couldn’t work with him.
So, I applied for an internship at SNN, and I’ve been working there for almost three years.
“It’s busy. Brookes Devereaux is in town this week to film his face-to-camera pieces for the series they have coming up, and I have to look after him apparently, so that’ll be a blast. Not.
” Working with athletes, especially infamous douchebags like Brookes Devereaux, the number one golfer in the world at the moment, is the worst part of my job.
World number one athletes are notorious divas.
Dousing his eggs with the bottle of hot sauce he BYOs from home, Dad offers me a dad-like look. “Make sure he keeps his hands to himself. I’ve read all about that guy, and I won’t hesitate to kick some ass. I don’t care how many millions the person it’s attached to is worth.”
I roll my eyes, shaking my head. My father, ladies and gentlemen.
“Speaking of kicking ass, how was last night?” Dad quirks a brow.
At the mention of last night, I drop my fork, the silverware clanging loudly against my plate. I swallow hard, trying my best to act casual, while Happy’s hard cock feels like it’s burning a hole right through my phone.
What about last night? The part where I got home to find his general manager drunk outside my building, or the part where I took his second pair D-man upstairs to my apartment and squirted all over his face. I’m going to Hell.
“My boys behave themselves?” he clarifies.
“Oh,” I say. Smooth. “Yeah. It was fun. Low key.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied, shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth.
“I went home pretty early…” I continue for some unknown reason. “I was really tired. I didn’t see anyone after I left.” Okay, you can stop talking now, Hannah.
Dad offers me an oblivious smile that I return with a saccharine one as we both takes sips of our coffees.
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Growing up, I idolized my father. In fact, I still do. And while sometimes I wondered if he’d secretly wished he had a son to carry on his legacy, he never once acted like he was disappointed to have had only me.
When I was a kid—when my parents were still together—when Dad was home and not on the road, he’d get me into a pair of roller blades and we’d play street hockey, and he’d teach me all his secrets.
I remember in fifth grade, when Shane Simon, the school bully, tried to cut in front of Preston Archer in the lunch line, I did exactly what my father taught me; I threw my tray to the floor, fronted up to Shane, punched him in his gut, and pulled his shirt up over his head, blinding him while he was doubled over in pain.
The entire cafeteria was yelling “Fight! Fight! Fight!” but before I could lay another blow, a teacher intervened and carted me off to the administration office, where the assistant principal called my mother to come and collect me.
I think that was one of the many catalysts that ended my parents’ marriage.
Even when my dad left, when he retired from playing and moved to New York to join the Thunder’s coaching staff, my mother hated that I looked up to him the way that I did.
With every phone call and every text, every scheduled visit to see my father, she resented him more and more. And she became mean.
When I would come down for breakfast, dressed for school in one of my dad’s old hockey jerseys, she’d make me go back upstairs and change. “You look frumpy. A southern girl should look and act like a lady, Hannah.”
The older I got, the more my mother tried to turn me into the perfect southern belle—cheerleading, beauty pageants, cotillions, you name it.
She had me on a strict keto diet when I was fourteen.
She even lied to me one time and told me I was seeing a specialist for acne treatment, even though I never had anything more than the occasional breakout like most teenagers; the specialist was, in fact, a laser technician.
My mother was trying to have my freckles lasered off without my knowing. Diabolical.
But no matter how hard my mother tried, I was defiant and always a daddy’s girl. And when I received my acceptance letter from Fordham University, I left Charleston, my mother, and all the pretentious bullshit behind, and I came to New York City, where I’ve been ever since.
“Have you responded to your mother?” Dad asks, because I swear he can read my mind.
I roll my eyes looking down at my avocado on sourdough. “No…”
“Hannah, you need to let her know,” he says on a sigh. “She’s going to start harassing me.”
My lips twitch when I look up and meet the fear in his big, blue eyes. If there’s one thing my dad is scared of in this world, it’s his ex-wife, Virginia Stoneham. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know you don’t, kiddo.” He reaches over and touches my arm. “But it’s her wedding.”
My nose wrinkles. “Yeah, her third.”
Dad chokes back a chuckle. “Think of it as a mini vacation.”
“A vacation? To a wedding at a plantation in the Lowcountry? Dad, be so for real.” I offer him an incredulous look.
Hie eyes bulge. “She’s getting married at a plantation?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. His great-great-great grandfather’s plantation.”
“Wow…” My dad shakes his head, clearly as flabbergasted as I was when I found out my mother was marrying a man who comes from… that.
My mother’s wedding is the event of the year, just like her second wedding was, and probably her first to my father.
She’s marrying a surgeon this time. Her surgeon.
The surgeon who did her facelift last year.
That’s all I need to know about him. I’ve never met the guy, but something tells me that if he’s the kind of man who flouts his responsibilities as a doctor and marries one of his patients—at his family’s plantation no less—he must be a real catch…
“I’ll call her,” I say on a resigned sigh, checking my phone. And while I’m thankful to see there are no more dick pics from Happy, I’m devastated my trainer, Silas, hasn’t cancelled on me like I’d been secretly hoping he would. A Sunday training session sounded amazing… on Tuesday.
“I have to go,” I say, finishing the last of my chai latte. “I have training.”
“That’s my girl.” Dad winks.
Standing, I shrug on my jacket. “I’ll see you at the game tomorrow night.”
My father rises from his chair, giving me a peck on my cheek. And, with a wave, I turn and head down the street, crossing at the corner and taking the stairs for the subway.
When I turn the corner onto the SoHo block where my gym is located, I’m stopped dead in my tracks in the center of the sidewalk when I notice a familiar vehicle parked on the street.
No. Fucking. Way.
It can’t be.
I mean, my gym is known to train some pretty big-name celebs, so it’s not unheard of to see a flashy car parked outside, but surely there’s no one else in New York City ridiculous enough to have a completely chromed-out Mercedes G Wagon.
With my hackles sufficiently up, I continue, pulling open the door, smiling politely at the receptionist who buzzes me through. Holding my breath and hoping for the best, the second I enter the gym, I’m momentarily stilted and almost trip over nothing at all.
Happy Slater, shirtless, wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts that bunch around his huge thighs and a backward fucking ball cap, smooth skin beading with sweat, back muscles flexing tight, glutes straining as he pushes the stacked sled weight from one side of the gym to the other, while Silas yells words of encouragement at him is where wet panties come from.
When Happy makes it to the far side, he pauses for a breath, turning, and that’s when he spots me, staring at him with my mouth agape like a goddamn goldfish.
But honestly, the man is perfection. Abs stacked on top of one another that flex with his heavy, panting breaths, broad pecs, rounded shoulders, and…
a stupidly cocky, shit-eating grin that only accentuates the knowing glint in his eyes.
“Baby Draper?” He chuckles, taking a swig of water from his bottle. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I deadpan, my teeth gritting as I glance from him to a confused-looking Silas and back again, arching a brow. “Since when do you train here?”
“Uh, since I was about sixteen,” Happy muses.
“Sixteen?” I scoff in disbelief.
Happy laughs out loud. “Baby Draper, my mom and her husband own this place.”
I rack my mind a moment, wondering if somewhere deep in my subconscious I already knew that.
Happy’s mother, Linda Estes, is one of the OG supermodels from before I was even born.
She’s graced the covers of Vogue, walked catwalks all over the world, and starred in her ex-husband’s music videos.
And now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure she ended up marrying some professional boxer. What are the fucking odds?
Silas pipes up. “You guys know each other?”
I balk, gaping at Silas like he’s lost his damn mind. “Hi,” I say sarcastically. “My father is the head coach of the New York Thunder, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Silas chuckles. “Cool. Well, you’re early. Wanna join us?”
I would rather eat glass. I wish I’d just cancelled today. I normally stick to Tuesday and Friday mornings. But when I couldn’t make Friday and Silas suggested Sunday, I was like great idea, Silas. Now, it’s taking everything I have not to hop in the ring and start kicking my own ass.
“Whatever,” I mutter, removing my jacket and my hoodie, leaving me in my leggings and matching sports bra.
When I find Happy watching me as if he’s trying to undress me with his gaze, I flash him a warning glower, turning away and placing my things into one of the cubbies that line the far wall.
“Now I know where that mean right hook came from last night,” a low voice murmurs, suddenly right behind me, doing things to my insides I’m not willing to admit.
I spin around, glaring at him. “Get away from me. You stink.”
His grin only widens. “Maybe you can shower with me later…”
Pushing past him, I march straight up to Silas. “I feel like sparring.”
Silas nods. “Okay. Let’s do a warm up and we can jump into the ring.”
“No. I want to spar with him,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at Happy, narrowing my eyes at the sight of his smug, knowing smirk.