Christmas Daddy(2)

By: Jade West



What she didn’t mention, and probably didn’t know, was that Mr Hart was scary as all hell. Stern. Intimidating. Brash and non-communicative. Eyes like daggers whenever someone got flummoxed over a bullet point in a meeting.

Oh, and gorgeous.

Mr Hart was absolutely, scarily gorgeous. In that shivers-up-your-spine, heart-pounding-in-your-chest, borderline petrifying kind of way that got me all hot and bothered.

Powerful men got me all hot and bothered.

Not that I knew many of them. Really just him, and this old high school teacher I had a massive crush on through my teens. I’d doodled about him in my notebooks, daydreamed about him for years on the school bus, and finally, in my final year, I’d written a whole range of dirty fantasies about him and posted them anonymously online. They’re probably still out there somewhere.

Anyway, Mr Fletcher was also stern and scary as all hell. When he’d get angry, he’d slam a text book down on his desk and curse in French under his breath.

Mr Hart, however, curses in plain English and there’s nothing under his breath about any of it.

He’s tall, dark, classically handsome in that approaching-forties businessman kind of way. His suits are clearly tailored, his hair is clearly barber-styled, and his eyes are light enough under dark brows that his glare could cut glass at fifty paces.

Mum said he was a good-looking kid at school. She didn’t say he’d matured into the kind of guy you’d feel butterflies for every time he stepped into your general vicinity.

I’d have told her all about it in detail over turkey if she wasn’t flying off to New York for the holidays.

I grabbed a fresh mug of coffee from the kitchen, and the last meeting’s minutes were spewing from the main office printer quite nicely when I arrived to grab them. I scooped them up in an eager hand, sipping coffee happily as I scanned my eyes over the bullet points on the way back to my desk.

I was trying to memorise them as well as possible on my journey up the corridor, aiming to avoid any awkward silences if Mr Hart quizzed me on any single one of them.

I was so engrossed in my efforts that I didn’t even register the swing of his office door as he stepped on out with his own paperwork in hand.

I registered too late to even think of stopping. My belly somersaulted over itself and my coffee did too, slamming right into his chest as I did.

I felt the burn on my tits, hotter even than the burn on my cheeks, but that wasn’t my first sense of urgency. His shirt was soaked right through, and worse, so was the crotch of his suit trousers. It was instinct that saw me gulp in air and send my hand out to brush the mess away. I managed one smear of the brown liquid on his chest, my eyes opening wide even as my fingers travelled instinctively lower.

And then I stopped.

Or, more precisely, he stopped me, his fingers gripped tight around my wrist. His grip was brutal. Definite. Tight and strong and hard and everything that would set my fantasies into overdrive if I wasn’t so thoroughly mortified.

“Shit!” I squeaked, sounding like a total fucking imbecile. My eyes met his and his were angry enough to burn me alive. The apologies came tumbling over and over. “I’m sorry, Mr Hart. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Shit, I’m so sorry.”

I saw my colleagues gathering open-mouthed at the doorway, and I flinched when he let go of my wrist as though he was going to fire me on the spot.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t speak. Not even a word.

The moment was hot, and heavy, and long. Way too long. His stare was bruising against mine, his mouth open just a little as he took in a hiss of breath.

His gaze travelled down slowly, from my eyes to my own open mouth and my heaving chest underneath. I followed his glare and found my blouse soaked worse than he was. The fabric was stuck tight to my skin, and you could see the red polka dots on my bra as plain as day.

So. Fucking. Humiliating.

“You should get cleaned up,” he said finally.

I managed a nod. One stupid nod before he brushed on past me.

And then I raced like an idiot to the bathroom.





Chapter Two





Jackson



My paperwork was ruined. Totally and utterly unsalvageable.

I dabbed myself down with a fistful of paper towels in the kitchen, cursing that sweet little slip of a girl for her clumsiness.

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