Ronan
The flight attendant makes up two beds, probably noticing the cold shoulder Daisy has been giving me during this entire flight.
After eating our dinners, Daisy comes out of the tiny bathroom in a pair of light blue pajamas, the bottoms so short, I can see the curve of her ass below the hemline. I clench my fists as she walks by.
She’s fucking with my head—whether she means to or not.
If she were any other woman, I’d have fucked her a dozen times by now. I’d have put her over my knee for that bratty behavior of hers. If she were someone from the club or a match through the app, I wouldn’t be so goddamn conflicted. But she’s not just another woman. She’s young, naive, and so fucking sweet, it kills me.
And I like her. The more she speaks and the things she says make me like her more, and it’s infuriating.
I’ve been here before. I know this routine. And I don’t want to do it again.
I won’t survive another heartbreak.
Daisy climbs into her bed, without looking at me or even telling me good night. She’s still angry that I didn’t react the way she wanted to the whole Daddy situation. And that she couldn’t prove to the flight attendant that I belong to her.
I can’t say I blame her. I would have reacted far worse than Daisy, if another man was vying for her attention and she shut me down. I’d lose my goddamn mind.
But where Daisy is concerned, I’m always losing my mind.
Daisy has no idea the fantasy she’s playing into by calling me that and how much I’m ready to say fuck it and take her right now to show her what it means to me. If I didn’t give a shit about what happens to us after this, I would. I’d let her call me whatever the fuck she wants.
It’s not like she’d be the first woman to utter that word, but she sure as fuck is the first one to use it in a way that feels so fucking genuine.
Call me a sick fuck, but I want to be her daddy. I’d teach her every fucking thing she wants to know. I’d take care of her and protect her and make her feel so goddamn good.
My cock twitches in my pants, so I jump out of my seat to stop my brain from torturing me like this.
The plane is quiet as I lock myself in the small bathroom. I take a look in the mirror and see a man too old for a girl like her. A man who has lived a long, decent life, and would be a greedy asshole to wish for anything more. Daisy deserves better than a quick fuck from a guy like me or, God forbid, getting stuck with me when she has so much life left to live.
I’ve spent so much of my last few years in that damn sex club that it has my brain all kinds of fucked up—I don’t need to screw every person I get close to.
When I come out of the bathroom in my blue satin pajamas, the lights are out and Daisy is facing the wall. But when I reach the two separate beds, one on each side of the aisle, I can’t bring myself to climb into mine alone.
So against my better judgment, I climb into hers. She stiffens as I drape my body behind hers, pulling her tight to my body.
“What are you doing?” she mutters.
“I sleep better with you near me.”
“Last night was the first night we slept next to each other,” she argues.
“I know, and I slept great,” I reply coolly.
“Fine,” she replies with a yawn, and I can’t help but smile.
After pulling the blanket up around us both, I tug her closer, so she’s resting against my body, the same way she was when I woke up today.
I’m playing with fire here. For a man afraid of growing attached and getting his heart broken, I’m certainly not acting like it. Somewhere in my mind, I think that I can keep Daisy just like this. Whatever this is.
“Go to sleep, and we’ll wake up in Paris,” I whisper.
Under the blankets, I feel the gentle rubbing of her feet, the same thing she did last night, and I find myself smirking, my face practically buried in the mess of blonde waves on my pillow.
“Night, Ronan,” she replies.
“Night, Daisy.”
Daisy and I are strolling through the Luxembourg Garden, my favorite spot in Paris and the first place I brought her when we woke up in the city this morning. After a quick stop at the apartment, of course.
I love the look of awe and excitement on her face. I think I even caught a few tears in her eyes as the car drove us through the city. The pleasure it brings me to see her so happy makes me want to do it forever.
“So, what on earth made you move into your van?” I ask as we walk.
She’s biting into the croissant in her hand as she contemplates her answer. “You’re going to think it’s stupid,” she replies, taking a sip of her coffee.
“No, I’m not.”
“Promise not to laugh at me?”
“I would never laugh at you,” I reply with a furrow of my brow.
After a long, heavy sigh, she crumples the paper her croissant was wrapped in and wipes the crumbs off her face with the back of her hand. Then she pauses near a large fountain before speaking. “Three years ago, my mom passed away. She had breast cancer.”
“I’m so sorry, Daisy,” I say, interrupting her as she plasters a fake smile on her face, something I’ve noticed she does a lot. Forcing herself to appear brave and unaffected.
“Thank you.” She looks down at her hands as she continues. “I was supposed to go to college. The plan was music school, but she passed just after I graduated high school. It was all too much at once. Then, I just got stuck for a while. And I thought the only way to get myself unstuck would be to just run away. My life was so dreary, and I just wanted it to be…poetic.”
I find myself leaning closer until I’m standing almost pressed against her, her hip against mine and her hair near my nose again, so I can inhale her delicate scent. “Poetic?”
When her eyes lift, her gaze finding mine, I feel something shift. “You know… Something adventurous, with art and music and poetry. I had these big dreams about driving around the country in my van and collecting these rich experiences. Going to museums and hearing musicians play, and then I could just write my music, journal my experiences, and be truly free, without any idea where it would lead to next.”
“I think that sounds beautiful,” I mutter, my eyes not leaving her face for a moment. Then I touch her little button nose. “You are a dreamer, Daisy.”
Then her expression falls. “Yeah, well, dreams are just dreams, and life is not poetic at all. I ended up serving martinis in a sex club, so…”
She steps back, and I hate the listless expression on her face.
“Life can be very poetic, Daisy. But that doesn’t mean it will always be pretty.”
With a shrug, she shoots me a small smile. “I guess.”
“Give it a chance. It just might surprise you.” My hand is itching to reach for hers. It would be inappropriate to hold her hand, but I’m struggling to get through an hour without touching her. She crawled into my bed that night, and it was all over for me. Waking up with her in my arms was the nail in my coffin.
We act like friends, but friends don’t feel the overwhelming urge to protect the other, not like this. I want to take care of her. I want her to be mine in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.
I want to own Daisy. I bet she would submit beautifully.
But if I fuck her, the way I desperately want to, can I promise myself I won’t push her away after?
Can I promise my stupid broken heart that it won’t get hurt again?
No.
My fists clench subtly as we continue our walk. I let her lead the way, wishing for an opportunity to touch her again.
“Did you grow up in Briar Point?” she asks, making small talk as we stroll through the park. The sound of children playing nearby grows louder as we reach the larger fountain, little remote-controlled boats streaming across the water.
“Yes, I did,” I reply. “Not far from the club, actually.”
“Really?” she asks, stepping closer, so our arms graze each other’s.
“It was just my mother and me. She had to work two jobs to make ends meet. I wanted to give back to her when I grew up, but instead of going to college, I met Julia, and we got married very young. A couple years later, Miles came along. I was just getting started in business, and doing pretty well. Well enough to support them.”
I pause, taking a deep breath before continuing on. It’s not hard to talk about them anymore, but it does cost me a bit of my peace. When I feel ready, I go on.
“Then one morning, she was taking him to the store and they were hit by a driver speeding the wrong way in their lane. Just like that, they were gone.”
“Ronan…” she mumbles, as if to tell me I don’t have to talk about it.
I don’t know why I feel the need to tell her this part. I guess I’ve never felt so comfortable with other women before. But it’s so easy with Daisy.
“It’s all right. I can talk about them.”
With a small smile, she loops her arm through mine, and I fight back the grin that aches to come out. The tension slides off my shoulders like melting wax.
“Keep going,” she whispers.
Slowly we meander our way toward the busy city street.
“After my wife and son died, I buried myself in my work. It allowed me to hide from the pain and loneliness, so that my life became nothing more than business, money, and success.”
She squeezes my arm. “Did you ever marry again?”
“A few years later. Her name was Lydia. It was a mistake and was over in three months.”
“Did you have any more children?”
I swallow. “No.”
“You don’t want any more?” she asks with gentle curiosity, as if asking that would be offensive to me, which it’s not. Her sweet boldness is refreshing.
Turning toward her, I gaze into those big, blue, innocent eyes. “I wish I had. I’m afraid it’s a little late for me now. But I always think about that. Who will inherit everything when I’m gone.”
She doesn’t say anything, her mouth set in a thin line. I place my hand on her arm, realizing we’ve put ourselves in another bout of awkward silence.
“Did you ever fall in love again?” she asks quietly, barely loud enough for me to hear.
“Yes,” I reply without hesitation, thinking immediately about that summer with Shannon.
“What happened?” she asks with softness in her eyes.
“Right person, wrong time.”
Her arms squeeze around mine again. After a few minutes, she randomly changes the subject.
“How do you say I’m hungry in French?”
“J’ai faim,” I reply in my clunky French. She lets out an adorable gasp.
“Oh my God. Do you speak French?”
I laugh. “A little.”
“You must spend a lot of time here,” she replies as we make our way up to the tourist-heavy street lined with restaurants. I keep her close, my eyes shifting back and forth to watch for anyone suspicious.
“I used to spend a lot more. It’s been a while.”
“Where is your favorite place to go?”
I chuckle, squeezing her closer. “You really want to know?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, what if I told you there’s a club like Salacious here in Paris?”
She gasps again. When she stops and stares up at me with her wide sky-colored eyes and her mouth hanging open, I already know what’s going to come out of her mouth. “I want to go!”
“No,” I reply without hesitation. I don’t know why I even brought it up.
“Oh, come on. Ronan, I work at a sex club. I think I can handle going to one.”
“This one is a little different than Salacious.”
“How so?” she asks. We cross the street as I take her hand in mine, leading her to a restaurant on the other side.
“Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” My tone is clipped and impatient, realizing that I just opened myself up to this. I genuinely did not think Daisy would be interested in a sex club.
“Well, you have to take me,” she argues obstinately. “I want to see it. And I have to brag to everyone back home that I went to a Parisian sex club.”
I grumble to myself while she’s beaming next to me. Why the fuck would I tell her about that club? I’m sure as fuck not taking her. Because, deep down, I know if I do, it’ll have me breaking all my rules.
