Daddy's Girl: A Daddy Issues Novel, Rebel Wild [top 10 most read books in the world .TXT] 📗

my lunch in thirty minutes,” he demands before turning away from me.

“Yes, sir,” I say to his retreating back.

I stand, staring at the door, utterly perplexed by the man who just left my room. He went from demanding to informative to caring to closed off in the span of about ten minutes. How can one person switch emotions so rapidly for no apparent reason? I just can’t figure him out. He was nothing like that when Daddy worked for him. Well, at least he’s not pissed at me. That’s something, and waiting to have sex with me is something better. At least he’s not going to just dive right in. On one hand, I’m happy about it, but on the other hand, it raises my anxiety. It’s like waiting for something bad to happen and I have a feeling having sex with him in that playroom is going to be bad.

How does he plan on savoring it, and what does me being ready have to do with it? I’ve seen a whole lot of porn and even with the women just lying there, the men are able to do what they need to do. How much participation does he expect from someone who doesn’t love him or even want him?

“A million dollars’ worth.” I groan.

My phone rings. Bree’s telling me it’s time to come downstairs for lunch. I hurry and check myself before I head down.

She hands me Mr. Garrett’s plate with a turkey and cheese sandwich and fruit.

“Seriously?” I was expecting something fancy and unpronounceable.

“He’s a turkey guy,” she tells me.

I carry our plates in the dining room, and Bree carries the iced tea. I’m really craving a soda, but I dare not say anything.

Maybe I’ll see if she can get some if it doesn’t fall under junk food. Technically, it’s a drink and not food. She leaves us to our meal and I hate to see her go because now I’m left to sit in the awkward silence of eating with my sir. I pick at the turkey until I feel his eyes on me, so I pick the sandwich up and take a bite. I can almost hear the satisfied breath he takes. He really has some weird fetishes. Thank God I’m not a serious vegan or I would be in so much trouble with him.

“What classes are you interested in taking?” he asks me, breaking the silence, and that’s all the leeway I need to get going.

I forget myself and blabber on, telling him about the classes I was allowed to take my senior year in high school and the few I still need to get into the Linguistics program.

“And why linguistics? Why not just major in English Lit?”

“I had a really bad speech impediment when I was young. It was a phonologist who figured out how to help me. I guess I just fell in love with it. Not that I even practice it.” I laugh.

“I had no idea you had a speech impediment.”

“It was a really long time ago and I’ve learned to control it.” I shrug. “But don’t listen to me too hard, or you might hear it.”

“Now, I have to listen,” he says, and I laugh.

“I want to minor in literature, by the way,” I tell him. “Hopefully, I can get into the class on classic lit I read about. It’ll probably fill up fast though.”

“I knew you liked reading, but I had no idea you liked it enough to sit through that.”

“I love the classics. I want to own a bookstore and collect rare books or maybe appraise them.”

“Who’s your favorite author, the one that inspires you the most? Shakespeare?”

“No, I love him, but no.” I hesitate as he studies me, waiting for me to answer.

“Now I’m intrigued,” he says when I take too long.

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“You have my word.” His face is serious, but he has a glint in his eyes when he says it.

“Dr. Seuss,” I say sheepishly. He cracks a slight smile, but keeps his word and doesn’t laugh.

“I would never have guessed that,” he says, clearing his throat.

“He’s very underrated. People write him off as just being for kids, but I love how he says such profound things so simply and he makes it all rhyme, no less. That takes skill.”

“I never thought of it that way. I may have to take a second look at the ol’ Cat in the Hat.”

“Please do.” I laugh.

I’m surprised when he tells me he likes to read, but can’t seem to find the time for it. The fact that he likes to read in itself isn’t surprising as his library is a testament to that, but the fact that he shared the information with me was shocking. He took it a step further and told me he loved reading Hunter S. Thompson. He was impressed that I’d read him. I’d found an old copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas when I went through my dad’s dresser drawer. I’ve been dying to hear someone else’s take on it. Mr. Garrett seems thrilled at my perspective and that I can hold my own debating him.

Finally, he orders me to clear, and I gather our plates to load the dishwasher. I return to the dining room where he sits waiting for me. I stand before him, waiting for instructions.

“I’ll spend the remainder of the day working in my office,” he tells me. “After you get signed up for your classes, I want you to spend some time decorating your room. It’s your space and it should be enjoyable for you. Your time is yours until dinner. That will be all for now, Miss Warren.”

“Yes, sir,” I tell him and quickly leave him be.

I’m almost giddy as I lie barefoot across my bed signing up for my classes, but it has very little to do with them and more to do with the conversation I just had with Mr. Garrett. Never have I had so much satisfaction in a