The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection, Frost, J [famous ebook reader TXT] 📗

belong to him, and him sharing me would crush that somehow. And then there’s Rick himself, who I don’t like, even if he is a Dom. He’s a narcissist. I can spot them a mile away now, having been married to one. Too bad it took knowing Ash to develop my narcissist-radar. Why would Logan be friends with a man like that?

But maybe I’m being too judgmental. It probably takes a big ego to be a porn star. My first impression of Daisy wasn’t positive either, but underneath the vinyl, acrylic and Instagram makeup, she’s a warm person, genuinely committed to her own brand of art. Maybe Rick has a heart of gold buried beneath his five-hundred-dollar shirt, too.

Logan certainly does, and it isn’t even buried very deep. I look up at him and find him watching me, smiling his gentle smile. The smile I’m already thinking of as his daddy smile: patient and protective. I smile back at him.

“Sir.” I always start something important with my Dom’s title. That’s something Matthew—DTwo—taught me. Matthew was a sadist, and helped me find my inner masochist, but he wasn’t really a daddy. “How do you know Mr. Errol—uh, is that like a reference to Errol Flynn? Sorry, I just realized. Anyway, how do you know him?”

Logan chuckles. “Here, bite.”

He holds out his fork with a bite of osso bucco speared on the tines. I take the bite, chew and let the rich veal melt across my tongue.

I swallow after the prescribed number of chews, knowing Logan will be counting and that I’ll be punished if I slip-up. Logan’s pretty serious with the punishments. My ass is still stinging and I would have trouble sitting down if not for the cream. He’s definitely a sadist as well as a Dom. Which totally works for me. Lew and Matthew were both sadists and they rang my bell in the way my other Doms haven’t.

“In answer to your garbled question.” He winks at me. “It’s a stage name, like your pen name. I don’t know Rick well enough to say if he’s an Errol Flynn fan. You could ask him. Don’t feel shy or intimidated around him. As for how I know him, we went to the same high school. He was a year behind me, so I didn’t really know him other than a face in the hallway, but when he needed private security, he recognized my name. He was one of my first clients, and he’s sent a lot of business my way over the years.”

I remember one of Ash’s favorite sayings: you can’t pick your clients. I guess that’s true in Logan’s business, too.

“Oh.” I digest it all for a moment, along with the scrumptious veal and the fact that Logan didn’t take a dig at me about telling him my pen name, despite a golden opportunity. “What exactly is private security?”

Logan shrugs before offering me another bite of osso bucco. “I do a lot of different things for my clients. Bodyguarding. Evaluating their internal security systems. Investigating crimes that they don’t want to take to the police.”

“Why wouldn’t they take a crime to the police?” I ask.

“Sometimes it’s an inside job, and since many of my clients are family businesses, it might even be a family member. I’ve seen that a lot. Sometimes they just don’t want the publicity. I’m always surprised at how much people will pay to hush up a problem.”

Since it keeps him in business—and his business is doing well if his bespoke suit and three-thousand-dollar watch are any indication—I’m guessing he doesn’t object. “So, you’re like a private policeman. Do you carry a gun?”

“I have a concealed carry permit, but, no, I generally don’t carry a gun. Something I’ve noticed? People who carry guns are more likely to get shot at. I prefer not to get shot at if I can avoid it.”

He winks at me. Although I can tell he’s trying to keep it light, I take what he’s saying seriously. Guns make me very nervous and I’m glad he doesn’t carry one.

He pauses to take a sip of wine and I take the opportunity to enjoy my tortellini, savoring each bite. The flavors are meaty and distinct when the pasta’s not smothered in cream, the way tortellini usually is. I offer Logan a bite of my dinner, which he takes and chews thoughtfully.

“That’s really good,” he says. “Better than I expected from seeing it.” He waves at my plate, which I have to admit is unprepossessing: the pasta floating in light brown broth. “Different than mine but really nice. Good choice, baby doll.”

Heat prickles my cheeks at the praise. I blush easily, but never like this. “Thank you, sir.”

Logan takes a bite of his own meal and chases it with another sip of wine, before saying, “I should have asked before, what you want for breakfast? I didn’t get anything in, but there’s a corner store we can stop at on the way back.”

“Oh, no, don’t get anything special. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

I pray it’s not pancakes or bacon and eggs. My train’s tomorrow afternoon, so I can make up the calories at dinner if he’s a big breakfast eater.

“Egg white omelette okay? It’s the house specialty.”

Perfect. “That would be great. I guess you eat a lot of protein.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could snatch them back. Why did I say that? It sounds like I think he’s some meathead weightlifter.

Logan chuckles. “Why, ‘cause I’m so big?”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

The corner of his mouth kicks up in a grin. “It’s okay, baby doll. I’ll tell you what. Free pass for tonight. I promise not to let anything you say offend me.” His grin turns wicked. “Although I don’t promise not to discipline you for it.”

My face must be fire engine red.

“And, yeah, I eat my share of protein. Not as much as when I was in the Navy. That’s where