Daddy Issues Read online Liv Morris

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
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Me: Tell the Cranstons I will not be attending tonight due to unforeseen circumstances. Give them my regrets by adding 500k to my gift. Tell Susan I’ll call her next week.

Jared: Understood.

Well, I had to give him a hand and a bonus. The man knew how to follow orders, even when they didn’t make a fucking bit of sense.

My driver apologized again for not being able to help me and suggested I use my Uber app. He said I could request a car with a child’s seat. At this point, I was done—put a fork in me kind of done.

My next move to try to sort this out would be giving my private attorney a call. He’d given me his personal cell number, telling me I could call him anytime. Tonight, I was going to take him up on that offer.

The kid was still sleeping peacefully. It was my one stroke of luck in this night from hell. I started walking back to my building. People kept staring at me, some even stopping as if in shock. A tall man wearing a tux and holding a baby seat wasn’t a normal sight on a New York City sidewalk, especially on a Saturday night.

I stood at the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Seventh, waiting for the crosswalk sign to change. I glanced down at the kid only to find her staring right back at me. She was sucking her thumb like it was life itself. She was probably hungry. I patted myself on the back for my deduction. Truth was, I didn’t have a clue. One thing I did know: her big blue eyes were a perfect match to mine. My stomach sank.

I shook my head and raised my face to the sky, cursing myself and whoever else might have been up there for having a sick sense of humor. Just because our eyes matched didn’t prove a damn thing. It could be a fluke and Coco was just trying to pass the child off as mine. Maybe she never even had a boyfriend named Peter. She was a trained actress. Who knew what was real with her?

I took a deep breath and noticed I’d missed the signal allowing me to walk across the street. Instead, I’d stood in place as everyone passed around me, completely zoned-out.

I started laughing. Not just a small chuckle, more like a hysterical, I’ve-never-heard-anything-funnier-in-my-life kind of laugh. I bent over, letting the laugh consume me, and looked down at the kid. She was smiling up at me with the biggest toothless grin imaginable.

I froze on the spot. Her big happy baby face had slapped me back to reality. When I squinted my eyes at her, the smile on her face faded.

“Nice try, kiddo.” My tone was sarcastic, not at all gentle, maybe even borderline offensive.

The baby’s face scrunched up into a round ball. Her mouth was open, though no sound came out. Two seconds later, she started to cry. Not a subtle one that could be muffled by the busy traffic of the city flying by. Nope, it was a full-on, fire-alarm-blowing wail.

“Jesus Christ,” I cursed under my breath, rechecked to make sure she was buckled in, then crossed the street in the fastest run-walk imaginable, weaving between people like a downhill slalom skier.

I continued on for a couple blocks until I reached my building. I’d never been so happy to see my doorman in my life.

“Matt,” I called out ahead of my arrival. “Open the door for me, man.”

The kid continued to protest my jostling as I made my way to the door. She had tempered her cry from ear-piercing to annoying. With the building a few feet away, I slowed, catching my breath. It was like I’d run the New York City Marathon.

A woman leaned against my building dressed in professional black attire. She stepped in front of me, looking me dead in the eye. I tried to walk around her, but she moved with me. What the fuck?

“Move.” I had no patience or will to be nice to her. I needed to get this child inside—and fast.

“Lucas Shaw.” My eyes flashed up to hers. “I understand you’re the father of a baby girl. The one you’re holding in your hands. Can you confirm this with us?”

To my side, a flash went off. I twisted my head to see what the hell was going on. A man with a camera and a shit-eating grin looked at me.

“Who the hell are you guys?” I said to no one in particular.

“I’m Katherine Nickels. Page Six with The Post. This is my photographer, Jimmy Palmer.”

Great. Just fucking great.

“No comment,” I spat, rounding her and dashed into the building. A few more flashes followed behind me, lighting up the sidewalk.

Matt stood by the door, and I dashed inside, not even pausing to thank him. I hurried to the bank of elevators and pushed the button for my floor.



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