Love Daddy (Daddy Sized #4) Read Online Margot Scott

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Erotic, Insta-Love, Novella, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Daddy Sized Series by Margot Scott

Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)

An ex-con with a secret can’t resist his former cellmate’s daughter.

I never claimed to be a saint. But it wasn’t until I found myself in cuffs that I learned the damage I was capable of. The only sunshine on those gray prison days came in the form of letters from a hopeful teenager with a quick wit.
But the letters weren’t addressed to me. They were meant for my bastard cellmate, who’d sooner toss them on the floor with the rest of his trash.
So, I picked them up, read them, and wrote back, signing each letter, Love, Dad.
For four years, I kept up the lie, telling myself this girl deserved better than a deadbeat who won’t even open her letters. But the truth is, she deserves better than both of us.
My first task as a free man is to walk into the salon where she works and admit that I’m a liar. But the pink-haired, tattooed bombshell who greets me is a far cry from the awkward teen I envisioned.
Gone are the braces, the pigtails, and picture-day smiles. Tatum Fitzroy is a grown woman with a body like a winding backroad and a dirty-girl lip bite that makes me wonder if coming clean is really worth the destruction.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



My heart is a jackhammer in the concrete of my chest as I walk into the salon. It’s stupid to be so nervous. This is just a fucking haircut, right?

Hell, who am I kidding? The truth is, I’ve been watching this salon from across the street for the better part of two days, waiting for a chance to make my move. I’ve orchestrated the perfect opportunity to bump into my target, all casual-like: afternoon on a school day during a barely cracked window of time when the moms of Knoxville can spare a few minutes to ditch their split ends.

The hum of blow-dryers fill the space like fog, pierced by bursts of laughter. I’ve waited ‘til the salon is so busy that they’ll have to put me with the stylist assistant.

Only, now that the moment’s arrived, I’m second guessing myself.

It’s innocent enough, this desire to see Tatum in the flesh. We’ve been corresponding for years; it’s only natural. I’ve long since memorized every precious word in each letter I received from her, so it’s easy for me to recall the details she shared about her job.

I guess everyone has to start somewhere, she wrote. But I’m SO eager to move off mannequins and onto real people. Honestly, it drives me bonkers, having to go grab lunches for the stylists, like that has anything at all to do with cosmetology. Still, the work is steady, and we get dental, so that’s something.

I couldn’t help smiling as I pictured her darting all over the salon, washing coffee mugs, sweeping up hair clippings, greeting customers. It’s a comforting scene, one that I played over and over in my mind like a movie whose leading lady has been my ever-constant companion during those grueling years on the inside.

Seeing it all live and in color right now is a head trip. The past few days, I’ve seen more of my fantasies come to life than I’m fully prepared to admit. Everything from a hot cup of damn fine coffee to a private shower, restaurant food to internet porn. Good Lord, they’ve made big strides in internet porn over the last six years. But that’s hardly my favorite thing about being a free man.

The best perk, hands down, has to be getting to see my pen pal in the flesh. For the past four years of my six-year sentence, I’ve been corresponding with Tatum.

Only, she doesn’t know it.

A receptionist glances up from her tablet and offers me a smile that showcases a smear of mauve lipstick on her teeth.

“Hi there,” she says with a soft Southern lilt. “How can I help you today?”

I scan the room, looking for Tatum, and note how almost every station is occupied.


I clear my throat. “Hi, um, I don’t have a reservation or anything…”

“An appointment?” the receptionist says gently, inclining her head. “Not a problem at all. We take walk-ins.” Her long, manicured fingernail clacks each time she touches the tablet’s glass face. “It looks like the only person available right now is our stylist assistant. Are you familiar with what that means?”

“Yeah, that’s fine—”

“It means she isn’t a full stylist. She’s still learning the ropes. But honestly, a men’s cut is easy-peasy, so I’m sure she’ll do just fine.” More tapping on the tablet. “Can I get a name, please?”

“Ah, Lucas Young?” I don’t know why I hitch my tone at the end, like it’s a question.

“And a telephone number?”

I clear my throat to loosen it. “What for?”

The receptionist sighs, some of the customer-service warmth draining from her smile. “So we can look up your account in the future, sir.”

I nod and give her the number, allowing my gaze to dart across the salon, trying to spot Tatum, desperate to see her coming. My palms feel clammy, and I can feel the pulse of my heartbeat in my neck. It’s an altogether unpleasant feeling that part of me hopes will never end.

A shock of pink emerges from around the corner of the L-shaped salon. My vision tunnels at her approach. Pink hair, pink lips. She meets my gaze, her eyes the pale blue of a summer sky after a storm. When she smiles, my heart stutters in my chest.

“You got a walk-in,” the receptionist says to Tatum.

“Hi there,” Tatum says, offering me her hand. I hesitate for a moment, drinking in the sweet anticipation of finally touching her skin. I take her hand, shake it, and don't want to let it go. "I'm Tatum. Why don't you follow me on back and we'll get you shampooed."

I nod and watch her as she turns on her heel and heads toward the back of the salon. The black-and-white checkered floor squeaks beneath the soles of my work boots, but I’m barely paying attention to that, or to the bustle of the busy salon around us. Instead, I’m watching her hips as they sway, struck dumb by the sight of her. She doesn't know me, but I know her. I have her high school graduation photo tucked gently into the folds of my wallet, like a treasure. But this is so much better. Seeing her smile, touching her hand. I swallow hard and try to think of how to couch the thing I’ve come all the way here to tell her.