My Accidental Sugar Daddy Page 3

  She’s homeless, you dumb fuck, the voice in my head growls. Of course I’ve seen her before; I’m in this park nearly every day, so I’ve probably passed her a million times without really looking at her face. Shit. Either this is her primary residence or she goes between the parks, shelters, and overpasses of New York where the homeless are forced to congregate.

  I see a blush rising on her face, as well, and immediately feel like a dick.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “That was insensitive. I run in this park almost every day, so I’m sure I’ve seen you here. Can I help you with anything?”

  It sounds lame, I know. But this woman is so goddamn gorgeous, a flawless diamond in the rough, and she’s in my line of vision, right now, right here. There has to be something I can do.

  “Um,” she stammers.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” I suggest, inwardly wincing at the look of panic on her face. “Is that sandwich enough?”

  She jerks for a moment, looking startled, but then smiles weakly.

  “Oh, no, no thank you,” she says. “I’m all set.”

  But this woman is thin, and before I know it, I start babbling like a madman.

  “Why don’t you come over to my place and I’ll make you a real meal?” What? Why did I just say that? Who invites homeless people to their apartments? But something about this radiant woman has got me all turned around. I would never invite a random person into my home, much less someone who might rob me blind. But whether it’s the elegant lilt to her voice, the innocent look in her eyes, or the way she’s just too goddamn beautiful to be out here on her own, I’m unable to tell.

  Get it together, Tate, I command myself. But when she smiles at me again, I’m just as bamboozled, if not more so.

  “Um, really?” she asks, surprised. My heart contracts. Poor thing. She’s probably used to being invisible, and hasn’t been in a private residence in ages. She needs shelter.

  “Yes definitely,” I say with a firm nod of my head. “It’s no trouble. I live really close and you could get a hot meal. I’m not much of a cook, but I promise I can do better than a cold PB&J.”

  She jerks again, unable to hide her surprise. I tell myself it’s probably because she’s unused to such generosity. Without me, a cold PB&J could be the only thing she has to eat today.

  But the woman shakes her head. “I don’t know…” I cut her off.

  “What’s your name?”

  She hesitates. I imagine she’s not used to the question because not many people try to get to know their local homeless person. “Laurie,” she murmurs.

  “Laurie,” I repeat. “I’m Tate. It’s good to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Tate.” She bites her lip. “So are you serious about the meal offer?”

  I am. But another idea has wormed its way into my brain, and suddenly, it seems that the CEO in me has taken over. After all, I’m a tough negotiator. I didn’t get to where I am professionally by being a pushover, and when I offer something, I expect to be remunerated in return, whether via money, favors, or even priceless artwork. Life ain’t free, and I’m well aware of that fact.

  Don’t do it, Tate, the angel on my shoulder says. After all, the idea forming in my mind is risqué, even for me, and that’s saying something. But the more I look at this beautiful woman, lost and alone on a park bench, the more I think that she deserves a place to stay… and that that place could be my home.

  “Come on,” I say. I reach and grab her dirty bags off the ground. Poor thing. They’re shockingly light, so she must be even worse off than I thought. “Is this all you have?”

  She stares at me for a moment.

  “At the moment, yes,” comes her quiet voice.

  “Then come on,” I say in a jovial voice. “My place is just down the street. I’ll make you something delicious, and we’ll talk about plans.”

  “Plans?” Laurie repeats, looking skeptical.

  I flash her a winning smile, my heart already beginning to pound in my chest. “Yeah, it’ll be fine. We can talk, and it’ll be more comfortable to do so indoors. It’s sweltering out here and I’m beginning to melt. Come on, I’ll fill you in over some homemade zuppa toscana. It’s good, I promise.”

  Then, I take off towards my townhouse, carrying her bags, not bothering to look over my shoulder to see if she’s following me. But something tickles the back of my neck, and my sixth sense tells me that Laurie’s trailing behind my large form, her steps light and cautious. I smile, although she can’t see. Today started off miserable, but it’s looking much better already.

  4

  Laurelin

  * * *

  What. The hell. Am I doing?

  I keep attempting to focus, but it’s impossible. As the dark-haired, blue-eyed god of my dreams continues talking, I revert from a moderately intelligent, well-spoken woman to a dunce with nothing going on upstairs. I manage to speak, somehow, but I feel like none of it makes any sense. Tate keeps talking to me, though, so I must be doing something right.

  Or am I doing something horribly wrong?

  As soon as I realize that I’ve met him before, I realize that the jig is up. I have to be honest. Tate clearly thinks I’m a homeless person, and has no clue that I’m actually his friend’s little sister whom he met a year ago.

  It was, admittedly, a brief interaction. My niece Trixie had just turned one, and we were all celebrating at my brother Channing’s house. It was a small gathering of family and intimate friends, so I was surprised to see a gorgeous man present. Most of the time at these shindigs it’s just us, so this was a nice surprise.

  My brother introduced me to the handsome stranger as Tate and said they were old college buddies who had recently reconnected. I said hi, Tate said hi, and then Trixie tugged insistently on my hand, begging me to play dollies with her. Tate and I didn’t have any time to chat.

  But I’m embarrassed that I didn’t immediately recognize him today. How could any woman forget a face--and a body--like that? The memory of his tall form filling out that blue button down still haunts my dreams sometimes, with his broad shoulders, strong arms, and long legs. Not only that, but he’s got the features of a movie star, and I saw how that doggie-mom was eyeing him up and down. He was immune to her charms though, despite the fact that she wiggled her hips more than a few times.

  By contrast, it makes far more sense that he doesn’t have any idea who I am. Tate seems like the type who’s always in the company of beautiful women, all of them glossy and dressed to the nines. Now that my society days are over, I can hardly remember what lipstick even tastes like. Which probably isn’t good, seeing that the last date I went on was a full six months ago and was nothing to remember. Robert was two inches shorter than me, pasty, pale, and so nervous that he was shaking during the date. It was that bad.

  But I have missed the company of an attractive man--someone attentive and gorgeous and funny; someone, I must admit, with a bit of an “alpha male” air. Then again, what am I thinking? Alpha males are usually Grade-A assholes with smirks on their handsome faces. But I have to say that I miss getting thrown around by a man in bed. It’d be nice to have a good time in the sack, no holds barred, with no limits and endless pleasure.

  So when Tate invites me to his place, I almost laugh. There’s no way he would ask a sweaty, makeup-less woman on a park bench over to his home for any other reason than pity. Plus, he thinks I’m a vagrant! So why would he do this?

  I’m about to say no, and to reveal that actually, Channing Saint is my older brother, but then the gorgeous man takes things into his own hands. He hoists my bags over his shoulders and just starts walking, like he expects me to follow.

  I stand there, stunned with shock. Who the hell does he think he is? I’m not a puppy, trailing adoringly after its owner.

  But Tate doesn’t stop. He merely keeps walking, his stride sure and confident. It’s almost like he knows that I’m going to follow. And then, to my chagrin, my feet begin to move
. OMG, I am trailing behind him, like the aforementioned puppy I just swore that I wasn’t.

  I’m more than a little shocked at myself. Am I crazy or something? What the hell is going on?

  No. What I am, I realize quickly, is bored. Bored of my life. Bored of my past. Bored of my old job, but too bored to find something new. Bored of lackluster dates, and bored of sleeping alone. Passing out sandwiches to the homeless has ignited some kind of spark within me, but not enough to combat this overwhelming feeling of apathy. I need something new. Something different. Something unexpected and maybe this take-charge alpha male is about to serve it to me.

  So I keep following, stunned at my own actions.

  In fact, the question is now is, what do I expect? Sure, I’ve technically met this guy before, and yes, know he’s a friend of my brother’s, but I still know very little about him, except that he looks incredible shirtless wearing nothing but black shorts. Maybe my brother doesn’t know him well either. They’re probably just “friendly” and not friends, and Tate Connor could be a masochist with a dungeon filled with sex toys.

  Then again, if he does have that, I’d be very interested, certainly.

  I’m pondering these questions all the way down the street, until I blink and realize we’re at the front stoop of a red brick townhouse.

  “Home sweet home,” Tate growls while keying open the door. He inclines his head, and willing my swirling thoughts to quiet, I step inside.

  Unwilling to obey, my thoughts rage harder and louder. This place is incredible. How much money does he make? Who picked out this furniture? Did do all the decorating himself?! The townhouse is enormous by townhouse standards. It’s a double, so probably at least forty-feet wide, and the entryway is magnificent with a dark wood stairwell winding up to the second floor. The furniture is all period, the floors hardwood, and the windows huge and partially obscured by sumptuous blue curtains. I immediately recognize some of the artwork on the walls, and bite my tongue. I know exactly how much they cost, and trust me, they are not cheap.

  Nothing about this place, in fact, is cheap. The beautifully-bound books in the built-in shelves, the enormous fireplace and mantle, the rugs, the lamps, the gigantic kitchen and dining area… these are things that cost money. But they’re not flashy, nor are they gaudy. Instead, they’re welcoming and elegant, testament to their owner’s excellent taste. In fact, it’s exactly the kind of place I could envision myself living in, if I envisioned myself living the kind of life I used to. Which, I remind myself, I don’t.

  But with a gorgeous man here with me…

  I shake my head.

  “This is incredible,” I manage to stammer to Tate as he sets my ragged bags down. I wince as they make contact with a priceless Persian rug.

  He aims a dazzling smile at me. “Pretty, ain’t it?” he remarks in an exaggerated drawl. “I worked with some very high-end architects and designers to restore this place to its pre-war majesty. I’m not a fan of all-chrome this and black-marble that.”

  My attention is taken by a huge painting on the wall by the kitchen. A tall oak tree reaches into a blue-grey sky, flanked by fluffy silver clouds. A pond lies still in the foreground, surrounded by moss and other dark greens and browns.

  “Are you a fan of the Barbizon School?” I ask offhandedly. This is a piece by Jules Dupre, who brought a very English style of painting to France. I don’t always love landscapes, but I’ve always enjoyed this one’s moody hues.

  I don’t get a response. When I look over my shoulder, Tate is staring at me with a cocked brow. I flush from the tips of my ears to my toes. Dumbass, I chastise myself. What homeless girl is an art aficionado? I’m definitely not keeping up my charade very well.

  “You know Dupre?” he asks with a tinge of confusion.

  Thinking fast, I realize that it’s close-minded of me to assume that homeless people wouldn’t know art. As I’ve learned from passing out sandwiches, homeless people have an incredible array of past experiences, and, obviously, can be just as intelligent and cultured as someone who is housed. Homelessness doesn’t mean stupidity or ignorance, and that was a dumb mistake on my part. I lift my chin.

  “Well yes,” I say. It’ll be easier for me to maintain a lie if I speak the truth as often as possible. “I went to art school. It was a long time ago, but I even managed to graduate.”

  Tate’s arched brow reaches a little higher. The obvious questions seem to be gathering on his tongue, but it looks like he swallows them. It would definitely not be polite of a stranger to ask about my current situation, or to ask how I went to college and ended up homeless in the park. Instead, he smiles easily and asks, “Who’s your favorite artist?” Then, “Wait. Come into the kitchen and tell me. I’ll start cooking in the meantime.”

  I trail behind him before entering the sumptuous chef’s kitchen and sit down on a leather stool as Tate pulls ingredients out of the pristine white cabinets and enormous fridge. I try not to watch the muscles in his back work as he reaches up, then down, then across the counter to slide me a glass of water. Putting a pot of broth on the stove, he cocks another dark eyebrow at me. “How familiar are you with pre-war movements?”

  I smile. In fact, pre-war was my specialty. “Very.”

  I wasn’t sure how I expected this conversation to go, but I definitely wasn’t expecting to delve into my knowledge of Impressionism today, especially since Tate thinks I’m a poverty-stricken waif. Still, as our conversation progresses, I find myself relaxing a little. The man is a good conversationalist, charming and easy to talk to. I haven’t had much practice carrying on conversations lately--mostly, I talk to my cat these days--but as I listen to myself speak, I decide that I’m holding my own. Somehow, I manage to sound a little cultured, a little funny, and even a little whimsical. Maybe it’s the secret knowledge that Tate is a friend of my brother’s, and probably a good person; maybe it’s the delicious smells of the cooking soup putting me at ease.

  “So,” Tate says as he serves us the steaming bowls at his dining table. “Some zuppa toscana for the lady. I hope you like it.” He graciously allows me to take a sip before continuing to speak. I’m mostly full from the sandwich I ate, but my stomach rumbles in gratitude anyway. He’s right: this is absolutely delicious. You can’t go wrong with kale, sausage, and cheese, I suppose.

  “Good?” he prompts with a devilish smile.

  I nod. “Yes, very tasty. Thank you.”

  “Excellent.” He leans back in his dining chair, crossing his arms across his broad chest. He’s put on a white T-shirt, and it highlights his powerful musculature and the firm biceps beneath his sleeves. I try my damndest to keep my eyes on my soup instead of him.

  “So, it’s funny that I actually talked to you today in the park,” he begins in a light tone. “I’ve been wanting to get out of my comfort zone, and it’s always great to meet new people.”

  I cock a brow. Meeting a homeless person isn’t exactly a top priority for most folks, but I suppose it fits into the category of “getting out of his comfort zone.”

  “Um thanks,” I say awkwardly after another sip of my soup. “I think.”

  He nods, and a devilish look comes into those piercing blue eyes.

  “In fact,” he continues casually, like nothing’s wrong. “I’d love to discuss a deal with you, Laurie. I think it could be really beneficial for us both.”

  I pause while eating.

  “I don’t know that I’d have anything to offer,” comes my low voice. “I’m unsheltered, remember? I’m barely surviving as is. I don’t even have five dollars in my pocket.”

  But Tate leans forward, those blue eyes intense.

  “I know, honey, and that’s why I think that we could strike a very beneficial deal. You see, you do have something that I want. Something that’s all yours to give.”

  I shake my head, confused. What could I possibly have in my possession?

  “I’m absolutely not interested in drugs, and if you’re a pimp, then I’m ou
t. I don’t do that either. I’ve survived on the streets this long without getting into that, and I can survive another day.”

  At that, Tate throws his head back and laughs.

  “No sweetheart, you’re reading this all wrong. I’m not looking to use you as a mule, nor am I seeking to pimp you out. Although, I am interested in your body,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.

  I stare at him, my cheeks going scarlet. OMG, this isn’t the dungeon full of sex toys that I imagined, but it’s not that far from it either.

  “What do you mean?” I ask in a trembling voice.

  Tate grins and it’s positively wolfish.

  “Well, you have something that I want, and I have something that you need. You could stay here in the townhouse if you’re interested, so long as my needs are met in return as well.”

  My eyes feel like they’re about to bug out of my head.

  “Meaning?” I ask in a choked voice.

  “Sex,” Tate answers immediately. “I want you to take care of my sexual needs. Your body, in my bed every night. Wanton and horny. In the mornings and afternoons too, if I need it.”

  To my credit, I do not spit out my soup, but I come very close to it. After all, the feminist, the advocate, and the decent human being inside me is throwing a fit. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Does he think he can just take advantage of a homeless girl and bribe her into being his sex-doll-upon-command? Does this really happen in real life?

  But obviously, this is real life, and Tate doesn’t look startled at all. He looks infuriatingly calm and handsome, in fact, a lock of dark hair dropping in a comma over his high forehead.