Page 29 of Brat Baby (Sugar Life #1, #3)

Emery

My dream is trying to suck me back into deep slumber as my bed shifts beneath me. The fight I put up to drag myself completely out of sleep after taking for-fucking-ever to fall asleep last night is ridiculous, but I have to know. I have to know if it’s Xavier sneaking into my room.

If it’s him, my tiny little bubble of hope might become big enough to hold.

I stay completely still as a very quiet, barely there shuffle comes from the foot of my bed, moving around to my side. Did he sleep with his shoes on? Or are they out in the living room?

Reminding myself to keep my breathing deep and even, I do my very fucking best to mimic sleep.

It’s something I’ve done in the past, so I know I’m good at it.

Had enough practice. A very male scent tinges the massive lungfuls of air I’m inhaling as I concentrate on trying to slow down my pulse, so it doesn’t give my conscious state away.

The presence stops at my side and hovers for one heartbeat, then a second, really testing my resolve. Do I open my eyes now and catch him? Or do I continue to play this game with him?

The air shifts and fingers trace down from my eyebrow, over my cheekbone, to my jaw. I almost give myself away with a flinch, but I mask it by turning into the hand and making a fake sleep noise. Continue to play, it is.

Then the absolute last fucking thing I am expecting happens.

Lips press into mine. They don’t move. There’s no tongue. Just a pressing of our lips, like I’m Snow-fucking-White and he’s my Prince Charming.

The hands and lips leave my skin at the same time, and I almost whimper. Fuck, I don’t want him to leave, but I can’t suddenly wake up and tell him that. If he wanted me in on the fact that he is sleeping with me at night, he would have woken me up the first time he did it.

Instead, he has been doing this stealthy sleepover bullshit.

The latch of my door makes a quiet schnick of opening, and I can’t resist a second longer. Eyes open, I watch as blond curls and a black shirt walk out my door, a hand with a ring around the thumb pulling the door shut behind him.

Xavier.

I sit up, grab my phone, and turn the flashlight on, aiming it at the space beside me that clearly has a body imprint still left in it. My chest feels like it’s a million sizes too big and my skin feels too hot. Flopping face-first into the second pillow, I have no idea if I want to scream or cry.

So, I do both.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Every racking sob has the smell of him filling me up. When did he arrive? Did he spend the night watching me sleep? Or did he sleep beside me? Did we touch? Did he hold me to him? Did he kiss me more than just that goodbye kiss?

Why the hell doesn’t he wake me up? Doesn’t he know that I’m miserable without him? That all I want is to have his arms wrapped around me and his heartbeat beneath my ear? Actually, wait…

I can hear his heartbeat. Pushing up onto my elbows, I shove my hand under the blanket and fish around until I feel something soft and fluffy.

My heart surges up into my throat as I pull Teddy out from under the quilt and cuddle him to my chest, the little speaker inside of him thud-thudding rhythmically.

Burying my face back into the pillow he slept on, I try to trick my brain into thinking that Xavier really is here with me.

Why the hell doesn’t he just stay?

The answer to my question is my alarm going off. Blindly, I search for my phone and hit the side buttons until the noise stops.

How the hell is this my life now? One daddy who spends his nights with me, like some sort of caped crusader, watching over me in what I’m hoping is a really uncreepy way, while the other three can’t stay far enough away.

Should I leave him a note telling him I want to be woken up? Or is this another kink I’m unaware of? I don’t know how much longer I can force myself to pretend like he isn’t here, right where I want him.

Urgh.

I roll back onto my own pillow and stare at the ceiling, my phone’s flashlight still shining brightly.

Today’s classes have zero daddies in them, so I don’t need to think too deeply about my outfit or my behavior. I’ll just be able to cruise through the day, pondering all the things I plan to do over the weekend and in next week’s classes to gain their attention with my bratty attitude.

The sound of Oakley’s door opening, and a few seconds later, the TV turning on reaches me, signaling the start of our days, so I shove out of bed and go to join her.

Something I have discovered about Oakley is that she likes to watch the news in the mornings. And I don’t mean the news for regular people, where they talk about the weather, traffic, upcoming athletic events, and the antics of the rich and famous.

I’m talking about the real news. The serious stuff. International goings-on. Medical advancements. War correspondence. Political movements. Heavy shit. It had been an absolute fucking surprise.

What shocked me even more was her degree and career path. The full poli-sci path, all the way to a fancy PhD that I can’t remember the name of, so that she can work in a political translator role. Apparently, she speaks three languages and is working on another two.

Which is just, wow. Honestly. That saying about not judging books by their covers? Totally Oakley.

I kind of feel like a shitty friend for judging Oaks by her exterior. Bachelor of Arts, or teaching, or something in marketing is what my first answer would have been. But nope, my girl wants to change the world.

Taking my phone with me, I find Oakley in the kitchen, whisking what I assume is eggs in a bowl.

She grins when she sees me. “Scrambled eggs?”

I head over to the fridge and get the milk out. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

Just as I put my phone down to get a mug for hot chocolate, I get a message.

My gaze snaps to it instantly. I’m still not used to getting text messages. The only person who ever messaged me before was Tray, and even that was rare, since we were basically with each other all the time.

But now, I get messages from Oakley and from NU about social events, which I can apparently opt-out of, but I kind of like getting them.

Not that I will ever attend, but I like knowing what’s going on, like that the first home game for the hockey team is this Friday.

And that there is going to be some sort of fall festival in a few weeks.

It gives me a weird sense of community.

The message is from an unknown number. Deciding that it can wait, I finish making my hot chocolate the way the video I watched on TikTok told me to—powder, milk to three-quarters of the way, and then microwave for just over a minute, or the milk starts to froth and rise.

I’ve been sprinkling some of the powder on top to make it look a little fancier.

Once that’s all done, and I have to wait for the microwave to make its magic happen, I open the message.

Unknown: Hi Emery, this is Marie, Darcy Reign’s teaching assistant. Could you please give me a call at your earliest convenience? There is a modeling position available for this afternoon. Thank you, Marie.

I almost choke on the air in my throat. This afternoon? I have a class that finishes at three, but I am more than willing to walk out of that early. Or not go at all.

I can’t tap fast enough and quickly get a call going with Marie. Oakley glances my way as I pace from the kitchen to the door of our dorm and back while I wait for her to answer.

“You okay?” she mouths at me, concern pulling her eyebrows together and lips into a pout.

I nod and open my mouth to answer, but the call connects.

“Emery! Oh my god. Thank you so much for getting back to me so quickly,” a feminine voice says across the line, a hint of panic making her sound a touch higher in pitch than what I assume her normal voice to be.

“Hey, Marie, yeah, no problem. You said there is a session this afternoon?” I reach up and run my fingers through my hair, a few knots tangling around my knuckles.

“Yeah, yes! I thought I had someone lined up, but they’ve been ghosting my calls.

And even though I put up about twenty posters, you are the only other person who has gotten back to me.

It’s fine, though. I checked your details and everything looks great.

You know this is a paid gig, that you need to be over eighteen, and that you’ll be nude, right?

As in, no clothes, in a room full of people?

They’ll be staring at and studying your naked form, in whatever position you’ll be asked to hold for several hours.

” She pauses, and I’m quick to jump in with a response before she can keep going.

“Yes, I’m available, eighteen, and fine with being naked in a room full of people while they stare at me.” I rush the words, hoping she can’t hear the slight waver in my voice. Being naked in front of people isn’t a massive deal.

Maybe if I repeat it a few times, I’ll believe it too.

As I turn back toward the kitchen, I come to an abrupt halt and stare at a very annoyed-looking Oakley, with Marie still blabbering in my ear.

“Put it on speaker,” she demands, waving her eggy spatula around.

As quick as I can, I transfer the phone to speakerphone, and then Marie’s voice fills the room for both of us to hear.

“Okay, so Emery. I have you locked in, right? No last-minute cancellation?” Marie calls through the speakerphone. “And you are one-hundred-percent confident with being naked in front of thirty people?”

Thirty? My eyes almost bug out of my head.

But I can do this for Darcy. Well, not for him to help him—although, I don’t mind that—but for him, as in, to get him.

Plus, where I’d teased Derek and Hudson with the schoolgirl outfit, I’m really going to be able to push Darcy right to the edge with complete nudity that he isn’t allowed to touch.

The thought shoots a bolt of power through my being.

Knowing he’ll be struggling, unable to touch or stop me—because he needs me to do this for him, if the stress coming through the phone is any indication.

He won’t be able to say no to the model being me, because, without me, his students won’t get their lesson.

My nerves settle. I think I might be experiencing a bit of what Derek feels when he is watching a scene and pulling all the strings.

A smirk forms on my lips as I answer. “Yep, totally locked in and totally fine with the thirty people ogling me for two hours.”

Her laugh is a little tinny through the phone and accompanied by a groan.

“Thank fuck. Oh shit, sorry. But if you were a no, or you cancel, I’m the one who is going to have to pose, and I am so not cut out for that sort of thing.

So, please, please, do not cancel. I’m begging you.

I’ll text you the time and location. See you this afternoon. ”

The thought of her posing, nude, in front of Darcy has me frowning. I wonder if there is a way that I can be the model for the entire semester? Or his entire teaching career? “Okay, great. Thank you.”

When the line goes dead, I look at Oakley.

It’s amusing to watch the light bulb go off above her head. And then to watch the range of emotions play over her face as she works out what this means. Eventually, a smile the Cheshire cat would be envious of spreads across her lips.

“After your last class, you are going to come back here, and we are going to get you perfectly ready for your modeling session. Everything will be smooth and glowing. He won’t know what hit him.”