Page 12 of Daddy’s Naughty Bartender (Naughty Girls Book Club #5)

T he call comes at six AM on a Tuesday, three days after the town council meeting. I'm wrapped in Jason's arms, safe in that drowsy space between sleep and waking, when his phone shatters the peace.

"Schaeffer." His voice goes from sleepy to sharp in seconds. "What do you mean the contract's void?"

I feel him tense, his arm tightening around me as he listens. My stomach drops.

"That's breach of contract, Marcus. We had a signed—" He pauses, jaw clenching. "Political pressure? From whom?" Another pause. "I see. No, I understand perfectly. You're a coward who's caving to small-town gossip. I'll expect the kill fee by end of business."

He hangs up and tosses the phone aside, pulling me closer.

"What happened?"

"Dale's investors pulled out. Apparently, being associated with someone in a 'controversial relationship' is bad for their image." His voice is bitter. "The winery project is dead. Henderson didn’t like being made a laughingstock at the meeting. They made some calls."

"Oh God. Jason, I'm so sorry?—"

"Don't." He cups my face. "Don't you dare apologize for other people's prejudice."

"But your work?—"

"Will survive. I've been consulting for fifteen years. One canceled contract won't break me." He studies my face in the dawn light. "But I can see those wheels turning. You're already blaming yourself."

"If we weren't together…"

"If we weren't together, I'd be in Chicago, successful and empty." His thumb strokes my cheek. "I'd rather be here, fighting for us, than anywhere else pretending to be satisfied with half a life."

"This is my fault. The gossip, the judgment…"

"Is their shame, not ours." He rolls us so I'm beneath him, caged by his arms but safe, always safe. "Listen to me, Karen Mitchell. I knew what I was choosing when I chose you. A small town. Traditional values. People who might not understand what we have. I chose it anyway. Choose it still."

"Why?" The question comes out broken. "Why stay when it's costing you professionally?"

"Because you're worth it." Simple. Certain. "Because what we have is worth a hundred contracts. Because I meant it when I said you're mine."

"What about your business?"

"It can be run from anywhere. I have a laptop and a phone. That's all I need." He kisses my forehead. "Well, that and you. Preferably in that red dress, but I'm flexible."

Despite everything, I laugh. "You're impossible."

"I'm yours." He grows serious again. "Question is, are you mine? Even when it's hard? Even when people judge? Even when it costs us both?"

"Yes." No hesitation. "Always yes."

"Then we'll figure out the rest."

But the hits keep coming. Two more consulting gigs disappear with vague excuses. The business loan I've applied for to expand the bar is suddenly denied despite perfect credit. Even Josh's part-time job at the hardware store becomes "unavailable" after five months of employment.

"This is Betty Henderson's doing," Linda confirms over coffee that Thursday. "She's calling in favors, making sure you feel the pressure. Hoping you'll break."

"Or that Jason will leave," I say quietly.

"Will he?"

I think about that morning, how I found him in my kitchen making breakfast, whistling off-key. How he's adapted his entire work schedule around my bar hours. How he held Josh while he raged about losing his job, promising to make some calls.

"No. He's stubborn."

"Good. You need stubborn." Linda leans forward. "Karen, I've known you since Mark died. Watched you rebuild yourself piece by piece. Don't let Betty Henderson steal your joy. Not when you've earned it so hard."

That evening, I come home to find Jason in Mark's study, no in my office. His laptop is open, phone pressed to his ear.

"I don't care if it's unconventional, Jim. The boy's smart, responsible, and wants to work. You saw his TikTok video helping his neighbor restore the car. He’s got talent. Don’t let your prejudice against his mother affect the boy.

" A pause. "Yes, I'm aware of my reputation.

I'm also aware yours isn't spotless, so perhaps we skip the moral high ground? "

He hangs up, sees me in the doorway, and smiles. "Josh starts at Morrison Motors Monday. Apprentice mechanic. Madison Grace’s older brother agreed to train him."

"How did you…?"

"Made some calls. Reminded people that I may be new to Prairie Harbor, but I have connections in Chicago. Connections who do business here." His smile turns sharp. "Amazing how cooperative people become when their supply chains are mentioned."

"You threatened them?"

"I negotiated. Firmly." He pulls me onto his lap. "Nobody messes with what's mine. That includes your children."

"Jason, I…"

"I also spoke with three restaurant owners in Lincoln. They want to meet about wine programs. Legitimate interest, not pity." He nuzzles my neck. "And I may have found a lawyer interested in the discrimination case against your loan denial."

"You've been busy."

"I've been motivated." His arms tighten around me. "They want us to roll over, to break under pressure. Instead, we're going to thrive. Build something they can't tear down."

"What if they never accept us?"

"Then we'll build our own acceptance. The people who matter already do." He turns me to face him. "I'm not going anywhere, Karen. Not back to Chicago, not to easier relationships, nowhere that isn't by your side. Get used to it."

"I love you." The words come easier now, truth worn smooth by repetition.

"I love you too. All of you. The stubborn parts, the soft parts, the parts that call me Daddy when you need structure." His eyes heat. "Speaking of which, when's the last time you ate today?"

I flush. "I've been busy!"

"That's not an answer."

"Breakfast. I think."

“When are we expecting Josh to come home?”

“Not for another couple of hours.”

"Kitchen. Now." He stands, setting me on my feet. "We've discussed this. You lost six pounds from not eating these past few weeks. No more warnings."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl." He kisses me deeply. "My good, sweet girl who's going to learn to take care of herself if it kills us both."

He pulls me gently but firmly toward the kitchen, a steady hand at my back guiding me. Once we're inside, he stands behind me, his presence grounding. "You know why we’re here, don't you?" His voice is low, the authority in it making the air feel thick with tension.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I forgot to eat, Daddy. I'm sorry."

He tilts my chin up with a finger, making me meet his gaze. "You will stop making excuses. No more skipping meals. You're going to learn to take care of yourself, starting now."

Without another word, he retrieves the wooden spoon from the drawer, its cool surface against my skin sending a small shiver through me. "This is a reminder, not a punishment," he says. "You need to take care of yourself. You can’t take care of anyone else if you don’t."

His voice softens, but the intent is clear. He bends me over, my palms flat on the kitchen counter, my ass in the air. The spoon swings through the air and lands on my clothed behind. It stings way more than I expect it to.

I gasp, pressing my face against the cool granite as the next swat lands higher, catching the curve where my bottom meets my thighs. The thin fabric of my yoga pants offers little protection.

"Count them," he commands, his free hand settling warm and steady on my lower back.

"Two, Daddy," I whisper, my voice already breathless.

The spoon connects again, a sharp crack that echoes in the quiet kitchen. "Three."

He works methodically, each swat deliberate and measured. By the time we reach eight, tears are pricking at my eyes, not from the pain, which is manageable, but from the overwhelming sense of being cared for, of having someone who notices when I'm not taking care of myself.

"Last two, sweetheart," he murmurs, and these land lower, on the sensitive sit spots that will remind me of this lesson every time I sit down later.

"Ten, Daddy." My voice breaks slightly on the words.

The spoon clatters onto the counter as his hands immediately come to rub soothing circles over my warming bottom.

"All done, baby girl. You did so well." He helps me stand, pulling me against his chest. "Now, you're going to sit at the table and eat your meal like a good girl, or we'll have more to talk about. Understood?"

"Yes, Daddy," I whisper, my voice barely a breath. I can feel how wet I am and groan.

"Good girl.” He makes me dinner. It’s nothing fancy, but filling. Makes me eat every bite while he tells me about his day, the calls he's made, the plans forming. I find myself relaxing.

"There's something else," he says as we clean up. "I've been thinking about the bar."

"What about it?"

"You need help. Real help, not just Susie covering when you're overwhelmed." He dries the last dish, hanging the towel precisely. "I have a proposition."

"I'm listening."

"Let me invest. Silent partner officially, but I can help with the books, ordering, scheduling. Free you up to actually manage instead of drowning in details."

"Jason, I can't ask you to do all that."

"You're not asking. I'm offering." He backs me against the counter. "Partners, remember? In all things. Let me help carry the load."

"People will talk more. Say I'm dependent on you financially now too."

"Let them talk." His hands grip the counter on either side of me, caging me in. "Or, they don’t have to know. We know the truth. That you're brilliant and capable and sometimes even brilliant, capable people need support. There's no shame in that."

"What if they say I’m only with you for the money? What if they say you are using me to get your hands on the bar?" A thousand thoughts run through my mind.

"No what-ifs. Yes or no, baby. Will you let me help?"

I think about my pride, my independence, my fear of being seen as weak. Then I think about Jason making calls all day to protect my son's future. About him choosing us over easier paths. About partnership meaning more than splitting everything fifty-fifty.

"Yes."

"Good girl." The praise washes over me like warm honey. "My brave, trusting girl."

"I'm trying."

"You're succeeding." He kisses me softly. "Every day, you're succeeding."

The front door bursts open, making us spring apart like guilty teenagers.

"Mom! Jason!" Josh rushes in, face flushed with excitement. "You'll never guess what happened!"

"What's wrong?" I immediately go into crisis mode.

"Nothing's wrong. Everything's amazing!" He bounces on his feet. "Remember that video of me fixing Mr. Patterson's classic Mustang? It went viral on TikTok. Like, actually viral. Three million views!"

"That's wonderful, honey!"

"That's not the best part!" He pulls out his phone. "Look at the comments. People want to see more. They're calling me 'Small Town Mechanic' and asking for tutorials. And, Mom..." His eyes shine. "Ford's social media team reached out. They want to sponsor my content. Sponsor it!"

Jason and I exchange glances. From the ashes of small-town cruelty, something unexpected is blooming.

"That's incredible," Jason says.

"It's because of you," Josh says suddenly. "The video thing. You suggested I document my work, build a portfolio. I never would have thought..."

"You did the work," Jason corrects. "I just pointed out your talent deserved an audience."

Josh hugs him. Actually hugs him, this man who entered our lives mere weeks ago but has somehow become essential. "Thank you. For everything. For believing in me, just... everything."

"You're welcome." Jason's voice is rough as he returns the embrace. "You're a good kid, Josh. Your dad would be proud."

"You think?"

"I know."

Later, after Josh has gone to call Emily with his news, Jason and I sit on the porch swing, watching the stars appear.

"You handled that well," I say. "The mention of Mark."

"He's part of your story. Your children's story. I'm not trying to erase him." He pulls me closer. "I'm just trying to write the next chapter."

"It's a good chapter."

"Getting better." He's quiet for a moment. "I've been thinking about something else."

"Should I be worried?"

"Maybe." He takes a breath. "I want to make this official. Not just the relationship, but the commitment. The dynamic. I want you to be mine in every way that matters."

"Are you proposing?"

"Not yet." His smile is soft. "But I am suggesting we talk about what we both need. What we want. How to build something lasting that honors who we are."

"And who are we?"

"Two people who fit. Who balance each other. Who've found something worth protecting." He kisses my temple. "I want to marry you, Karen. Not now—you're not ready. But someday. When you trust me enough to wear my ring."

My breath catches. Marriage. "That's... big."

"Yes." No hesitation. "It is. Think about it. We have time."

"All the time in the world?"

"All the time you need." He stands, pulling me up with him. "Come to bed. Let me hold you. Tomorrow we'll face whatever Prairie Harbor throws at us. Tonight, just be mine."

"Jason?"

"Mmm?"

"Betty Henderson doesn't know who she's messing with."

His laugh is rich, warm. "No, she doesn't. But she's about to learn."

And wrapped in his arms that night, feeling the solid weight of his presence, I believe him. We'll weather this storm and any others that come.

Because Jason Schaeffer doesn't run. Not from fights, not from judgment, not from love.

And neither do I.

Not anymore, anyway.