Page 6 of Daddy’s Naughty Bartender (Naughty Girls Book Club #5)

" L adies, we need to talk about the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the silver fox in the wine bar."

Elizabeth Miller, founding member of the Naughty Girls Book Club Prairie Harbor's chapter, raises her mimosa with a knowing smirk.

We've commandeered the back corner of Barbara's Café for our Thursday afternoon meeting, supposedly to discuss this month's selection—some billionaire Daddy Dom romance I haven't even cracked open.

"I don't know what you mean," I lie, taking a sip of my own mimosa.

"Bullshit." Beth Cooper, high school principal and secret romance addict, leans forward. "Susie texted the group chat. Said your date made her need a cold shower just from watching you two talk."

"There's a group chat?"

"Focus, Karen." Madison Grace Summers, our youngest member, pulls out her phone. "We need details. All of them. Start with how he looks naked."

"We haven't—I don't—" I sputter while the other five women laugh. "We've been on one date!"

"And had a two AM phone call," Linda Morrison adds smugly. Dale's wife always has the best gossip network. "My husband said Jason was asking about extending his contract."

My heart does a little flip. "He did?"

"Mmm-hmm. Said something about having reasons to stay." Linda's eyes sparkle. "Wonder what those reasons could be?"

"Okay, okay." I hold up my hands in surrender. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," they chorus.

So I tell them. About the meet-cute, the bandaging, the Manhattan, the dinner. I leave out the specific words that make me melt, those feel too private, but give them enough to work with.

"Holy shit," Beth breathes when I finish. "That man's got Daddy energy for days."

"Beth!" I protest, but they're all nodding.

"She's right," Elizabeth says. "The way he took charge with Josh? The protective thing? Classic Daddy Dom behavior. I hear he has large hands… hands that can turn into spanking paddles at any second."

I ignore her last statement. "Daddy Doms don’t just appear out of nowhere. I think we’re reading into things because of the books we enjoy."

"Oh please." Madison Grace rolls her eyes. "The reason we started this club was to read smut without judgment, we would hardly judge a real-life Daddy. I mean, I almost feel like being in this club doubles our chances at finding one, at this point."

"I thought we started it for the wine," I say, laughing.

"That too." Elizabeth tops off my glass. "But seriously, Karen. This man is checking all your boxes, even the ones you didn't know you had."

"I don't have boxes."

"Everyone has boxes, honey. Yours just happen to be labeled 'Take charge' and 'Call me good girl' and 'Boss me around until I melt.'"

I cover my burning face with my hands. "I hate all of you."

"No, you don't." Barbara herself appears with a fresh pitcher of mimosas. At seventy-two, the café owner has zero filter and even less shame. "You love us because we're the only ones who'll tell you the truth."

"Which is?"

"That it's about damn time you got properly laid."

"Barbara!"

"What? You think Mark wants you celibate forever? That man loved you too much to want you lonely." She pats my shoulder. "Besides, from what I hear, this Jason's got the hands for the job."

"How does everyone know about his hands?" Not eyes. Not ass. We are talking about the man’s hands for fuck’s sake. When did we become hand connoisseurs?

"Small town, sweetie. Mrs. Henderson was in the pharmacy when he was buying supplies. Said he's got the kind of hands that know their way around a woman."

"He was probably buying toothpaste!"

"And condoms," Barbara adds cheerfully. "The good kind. Ribbed. And extra large."

I'm going to die. Right here in this café, surrounded by mimosas and meddling friends, I'm going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

"Look," Elizabeth says, taking pity on me. "All teasing aside, when's the last time you did something just for you? Not for the kids, not for the bar, not for this town. Just for Karen?"

I open my mouth, then close it. When was the last time?

"Exactly." Beth squeezes my hand. "You've been in survival mode for five years. Maybe it's time to try living mode."

"But what if?—"

"No." Madison Grace cuts me off. "No 'what ifs.' The only question that matters is: does he make you feel alive? Because from where we're sitting, you're glowing like a woman who's finally plugged back in."

"He lives in Chicago," I say weakly.

"For now," Linda counters. "Chicago is only two and a half hours away. But he's looking at extending. That means something."

"It means Dale offered him more work."

"It means he's not ready to leave you." Elizabeth's voice goes gentle. "Karen, we've watched you hold everything together with sheer will and good bourbon. You deserve someone who sees that strength and wants to support it, not diminish it."

"He does that." The admission comes out soft. "He makes me feel... capable and cherished at the same time. Like my strength isn't a burden or a threat."

"Then what's the problem?" Barbara asks.

"I'm scared." There it is, the truth. "I'm terrified of wanting this. Of needing him. Of letting go of control and finding out I can't get it back."

The table goes quiet. Then Beth, surprising everyone, speaks up.

"You know what I was reading last night?

This article about submission and power.

It said—" She pulls out her phone, scrolling.

"Here. 'Submission is not about weakness or losing yourself.

It's about having such deep trust in another person that you can release the constant vigilance of control.

It's the ultimate power move, choosing when and to whom you yield. '"

"Since when do you read articles about submission?" Madison Grace asks.

"Since my best friend started melting every time a man called her 'good girl.'" Beth winks at me. "I do my research."

"The point is," Elizabeth interjects, "submission isn't about being less than. It's about finding someone worthy of your trust. Someone who sees your surrender as the gift it is."

"Is that what you think I want? To submit?"

They all look at me with varying degrees of "duh" on their faces.

"Honey," Barbara says gently, "we've known you for years. Watched you carry the weight of the world. The way you light up when someone else takes charge? That's not weakness. That's wisdom."

"But what if he leaves?"

"What if he stays?" Linda counters. "What if you're so busy protecting yourself from possible pain that you miss out on probable joy?"

I stare into my mimosa, processing. These women have seen me through Mark's death, through single parenthood, through building the bar into something successful. They've never steered me wrong.

"So what do I do?"

"First," Elizabeth says, all business, "you go to that wine tasting tonight looking absolutely devastating. I'm talking dressed to kill, confidence to slay."

"Second," Beth adds, "you stop overthinking. Be present. Let yourself feel without analyzing every emotion."

"Third," Madison Grace grins, "you remember that wanting to be taken care of doesn't negate the badass woman you are. It enhances it."

"And fourth," Barbara finishes, "you give that man a chance to prove he's worthy of your trust. But, honey? From what we've seen? He's already proving it."

My phone buzzes. Jason's name on the screen makes my pulse jump.

Jason: Confirming tonight. 7 PM. Wear something red.

"Why are you blushing?" Elizabeth demands.

I show them the text. The collective squeal probably registers on the Richter scale.

"He's telling you what to wear," Beth breathes. "That's so?—"

"Controlling?" I suggest.

"Hot," they all say in unison.

"You have something red?" Madison Grace asks.

"The dress from last year’s Christmas party," Linda suggests. "The one with the low back?"

"That's too formal for a wine tasting."

"No such thing as too formal when you're trying to bring a man to his knees," Barbara declares.

"I'm not trying to?—"

"Sure you're not." Elizabeth interrupts and pulls up Pinterest on her phone. "Hair up or down?"

"Up," Beth says immediately. "Shows off her neck. Men like Jason notice necks."

"How do you know what men like Jason notice?"

"Experience," she says primly. "And lots and lots of research."

The next hour is a blur of planning, advice, and increasingly ribald suggestions. By the time we part ways, I have a battle plan, a renewed sense of confidence, and a lingering warmth from their support.

Walking back to the bar, I feel lighter than I have in years. The Naughty Girls are right. I've been in survival mode so long, I've forgotten what living feels like. Maybe it's time to remember.

My phone buzzes again.

Jason: Stop overthinking. Whatever you're worrying about, let it go. Trust me.

How does he always know?

Me: Bossy.

Jason: You have no idea. See you tonight, beautiful.

I smile, tucking my phone away. Tonight. Red dress. Wine tasting. A man who sees through all my defenses and wants me anyway.

"Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone else be strong for you."

Elizabeth's parting words echo as I enter the bar. Susie takes one look at my face and grins.

"Good book club meeting?"

"The best."

"Good. Because lover boy called. Wanted to make sure you weren't working tonight."

"He called the bar?"

"Mmm-hmm. Said something about making sure you didn't find excuses to cancel." She waggles her eyebrows. "I like a man who plans ahead."

So do I, apparently. More than I want to admit.

"I've got tonight covered," Susie continues. "So don't even think about coming in. In fact, I forbid it."

"You forbid it?"

"Absolutely. Boss's orders." She makes shooing motions. "Go make yourself gorgeous. Take a bath. Do that fancy face mask thing. Whatever makes you feel like the goddess you are."

"When did everyone become so invested in my love life?"

"The minute you started glowing like a streetlight whenever his name comes up." Susie's expression softens. "Karen, you've taken care of this whole town for years. Let us take care of you for once. Let him take care of you."

Tears prick my eyes. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because it's true. And because you need to hear it until you believe it." She hugs me tight. "Now go. Make us proud. And for the love of all that's holy, get that man's hands on you before you spontaneously combust."

I laugh despite myself. "You're terrible."

"I'm honest. There's a difference."

As I head home to prepare for the evening, I think about trust. About surrender. About the terrifying, exhilarating possibility of letting someone past my walls.

The Naughty Girls are right. I've been strong for so long, I've forgotten that strength can also mean knowing when to let go. Tonight, in a red dress with a man who makes me feel alive, maybe I'll remember.

Maybe I'm ready to stop surviving and start living.

Maybe I'm ready to trust.

Maybe.