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Chapter Five

Colby

I’d always preferred studying in the library on campus to my solitary apartment, but today it was way too loud.

But also too quiet.

And somehow, weirdly damp? Not like humidity-damp, but emotionally damp. If that made sense. Which it didn’t. Because ugh, nothing did today.

I blinked at my laptop screen. My cursor blinked back. We were locked in a blinking contest, and I was definitely losing.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” I muttered under my breath, knowing I needed to get my shit together and focus on what I was here for.

Which definitely wasn’t wallowing in all those feelings I wasn’t supposed to have caught for Da—for Grant.

I was this close to getting my degree. I couldn’t let myself fuck it up now, in the home stretch, just because I…

I missed him.

I swallowed hard, knowing damn well I was being utterly ridiculous. I’d snuck out of his bed just this morning, and last night had been?—

Well, it had been a disaster, to start. My fault, not his, obviously, because I’d been a disaster.

But then it had become kind of wonderful.

I’d never had a relationship like the one I had with Grant before, and I didn’t just mean because he was paying me.

It was all the stuff that didn’t fall under the terms of our contract.

The things that almost felt like, despite what he’d said and telling me clearly not to call him Daddy, he was my Daddy.

Taking care of me. Understanding me. Bringing me to that floaty, blissful place he had last night when he’d taken charge and let me blow him. The place that I was pretty sure matched what I’d read online about “subspace,” but that really just felt like… like our space.

Maybe, after it was all over, I should try dating another older guy? One who was into being my Daddy?

My heart cramped so hard at that thought that I gasped, making the girl at the study table next to shoot me a sharp look as she shushed me.

“Sorry,” I mouthed back to her silently, my cheeks heating with embarrassment.

I looked back at my laptop, determined not to think of anything but my assignment this time. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for several long seconds as I tried to get my brain online, then I finally managed to type the word design .

Then I stared at it like I’d never seen a noun before.

Great start. Go me. Top marks for this one, for sure.

I deleted it and tried again.

This time, I got as far as conceptual narrative strategy before I gagged a little and backspaced so hard my keyboard made a sad little plok sound.

God, I was tired. Not even in a dramatic, “I pulled an all-nighter” kind of way. More like a deeply spiritual exhaustion. Like my brain had filed a formal request to shut down all nonessential operations until further notice.

Like I needed my Daddy.

I meant a Daddy. Not Grant. He didn’t want to be that.

I squeezed my eyes closed, then forced them open again, reminding myself that I wasn’t thinking about any of that and definitely wasn’t going to spiral into freaking out about having overstayed last night and blatantly breaking the terms of our contract.

The coffee I’d snagged on the way in—a tepid espresso situation from the library kiosk that had clearly been brewed during the Paleolithic era—sat abandoned next to my mousepad like a war crime.

I picked it up anyway, because I needed something .

One sip confirmed that it definitely wasn’t this sludge, though, so I abandoned it and turned back to my laptop.

I could do this.

Even if I still had no new ideas… or any new texts.

I checked my phone anyway. Just a little peek.

Nothing.

And, dammit. It wasn’t like I’d be getting texts about the assignment I was supposed to be working on anyway, so I couldn’t even pretend that I hadn’t been hoping to find one from Grant.

Again, not something that was included in our contract, but definitely something I’d gotten far too used to lately.

He usually checked in with me. Sent me little pick-me-ups. And after running out on him? I guess I’d expected…

God, I didn’t even know. Him to comfort me? Him to fire me?

I quickly set my phone facedown, my stomach twisting into a knot. Then immediately flipped it back over, because I was hopeless.

Still nothing.

I sighed. Rubbed my eyes. Opened my mockup for the tenth time.

Closed it again with the force of a thousand suns.

Tried not to imagine what Grant was doing right now.

Tried not to remember how his arms had felt around me.

How warm his chest was when I curled into him.

How his voice had dropped that last time he told me I was a good boy?—

Nope. No. We were not doing that right now.

I chugged what was left of my crime-coffee and immediately regretted it again.

God, I was turning into a drama queen. A bonafide hot mess. Mads had been one hundred percent right about me catching feelings, but knowing that didn’t give me a single solitary clue on what to do with them now.

And ironically, I didn’t want to call her to ask, either.

I wanted to ask Daddy .

My throat tightened, and for a moment I genuinely contemplated doing something utterly ridiculous, like throwing in the towel on this assignment, flushing four years of college down the drain, and running back to Grant’s place to ask him if he’d…

If he’d keep me.

Wow. Apparently, I had the emotional resilience of a paper towel. Why would he even want to keep me?

I took a deep breath. Then another. Then tried opening a new tab, hoping Google Fonts could save me.

Instead, like my fingers were possessed or something, I clicked into the search bar and typed “gr”—which, tragically, autocomplete helpfully suggested was “Grant Ellison dinner reservation North End.”

I stared hard, hating Google just a little bit for knowing me so well and keeping such fantastic track of my search preferences.

But no. It was fine. Even if my brain decided now was the perfect time to cue up a memory I hadn’t asked it for.

It had been cold that night—our second or maybe third dinner date. Everything had still been strictly conforming to our contract and I’d just started to lose some of my anxious worry about fucking up the sugar baby thing.

Grant had taken me somewhere semi-fancy, not too crowded.

I couldn’t remember the restaurant’s name, now, but I did remember that I’d been jittery as hell because it was the kind of place with candles on the tables and those heavy cloth napkins that felt like you were committing a social crime just by touching them.

Grant, of course, had looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ editorial.

I’d worn the one blazer I owned and still somehow managed to get chocolate mousse on my cheek. Because of course I had.

We were standing outside waiting for our rideshare—his, technically—when I’d fumbled trying to button my coat. My hands had been cold. Or maybe just nervous. Probably both.

Definitely both.

Grant had noticed, because of course he had. But instead of being irritated that I wasn’t up to snuff as a bought-and-paid-for date to a fancy place like that, he’d given me a tender smile and, without a word, reached out and did it for me. Buttoned me up like I was something small and valuable.

Then he’d brushed his thumb across my cheek, slow and soft, wiping the mousse away, and I’d felt… cared for.

Daddy , my stupid brain had said. And I’d been so freaked out, because he’d specifically told me never to call him that, that we weren’t doing that, that I’d immediately blurted out something dumb about dessert being a weapon of mass distraction.

And he’d laughed. Low. Warm. With a fond little chuckle that made my insides feel like fizzy water.

And just like that, I’d started to fall a little bit in love with him.

God, I was so fucking stupid .

I blinked fast, fighting off a weird sting behind my eyes. Then I scrubbed a hand down my face and sat up straighter. “Nope. Not doing this today.”

Or ever.

I couldn’t.

I opened my mockup again, stared at it like I could scare it into submission, and rearranged one image by two pixels just to feel something.

But the ache was still there.

Just under my ribs.

Just enough to make me feel hollow.

My phone buzzed, and my heart actually tripped over itself with excitement as I snatched it up—only to find a text from Leo about grad robe pickup. With seventeen exclamation points and a selfie in line.

I stared at it, then locked my phone without answering.

I should’ve been excited about graduation.

About being almost done.

About any of it.

Instead, all I could think about was the clock running out. On school. On my future. On my not-Daddy.

On the very real possibility that the reason I hadn’t heard from him today was that he did realize I’d slept over.

That he’d figured out how far gone on him I really was.

That he was going to simplify his life—which was totally fair, what with his big move coming up and everything—and cut me loose early with the totally valid excuse that I’d broken our contract first.

Not that he’d ever leave me hanging. I knew he’d still deposit my final month’s stipend into my account, and probably spoil me with that big-ass bonus he was hinting at last night, too, because that’s just the kind of man he was.

But I… I didn’t care about the money anymore. Sure, I was appreciative of it. It had saved my bacon and allowed me to finish up school. I didn’t mean it didn’t matter.

But it didn’t matter as much as he did.

My eyes burned. I blinked fast and looked back at my screen, but nope. I couldn’t do this. Not today. Not until I found a way to get my head on straight and accept reality.

Reality, of course, being exactly what I’d signed up for when I’d signed up as his sugar baby… not the fairytale that my heart had started to pine for.

I slammed the laptop shut and shoved it in my bag, grabbed my empty coffee cup for the trash, and marched myself out of the library before I could start crying in public like a total cliché.