Page 115 of Double Daddies (Dirty Daddies Anthologies #8)
Chapter Four
One Month Later
Tristan
He liked the vibe.
It was his first thought as he stepped from the limo and perused his surroundings with the eye of a man born into sinful wealth. On the surface, everything seemed basic, absurdly rural, but he recognized the signs of money.
Take the bellboy-slash-driver, for example.
Early twenties, immaculately presented in a fitted uniform that definitely hadn’t come from a discount store. Clean-shaven, polite, well-mannered—those things cost money if an employer was smart; loyal, efficient labor was worth paying for, especially in the hospitality sector.
The golf cart his bags were being loaded on to was in the five-figure range, possibly edging on six. While golfing wasn’t his sport, he’d spent enough time on the green to know the make and model wasn’t cheap.
“Just the two bags for you today, sir?”
Tristan dragged his attention away from his thoughts, confirming, “Just the two.”
The bellboy gestured to the backseat of the cart. “After you then, sir. The trip takes around fifteen minutes. If you have any questions along the way, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Where can I find Maverick Morehead?”
“Master Mack? I believe it’s his day off today, sir. Jennifer at reception should be able to locate him for you.”
Sliding onto the seat, Tristan pulled out his phone and flicked through the notifications as the golf cart drove away from the remote parking lot and headed toward a track leading into the surrounding forest.
Far too many boring emails, he noted. Several texts from Grace, Georgia, Tracey, Nina, and Amanda, all extending invitations to their bed for the evening. Normally, he’d consider taking one of them up on the offer depending on who was closest and if he wasn’t on the hunt for another conquest.
Not for the first time, he was eternally grateful for the twist of fate that birthed him into a family whose wealth stemmed back generations, allowing him to live a life of luxury that extended into a playboy-style nightlife.
Fuck all night, sleep all day.
His best friend, Maverick, had come close to living the same dream; the sale of his tech company should have cemented him into the rich and carefree lifestyle, but the idiot had too many morals.
He’d nixed the sale and, while on vacation at this very club—a vacation Tristan had booked and paid for—somehow done the impossible and fallen in love.
Not just with a woman.
No, somehow the moron had gotten tangled up with a couple.
Tangled in the legal sense, seeing as how Mack was now married with a wife and a husband.
Feeling responsible, Tristan decided he should check in on the happy trio. After all, it was his gift that kickstarted the romance—he just should’ve insisted on accompanying Mack so his friend didn’t do the chump thing and fall in goddamn love.
BDSM really wasn’t his thing—he’d dabbled with restraints, of course.
A pair of handcuffs on a lover, the belt from a hotel robe tying her to the bed, the occasional toy in the bedroom.
He liked to fuck and, in all honesty, from what he knew, scenes took too long to set up, execute, and get to the good stuff.
So, this place would be an eye-opener, he was sure. Paying a small fortune for the membership and a month-long stay simply to drop in on his buddy was worth it, and the facilities would be an added bonus.
Getting laid would, too.
After an interminably long, bumpy ride, the golf cart veered onto a gravel path, pulling to a stop amongst a cluster of log cabins.
“This is your stop, Sir. As requested, you’ve been remotely checked in, but please call in at reception to verify your arrival.
I’ll get your bags.” The bellboy was already on the move, retrieving Tristan’s suitcase and briefcase.
“The main house is down this path and to the right. You’ll find the reception area and medical clinic there, as well as the bar and restaurant.
Alternatively, if you prefer to eat in the privacy of your cabin, just use the phone and dial five. ”
“Thank you.” Studying the homey exterior of his digs for the next month, Tristan waited for the boy to carry his bags to the front door and return, then slipped a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket as a tip. “Have a good day.”
“Thank you, sir! You too.” The bill disappeared, quick as a whip, and then so did he.
The golf cart reversed out onto the main path and sped away as fast as the small engine allowed—give him a Maserati or Lamborghini any day, something with fire under the hood and power vibrating through the steering column.
It was a short stay in the grand scheme of things, Tristan told himself as he approached the front door.
He didn’t have to stay the entire month if he didn’t want to—his penthouse in L.A.
was calling to him, so was the townhouse in London, and a contact list of a dozen women he could summon to his bed with a text was in his phone.
Opting to just put his bags inside and go find Mack, he opened the door and found himself drawn in by the smell of… cookies? Intrigued, because none of his properties ever smelled so fucking good, he dropped his bags in the hallway and followed his nose.
He passed the spacious living room to his left with its open fireplace and stack of chopped wood, expensive rug and three-piece couch, and the bathroom on his right, decked out in gleaming blue-gray tiles and matching marble counters.
The kitchen, he discovered, was also on his right and the source of the delicious smell. The island in the center of the room was the focal piece, adorned with a bowl artistically filled with fresh fruit, and a wicker basket artfully stacked with a variety of homemade cookies.
Two dozen of them, fat and loaded with goodies.
Tristan meandered over, eyeing them with the avarice of a young boy casing out the cookie jar before dinner when he knew his mom would kill him. Only his mom hadn’t shown any interest in him or his life for over a decade, and while his body might be his temple, cookies were his weakness.
One of them, anyway.
Cookies and pussy, two of the sweetest things on earth.
Picking up the small card with Mr. Holdsworth written neatly on the front in a feminine hand, he peeled back the cellophane covering the basket and perused his choices.
Chocolate chip, oatmeal, hazelnut, blueberry, lemon, and double chocolate.
Selecting a chocolate chip one, Tristan snapped it in half, only… it didn’t snap. Chocolate oozed from the center as the cookie parted. The damn thing melted in his mouth when he took a bite.
Someone deserved a raise.
He wondered if he could poach the baker, hire them as his personal cookie maker.
Spinning the card around, he read the generically friendly welcome from the club, then tossed it aside. Armed with a handful of cookies, he ignored the rest of the kitchen—he didn’t cook—and went to check out the remaining room.
The bedroom was opulent, with a bed big enough for him to roll around on with all five of his air hostesses at once.
Like the living room, it was a standard shade of cream accented with brown and gold to add warmth and a dash of color; he supposed it worked.
After all, in the hospitality business, there was bound to be guests who objected to certain color schemes—there was no pleasing everyone.
He’d learned that from a young age.
Making his father happy had infuriated his mother. Keeping his mother satisfied enraged his father. Whatever he’d done, the backlash had consistently washed over him and his baby sister, leaving them in a constantly unsettled environment akin to living in a minefield.
Tatiana had broken first at the tender age of sixteen, running away from home to escape the mental torture.
She hadn’t run fast or far enough, hadn’t thought it through before making the leap, and their father had dragged her back and locked her down for another two years before she disappeared into the ether.
Tristan stuck it out until he made his own escape to college.
Sure, higher education was just an extended leash held tight in the grip of his parents, but it had been a kind of freedom he’d never experienced before.
Learning had not been his main priority, but in the end, it gave him an excuse to get away until the first trickle of his trust fund kicked in.
Now his money made him more without lifting a finger, and once his parents finally bickered themselves into their graves, he’d use his inheritance to make sure his family line never wanted anything for generations to come—if he decided to procreate.
Marriage and family were not high on his list of future achievements; his parents’ fucked-up marriage and his traumatized childhood nipped any hope of that in the bud, but eventually he would need an heir.
Maybe when he was seventy, he’d marry a model, and pretend to be senile to avoid the drama.
Deciding his accommodation was adequate, Tristan checked his watch.
He knew Mack’s new husband was in charge of the bar, which was now open according to the club’s schedule.
A little recon wouldn’t hurt, scoping out the competition before meeting the man who somehow convinced Mack to not only marry him, but his girlfriend too.
He’d just take a stroll and get the lay of the land… then track down the baker whose cookies he could quickly become addicted to and make a deal beneficial to them both.
It might be worth staying the whole month after all.
Avery
Packing up the last boxes of cookies for the housekeeping team, Avery blew out a breath of relief. She was in her second week of employment at Serenity and, in all honesty, it was probably the best decision she’d made in a long, long time.
The last two weeks in the city had been… unsavory.