Page 25 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad

"But I didn’t. See, here I am." I wipe the tears from her soft cheeks. My heart twists. "Don’t cry, baby," I murmur. "Daddy’s here’s now." I scoop her up into my arms.

She clings to my shoulders. "Dad," her voice hitches, "I… I don’t want to be a baby."

"You’re only five, Riley. You’re allowed." I pat her back as she hiccoughs.

"B…but I want to grow up fast, so I can take care of you."

I frown, "Take care of me?"

"I know how sad you are that Mummy left us."

I am sad, but not for the reasons she thinks. "I am fine, sweetheart. You needn’t worry about me."

How does my little girl always sound so much more mature than her years? Is it because her mother left us, forcing her to grow up overnight? Is it because I was a shit father, too engrossed in my career?

I had tried to manage releasing albums while doing my best by Riley, but I had quickly discovered that being a single father doesn't go well with being a rock star. So, I’d cut down on tours and appearances to stay home and take care of her.

The result… My albums had flopped, and the Christmas single I had been counting on had bombed. It had been a disaster, the kind of low I hadn’t experienced since my early years when...

Right after the incident, I had gone on a bender, ready to wreck my life. I had survived it, thanks to music… Question is, would that same music be the end of me? The pressure to deliver another hit is stifling. It’s not for the money—of which, thanks to the investments I've made with the rest of the Seven, I have more than enough of. It is about salvaging my ego, proving myself as an artist again.

I have to do it, for myself. For Riley... So when she looks back, she won’t remember her father as a failure. If I flop, it would mean all the time I spent away from her wasn't worth anything, and that... that would be too painful. No, the only way I can justify the time I lost with her is to be successful.

Somehow, I have to come through, if not for myself, then for my daughter. I want her to be proud of me.

I rise up to my feet, carry Riley with me to the window. "I am not going anywhere, Poppet, I promise, and you don’t need to worry about me."

She leans back and stares up into my face, "Can I have pancakes for breakfast?’

"You bet."

"With strawberries and jam."

I stare, "Who has pancakes with jam?"

"I do, Daddy. I do."

"Hmm." I frown past her at the gates to my home, where I see a car pulling up. What the hell? Who could it be? A woman gets out of the car—a pink Volkswagen. Do they even make them in that color?

The sunlight glints off her hair so dark that blue sparks seem to light up the air. Juliet? What’s she doing here? She walks up to the panel by the gate and leans in. The intercom connected to my phone buzzes.

I place Riley on the floor. "Go on, and brush your teeth. I’ll see you in the kitchen."

"Okay, Daddy." Riley bustles off in the direction of the bathroom.

I head for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Reaching the front door, I depress the button on the side that unlocks the gates, then swing the door open.

I lean a shoulder against the door frame as she parks the car in the driveway. She gets out of the car, hauls her backpack over her shoulder and approaches the house. She notices me, comes to a stop at the bottom of the steps.

"What are you doing here?" She frowns.

"What areyoudoing here?" I scowl.

"I am here for my next assignment."

"Assignment?"

"I am a nanny." She glowers up at me.