Page 1 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

LILLY

I knew the skirt was too short even before I left my apartment.

“Lilly,” my manager snaps as I pass her, balancing a drink tray. “The dress code is sexy, not cheeky.”

Her eyes linger on the curve of my ass that is flirting dangerously close to the bottom of my skirt.

I don’t even slow down as I give my faux I’m-offended excuse. “Well, it fit back in college.”

She mutters something under her breath that sounds like an “HR nightmare,” but I keep moving, and so does my skirt, riding up inch by inch. Honestly, right now I’ve got bigger problems than my tiny skirt. Like delivering drinks to Table 9.

VIP section.

Usually, the VIP section means huge tips. But around here, we all know Table 9 by another name—Bratva hangout. None of the girls want that table. You might get tipped in hundreds, but you also get stared at like meat.

These are men who don’t ask. They command.

So far, I’ve been lucky. Since I started three weeks ago, I’ve never had to do VIP service.

Well, my luck’s run out. Trish, my manager, thinks I’m ready. When I walked in earlier today, she handed me the dreaded slip with a cunning little smirk and said, “You’ll do.”

I’ll do? Rude .

Now I’m stuck in my college-era mini skirt that screams “clubbing hottie”—or, let’s be real, more like “hot-mess”—and hasn’t seen the light of day in half a decade.

I can ignore Trish’s “you’ll do” comment, but the breeze on my ass cheeks? Not so much.

I wiggle my hips, hoping the damn skirt stops riding up, then with a nervous strut, I round the corner, heels tapping like gunshots, and instantly regret every decision I’ve ever made.

Because he’s sitting there.

Alone.

Table Nine. Bratva Hangout.

Back corner.

Black-on-black suit. Night black hair slicked back like a fallen angel. Tattoos crawling up his neck.

He lounges like he owns the air itself, one arm draped lazily over the back of the velvet couch.

And those eyes?

Tiger eyes. Green.

Predator.

Tracking.

Locked on me.

The tray wobbles in my hands. I refocus. Don’t drop it. Don’t stutter. Don’t faint.

My pulse is beating so hard I feel slightly light-headed. My throat tightens. And I’m already sweating in places I should not be sweating.

I try to hold it together. Focus on the tray, the low lights, literally anything other than the devil in a suit watching me like he already knows how this ends.

It feels like it takes ten years to walk ten feet. I feel his stare like a touch—skimming up my thighs, curling around my throat. Every step toward him feels like a countdown to something I can’t name but already want too badly.

My brain is short-circuiting as I close the distance to the table.

Is my hair sticking up?

Why does my nose suddenly itch?

Do I walk weird?

What do I even do with my arms?

By the time I reach him, I’m all jumpy breaths, pounding heart, flushed cheeks—the ones on my face—, and body screaming danger with a side of yes, please … .

Standing by his table, I stutter out, “G-good evening.”

Jesus. I can’t even talk in the presence of this Adonis. His bad boy vibes are giving Scarface movie set with a splash of prison sentence energy, unnerving, irresistible. I want to tear off those perfectly tailored clothes with my damn teeth.

They say instant attraction is a myth. Made-up tropes from romance novels.

They’re wrong.

I’ve never felt so instantly obsessed in my life.

He’s staring like he can read my thoughts. I place the menu down and commit the ultimate VIP service sin.

I hit his glass. Of very expensive wine. The glass goes onto the floor. The wine? Into his lap.

“Shit. Sorry—I—I—Oh my God. Sir, I’m so sorry.”

I back away, mortified. My face goes from bright red to plum red.

I have to fix this before Trish finds out. I bend to pick up the glass from the floor, and freeze. What the actual hell…

A sudden cold breeze assaults my inner thighs, splits directions to go straight between my ass cheeks while the other side cozies right up to God.

My black thong feels sheer, invisible, non-existent.

I’m kinda turned on by the feeling, and I kinda want to run. Then I remember I have an audience of one.

Don’t panic. It’s fine. He saw nothing. Accidents happen.

I stand up ram-rod straight, refusing to make eye contact. I can do this. Big girl panties. Well… almost panties.

He clears his throat.

I face him.

Our eyes lock.

Oh yeah. He saw everything .

The world goes still.

No music. No movement. Just him, staring like he owns me.

We skipped dating and went right to domination in my mind.

Like he’s already undressed the rest of me and likes what he sees—he’s hungry for it.

But this isn’t the kind of man you do “show and tell” with.

This is the kind of man you never take home to Mom.

The kind who puts his hand around your throat and whispers, “Beg for it.”

He knows it.

I know it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity suspended somewhere between his eye-fucking and my do I like this , he speaks.

“It’s okay. Mistakes happen.”

That’s… generous. Also, a man that hot shouldn’t be allowed to have a deep, sexy voice.

Abort mission. Abort.

Red flag… Red flag. RUN.

I squeak out, “I’m sooo s-sorry.”

What the actual hell is wrong with me?

Normally, I’m a confident, social butterfly. Right now? I’m a teenage girl crushing on the senior quarterback.

He leans back in his chair like he doesn’t even notice the wine soaking into his pants. His gaze never wavers.

“You always give your guests such… personal service?” he asks, voice like smoke and honey and bad decisions that feel good.

“I—I usually wait until the second drink,” I say, too fast, then catch his meaning and blush. Again.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like power wrapped in amusement.

“Well,” he says, enticing as sin, “if that was foreplay, I’m curious what bottle service looks like.”

My stomach flips.

My thighs… quiver.

Nope. Not okay.

I try to reset. “That’s reserved for men who don’t make me want to crawl into a hole and die.”

“Shame,” he murmurs. “I was hoping to taste something,” his gaze falls to my naked thighs, “special tonight.”

My brain short-circuits.

He has to be kidding.

Or maybe I just haven’t been laid in too long.

“Would you like another drink?” I ask, voice breathy by accident.

His eyes darken. “If it comes with that view again? Absolutely.”

I speak before I think. “Public indecency your thing?”

Given the glimmer in his eyes, I’m guessing that’s a yes.

He says, low and lethal, “Sounds like it’s yours.”

I bite my lower lip. The sound of Trish’s harsh laughter somewhere behind me jolts me out of my trance.

And just like that, I remember where I am. I take a step back. “If you don’t want that drink. I should… uh… go.”

But before I can bolt, he slides something across the table.

A folded napkin.

I hesitate. Then pick it up and unfold it.

Floor 25. One drink. Just us.

Us? Who’s us? I want to ask. I don’t even know his name. I look up but he’s looking in the opposite direction. Like I no longer exist.

He’s played his move. Now, the ball is in my court. I get to choose.

I wiggle my skirt down and walk away without another word.

Back in the break room, I lean against the wall with trembling hands.

What the hell was that? I’m still clutching at the note. Reading it over and over again like it’s Latin.

Someone pulls the note out of my hand. I look up and freak the hell out.

Trish. She’s reading it and she doesn’t look happy. Shit. I know the policy. No fraternizing with the customers.

“I know the rules,” I whisper. “I’m not going.”

“Who gave this to you?”

“Table Nine,” I tell her. There is only one man there tonight.

Her face transforms. She lets out a low whistle. “Damn. He doesn’t make requests.”

There’s something in the way she says it that fills me with pride. I’m his first… request ?

“You’ve seen him before?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. That’s Nikolai Vetrov. Bratva royalty. Comes through once every few weeks, never speaks unless he has to. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t ask twice.”

That name hits like ice water down my spine. I’ve heard it in whispers around here before.

“I’m not going,” I repeat, though the words are a lie. I’m curious to know know more. To know him. To know why.

Trish says nothing. Hands the napkin back. I stare at it like it might bite.

“You can take the rest of the night off, Lilly,” she tells me. “Table 9 paid his bill already.”

My eyebrows lift. “Seriously?”

She shrugs. “What I don’t see can’t get you fired.”

With a knowing smirk, she turns and walks away.

No lecture. No warning. Just a manager who’s seen everything— and knows exactly when to look the other way.