Page 391 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

“And you’ve got just a little going on through the holidays. Want back up?”

“Yeah, I’ll take you up on that. If things continue to go well between him and Myles, I’ll let Myles have access to the app, too. He can use it to set rewards for Cappa. That might keep Cappa going in the right direction.”

“You don’t think Myles will want to take over? He’s a man who needs control.”

I tap my fingers on the phone. “I don’t mind giving him some control but I’m not giving the reins to a baby Dom.”

“I wouldn’t use that term in his earshot, if I were you.” Mac snorts.

Remembering Max’s reaction to me calling him a baby Dom, I shrug. It might be mildly insulting but it’s a good reminder that they’re in the learning stages of being Daddies.

“I’m not afraid of gatekeeping his ass. Bravo seems to think he’ll mind his Ps and Qs because he wants into our lifestyle. I’m not sure I share his confidence; Myles strikes me as a wild card.”

“Agreed.” Mac puts his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Watch yourself. We’ve all had to make hard calls. Myles has made too many. Nothing against the fella but it’s scarred his soul. He’s also scary smart and has way too many resources. I had a frank conversation with a guy who knows the guy he reported to in the SAS. Did you know he’s the oldest son of British nobility? He’s a fucking baronet, or he will be when his father dies. Old man’s absolutely loaded. I’m not sure how much Myles has access to now but figure on him having the kind of money that he can throw at problems and make them disappear.”

I nod. I did my own due diligence on Myles before I let him come to playgroup. I know about his family money, and that his father’s been making noises since Myles left the armed services about retiring and turning the management of the family estates over to the “younger generation.” Myles was listed as the keynote speaker for the family at a conference on land management and conservation of the Forest of Clitheroe last year. His father had to step in after “urgent business” called Myles away—all the way to east Africa.

Having done my own time in west Africa, I know the kind of urgent business that calls a former SAS sniper into that part of the world. It’s the kind of urgent business that won me a friendly call from a deep-voiced gentleman on a D.C. number in the investigation lottery. After being told in the interests of national security to bugger off or I’d find myself audited by the Internal Revenueandthe British tax authority every year for the rest of my life, I stopped poking around.

But I didn’t need to poke any deeper, because my team has a secret weapon named Max. I didn’t ask Max to investigate Myles because I didn’t want to damage their friendship. I should have known better. With that weird preternatural sense Max has—probably arising from monitoring my search history and phone calls—he sent me a huge file on Myles, covering everything from where the man went to primary school to his kill count.

“He doesn’t need family money to make problems disappear,” I tell Mac. “He’s connected in Washington. And then there’s his K-count. It’s a number that makes me deeply uncomfortable. What his buddies in Washington can’t make disappear, he can accomplish with his own L119A2. I understand the need to handle Myles like a feral cat but there’s no fucking way I’m letting him hurt Cappa. Or any other submissive.”

Mac pats my shoulder. “Bravo thinks that highly of the fella, let’s bring him in. More eyes on Myles the better. You shouldn’t have to beard that particular lion on your own, son. You’ve got enough going on.”

I nod. Myles will probably object to mentorship by committee but he’s going to have to suck it up if he wants into our lifestyle. Our submissives are too precious to risk.

eleven

LOGAN

I stare at the squidgy,plastic envelope Emily puts in my hand. The yellowish liquid inside sloshes slightly.

It looks ... rheumy. It should not be that color. Has it gone off? My stomach rolls along with the package’s contents. “Milk’s white,” I point out.

Emily smiles tolerantly at me. “Breast milk ranges, Daddy. There’s nothing wrong with it. When Gracie was pumping for Connor, her hindmilk was always yellow. She ate a bunch of roasted beets one time and her milk turned pink! A little variation in color’s nothing to worry about.”

I tip the package back into her hands. I completely support her decision to feed Olivia with donor breast milk. Emily’s educated me about the benefits of breast milk for babies and I want Olivia to have every advantage. I’ll admit I didn’t think through the logistics of it. I was surprised as hell when a forty-something woman named Alice showed up with a toddler on one hip and a cooler on the other. Ridiculously, I envisioned glass bottles left on our doorstep by some erstwhile milkman driving a horse-drawn cart.

There’s nothing old-fashioned about this operation. The packets Emily takes out of the cooler and loads into my beer fridge, where we can set the temperature precisely, look like they belong on the space shuttle. Emmy goes through the delivery schedule with Alice over a cup of tea while I entertain Alice’s son with a tub of chunky Lego. Emily and Alice part with hugs and a promise to coordinate baby swim classes.

After we wave off Alice into the City’s golden winter afternoon, I draw Emily into my arms. Stroking my finger down the bridge of her nose, I say, “Have I told you today how proud of you I am?”

Her beautiful, hazel eyes go owl-wide. “You are?”

“I am. Any idea why that might be?”

She nibbles her bottom lip. “Because I made my word count without the Avengers shouting at me?”

“Yes, I’m proud of you for that. Anything else?”

“Because I drank all my water?”

“Yes, that, too.”

“Because I didn’t whinge when you paddled me with Belphegor after breakfast even though your paddle is very, very evil and my thighs are super stingy?”

“Also that, although Belphegor objects to being called evil and will correct that misconception tomorrow morning with double the number of strokes. Anything else?”