Page 8 of Master Daddy

Taron reaches across and squeezes my hand. “Then don’t catch feelings yet. Just… go for the training. Let the big grumpy mountain man spot you. Win that contest against Milo. And see what happens. Worst case, you get stronger and some serious eye candy. Best case…” He waggles his eyebrows. “You get yourself a Daddy who can deadlift you and the barbell.”

I laugh, but there’s a nervous flutter in my chest. “I was supposed to meet him again this morning and he didn’t show. So maybe he already changed his mind.”

Taron shrugs. “Or maybe he had a reason. Give him a chance to explain. You’re going back tomorrow, right?”

I nod, trying to sound casual even though my stomach is doing excited little somersaults. “Yeah. I’ll go. At least for the competition. I need those victory pancakes.”

We spend the rest of lunch giggling over milkshakes and gossiping about Milo’s surprise road trip with Connor. By the time I hug Taron goodbye and head to my afternoon shift at Jonathan Melville’s stationary store, I feel lighter. I’m still distracted by thoughts of Mason, but in a warm, buzzy kind of way instead of a frantic one.

The stationary store is quiet this time of day.

Jonathan’s in the back doing inventory, so I’m manning the front counter with a half-finished crossword puzzle and a pack of glitter gel pens. I’m tapping my pen against the paper, trying to think of a seven-letter word for gruff but ridiculously attractive mountain man, when the little bell above the door jingles.

I look up.

And there he is.

Mason. In dark jeans, a fitted black Henley that does nothing to hide how broad his chest is, and that same serious expression that makes my knees feel wobbly. His eyes lock on mine and something electric crackles in the air between us.

“Well, well, well,” I say, folding my arms and tilting my head in my best sassy Little pose. “Look who decided to show up after missing gym this morning. Some spotter you are.”

Mason’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. He walks straight to the counter, all six-foot-whatever of him, and rests one big hand on the wood.

“Yeah. About that,” Mason begins. “I overslept. Long night at the Lantern with Kaleb. Won’t happen again. Trust me.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how good he smells, like clean soap and something woody. “We’ll see about that, mister. I might have to start marking you tardy.”

Mason chuckles, low and rough, and the sound goes straight between my legs. “You planning on keeping attendance, Luke?”

I shrug, biting back a grin. “Maybe.”

Mason reaches into the notebook display on the counter and picks up a sturdy black A4 one with a simple leather-look cover. He sets it down in front of me along with a pack of pens.

“This is for you,” Mason says, handing me some money. “Training log. Every session, every lift, every PR. You write it down. I check it. No more flying solo on heavy bench attempts.”

I stare at the notebook, then up at him.

Something soft and warm blooms in my chest. It’s such a simple thing, but the fact that he thought of it… that he wants to help me track my progress… it feels thoughtful. Caring, even.

“That’s… actually really sweet,” I say quietly, running my fingers over the cover. “Thank you.”

Mason grunts, but his ears go a little pink. “Don’t push it, little one.”

There it is again. Little one. My breath catches. The air between us feels thick, charged. I can practically feel the heat rolling off his big body. For a second I wonder if he’s going to reach across the counter and⁠—

The moment stretches. Then Mason clears his throat and steps back.

“Tomorrow,” Mason barks. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” I fire back, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended.

He gives me one last long look—dark eyes tracing over my face, my lips, then quickly away—before he pays for the notebook and pens and heads out.

The bell jingles behind Mason and I stand there for a full ten seconds, heart racing, before I flip open the brand-new notebook. On the first blank page, in glitter gel pen, I doodle a little cartoon version of Mason.

Broad shoulders, stern eyebrows… and, because I’m clearly a menace to myself, a very large, very happy erection straining against his imaginary gym shorts.

I giggle, cheeks burning, and quickly turn to a fresh page to start an actual training log header.