 by Margot Scott.jpg)
Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 198(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 198(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
I never thought I’d fall for a man like Jonah. A former cop has no business being with someone like me, a lonely unwanted girl with no address or family.
But for some reason, he wants to take care of me.
When I needed a place to stay he opened his doors, and as soon as I stepped inside, it felt like home. For the first time in my life, I feel safe enough to stop running.
He wants to give me a second childhood, better than the one I've known.
A chance to be the little girl I've always been in my heart.
Jonah's baby girl.
Daddy's angel...
Introducing book one in the Daddy Loves You Series from Margot Scott. This new series is bursting at the seams with fast and filthy age-gap instalove. Absolutely NO cheating or cliffhangers, with a guaranteed HEA!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Teagan
Mary, my social worker, slides her palm across her desktop’s faux-wood finish. “It’s okay to be nervous, Teagan. This is going to be a big change for you.”
I’m used to Mary worrying about me. She’s been my case worker for the past three years, so technically, it’s her job to worry. But today her concern is dialed up to eleven because it’s my birthday. I’m eighteen years old, which means I can legally discharge myself from the foster care system, and after far too many mind-numbing conversations about what’s best for me, that’s exactly what I’m here to do.
“You can stay on until you’re twenty-one,” Mary says for the hundredth time.
If my hands were resting on the desk instead of clasped tightly in my lap, I'm sure she would try to hold one of them. But they aren’t, so she can’t, and I’m not about to give her the chance to try.
“I don’t want you to feel like you’re being abandoned. We could see if there are any beds available in the transitional homes. Somewhere with a bit less supervision, if that’s what you’re after.”
I’ll admit, she’s more than earned her paycheck laying out all the resources I qualify for. Programs to help me with budgeting, mentoring and counseling, even college prep. But the thought of being passed around from one living situation to another for the next three years is enough to make me want to jump off a cliff. I can couch surf on my own, thank you very much.
“Teagan?” Mary says. I look at her. “Are you sure you have somewhere to go?”
What Mary doesn't know—what I haven’t told anyone—is that I’ve managed to reconnect with a satellite member of my bio family. My dad took off when I was four years old, two years before my mom died from an overdose that punted me into the foster-care system. But before she died, my dad’s brother, my Uncle Craig, used to come around every couple of months, always with a coloring book or a stuffed bear for me, and a carton of cigarettes for my mom.
"Let me make some calls," Mary offers. "I can find you a bed for tonight, and maybe a more long-term living situation after that."
I shake my head. I don't need Mary’s help now, not that I ever needed it. I can take care of myself. Besides, I have zero interest in sticking around Knoxville. Or Tennessee, for that matter. My Uncle Craig’s invited me to tag along with him to Los Angeles. He has friends there who can hook us up with jobs and a place to live. Once we’re settled, he says he’ll see about getting in touch with my dad.
All I have to do is come up with my share of the funds.
I've managed to pull together over two thousand dollars designing tattoos for co-workers and stocking groceries at Trader Joe’s. I swear, I was never so happy as when I gave my two-week’s notice.
Goodbye minimum-wage grind, hello ocean breeze and California sun.
In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have quit so soon, but I’m itching to leave. And with the money I’ve saved, I bet we’ll be on the road by next week.
In the meantime, I’ll crash at Craig’s place. He hasn’t officially offered, but considering the cash I’ve already given him—six hundred toward a used car, plus all the free food from Trader Joe’s—it’s like I’ve practically made a down payment. I haven’t decided how I feel about seeing my dad after fourteen years, but I’d be lying if I said the idea didn’t give me butterflies.
Mary slides her hand back to her side of the desk, looking disappointed, yet resigned. I know she just wants to reassure me, and judging by the family photos all over her office, I bet she’s the sort of mom who hugs her kids all the time. But Mary’s not my mom, and as of today, I’m no longer her problem. Even if I was, there’s no way in hell I’d let her hug me.
I’m no stranger to the kind of shit that can happen when you let your guard down.
The first time one of my foster dads tried to slip into my bed, I screamed so loud the neighbors called the cops. The second time, I jammed a pair of scissors into his shoulder. They moved me out pretty quickly after that.
My last case worker, Chester, ascribed my aversion to physical contact to being abandoned by my dad and neglected by my mom when I was little. He said we all crave touch from the time we're born to the day we die, and that denying ourselves this natural impulse is bad for our mental and physical health.
Naturally, when Chester laid his sweaty hand on my thigh, I responded by indulging in the natural impulse to stab him with his favorite pen.