Free Sugar Daddy by Rie Warren Page A

hair. “What?”
    “We got company.”
    “You up there, Boone?”
    He bent over the railing, his smile breathtaking. “Whistler! C’mon on up here, old man.”
    Old man? Fuck, I needed an eye exam because this Whistler was, well, shit. Did they just breed hot-as-hell men where Reardon came from?
    Whistler was all salty dog. Taking the stairs, he braced himself as if waves bottomed out beneath him. A shrimper, he had that look. Salt and pepper and sweet as could be with a rough touch of why don’t you c’mon over here, girl, and find out? They toed up and clapped each other’s backs.
    Reardon hooked my waist to propel me forward. “Shay, this is Whistler.”
    I gave him my hand and damn if he hadn’t been raised the same. He bent low, kissing my palm, raising sandy eyelashes. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”
    Boyish, handsome, bad. And he didn’t call me ma’am .
    Reardon positioned me under his arm so the softest skin of his bicep nudged my naked shoulder, his pursed mouth hinting at faint displeasure.
    “Likewise.” I smiled, threading my fingers through Reardon’s.
    “Wayne,” he tersely interjected. So, Whistler had a name, and Reardon had a possessive streak. I loved this show of manly strutting, roosters rutting.
    Whistler-Wayne sideswiped Reardon and clamped his head between muscled forearms, giving him a noogie.
    I snorted.
    They looked over.
    “What?”
    They were the ones acting like schoolboys, what was a little ladylike snuffle between friends?
    They broke apart with sheepish grins, and Whistler proved his nickname wasn’t in vain by, well, whistling, “Ssslummin’ it?”
    Oh no, he was not talkin’ about me.
    Thankfully, he was mocking the cottage because apparently four thousand square feet in a private seaside enclave was slumming it for the likes of the Rat Bastard.
    I punched Whistler in the arm. “Nice one! I said exactly the same thing to him the other day.”
    He returned my punch with a fist bump, and I felt like one of the guys, except for the way Reardon kept a close eye on me, not to mention his hand on the swell of my ass.
    “Goin’ out on the boat next week, right?” Whistler asked.
    Reardon’s fingers convulsed on my hip. “Always do.”
    “Why don’t y’all bring Shay?”
    He squinted over the water. “Might-could.”
    Well that was obviously a sore point, and Whistler’s cue to leave.
    Carrying on a quiet conversation, Reardon walked his friend to the beach.
    “Good to meet you,” I called, hanging over the railing.
    He raised his hand and dipped his visor.
    Moseying away, Whistler became a wavy image, then a dot.
    Reardon bristled beside me. “You like him?”
    “What’s not to like?” I massaged his chest; he glared after Whistler. “Thought you were just a playboy. Turns out you’re actually sorta real.”
    His hands ran down my back, hitting a ticklish spot. “Guess you got the wrong end of the stick.”
    I curved into him. “I’m not getting any end of your stick, now, am I?”
    He stiffened. “Yeah, about that. You want a drink?”
    Inside, he presented me with a vodka tonic. “Take a seat.”
    Take a seat in his world meant something I didn’t want to hear. My skin clammy with dread, I lurched to the couch and drained my drink by half.
    “We need to discuss birth control.”
    ’Course. No Rat Bastard runts wanted. “Birth control.” I gagged on the rush of terror closing my throat. Shit, shit, shit. Not now. I slammed the rest of the drink, my heart knifing my chest with each shaky inhale as panic shrouded me.
    He stepped nearer. “For when you decide to–”
    “I know what it’s for, you ass, and it’s hardly necessary!”
    “But you said...you’d try.” Fingers tucked into pockets, confusion churned up his features.
    “You had an investigator on my tail. You mean to tell me you don’t know?”
    “He never, I never trespassed your private life.” He knelt in front of me. “What’s this about, Shay?”
    “I thought my