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  Dream Daddy

  A DILF For Father's Day Book 2

  Kate Hunt

  Copyright © 2020 by Kate Hunt

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  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. Adrienne

  2. Caleb

  3. Adrienne

  4. Caleb

  5. Adrienne

  6. Caleb

  7. Adrienne

  8. Epilogue – Caleb

  A DILF For Father's Day

  About the Author

  1

  Adrienne

  Holy crap, this place is perfection.

  My eyes widen in awe as I step out of my car and take in the sight of the cottage I’ll be staying in for the next week. The cottage looks like something out of a storybook—it’s made out of white stucco and has a sloping thatched roof, and there’s soft pink roses planted around the cottage’s perimeter.

  It’s not just the cottage that’s picturesque, though. Everything here is beautiful. The surrounding fields seem to stretch out forever. There are fruit trees scattered all around. The sky seems bluer, the clouds seem softer. Even the air smells cleaner here.

  I draw a deep breath into my lungs, reveling in how pure the air feels. When I do, I also get a hint of sweetness. It smells like…strawberries, I think?

  I look out past the fields and see row upon row of lushly green plants.

  Yep. Definitely strawberries.

  I grab my travel bag from the car and sling the strap over my shoulder as I walk up the pathway to the cottage. The weight of my bag reminds me why I’m here. This isn’t a vacation. This is a trip for a very specific reason: I need to finish the rewrites for my novel.

  If I don’t finish them by the end of this week, I’m screwed.

  I thought I was finished with my novel a few months ago. I turned the manuscript in to my agent; she read it over, told me how wonderful it was, and we went out for celebratory drinks; I mentally moved on from the project, diving right into the next book I was under contract for.

  Then, one unsuspecting morning, I got a call from my agent. She did her best to break the news gently, but it was still hard to hear: the publisher had requested a last-minute rewrite of certain aspects of my book.

  I was given a deadline of two weeks.

  For the first week, I tried to get the work done from the place I get all of my writing done: the trusty ol’ desk in my apartment. I’d found the desk in an antique shop years before; it was worn and weathered, and as silly as it sounds, I’ve always been convinced that it’s a harbinger of good luck.

  As I struggled through the rewrites, though, it quickly became clear that no amount of good luck was going to make this task easier.

  After yet another frustrating work day, I called up my agent and pleaded with her to buy me more time. She tried, bless her heart, but thanks to a set-in-stone publishing schedule, there was no wiggle room.

  “Let’s try a change of scenery, Adrienne,” she suggested.

  “No, I’ll just—” I started to say.

  “Don’t make it more difficult than it has to be. I’ll book something for you right now and send you the details.”

  Twelve hours later, I was getting in my car and setting out for the four-hour journey, doubtful that running off to a cottage in the middle of nowhere was going to make much of a difference but willing to give it a try.

  Now, though, as I walk up to the front porch, I feel utterly renewed with hope. Crouching down, I check underneath a little clay pot of bright marigolds. The key is there, just like I was told it would be. I unlock the front door of the cottage and step inside, squinting as my eyes adjust to the dim light.

  The inside is just as picture perfect as the outside. It’s not fancy or luxurious by any means—it’s just wonderfully quaint.

  Is it weird to say that it feels like home?

  Because it does.

  The living room, dining room, and kitchen are all visible from the doorway. The whole area isn’t much bigger than a hotel room. But there’s a fireplace over in the corner, and a sofa that looks super comfortable and inviting. The dining table is small, just big enough for two.

  It’s everything I’ll need—more than I’ll need, really—to relax and get my work done.

  I set my bag down and slowly walk through the small cottage, taking in every little detail—the cornflower-blue curtains that look like they’ve been handsewn, the thick wooden bowls stacked in one of the kitchen cabinets, the half-burned candles arranged on the dining table.

  It feels like three bears might walk in any minute and demand to know who ate all their porridge.

  At the back of the cottage, there’s a single door that leads to the bedroom. Just like the rest of the place, it doesn’t disappoint. The four-poster bed looks so sturdy and cozy that I can’t help myself—I fling myself onto the mattress.

  It’s heavenly, for the record.

  I sigh contentedly and smooth my hands across the bedspread. It’s silky soft and so freakin’ plush. I can only imagine how well I’m going to sleep here tonight. First, though, comes the writing. I pull myself up, walk back across the cottage to grab my laptop out of my bag, and set myself up at the dining table. My laptop yawns awake.

  I thread my fingers, give my hands a good stretch, and get to work.

  Three days later, I’ve barely written a new paragraph, and my eyesight is fuzzy from all the hours I’ve spent staring in frustration at my computer screen. With a defeated sigh, I close my laptop and rub my hands over my eyes.

  Why is this so damn hard?

  Well, it’s clear by now that sitting here and forcing it isn’t going to get the job done. I need a change of scenery from my change of scenery. Pushing back my chair, I stand up from the table and walk over to the kitchen sink.

  As I fill a glass with water, I look out the window and study the fruit trees in the fields. I’m pretty sure at least a few of them are apple trees. God, does an apple pie ever sound delicious right now.

  It won’t hurt to do a little baking, will it?

  Who knows, maybe it will even help get the creative juices flowing.

  I grab a big wooden bowl, slip on my shoes, and step out of the cottage. The strawberry-tinged fresh air hits me once again, and as I walk out into the field, I long to go over and pick some strawberries for my pie, too. If I was going to do that, though, I would want to talk to the owner of the field first—and I don’t want to sidetrack myself any more than I need to.

  No, for now, the apples will do.

  As I near the fruit trees, a smile spreads across my face. Not only are there red and green apples, but there’s also a pear tree and a peach tree. I could probably stay busy baking for weeks just from the fruit here alone.

  Even with all the variety, though, it only takes me a moment to decide.

  Apples. Red ones.

  I walk up to the tree and pluck off one of the low-hanging apples. After rubbing it clean on my shirt, I sink my teeth into it. It’s delicious. There’s no denying that. But it’s also a tad too ripe for a pie. Looking at the higher branches, I eye the apples further up.

  Something tells me they’re perfect.

  I might be a city girl, but I know how to climb a tree. And I’m strong. I’m young. I mean, twenty-six still counts as young, right? Young-ish, at least.

  Young at heart.

  Young adjacent.

  Whatever. Point is, I can do this.

  Climbing a tree is just like riding a bike, right?

  Looking up, I spot several branches that are surely strong enough to support me. Thankfully, they don’t seem to be too far apart. I reach for the first one and start to pull myself up.

  All right. I’m here. I’m doing it.

  This isn’t so bad, right?

  Okay, fine. This sucks. It’s more difficult than I thought it would be, and the branches don’t feel as steady as I’d like. But I can almost taste the warm apple pie in my mouth, and that gives me the extra push I need to pull myself up to the second branch.

  I’m completely off the ground now, fully up in the tree. I reach for the reddest, most perfect-looking apple I can see. I’m at an awkward angle, though, and I can’t quite grab it.

  I reach for the next branch over to pull myself closer.

  Just as I’m about to shift my weight, my back foot slips off the branch I’m on. In the next moment, I’m falling, the ground suddenly above me as the whole world flips upside down.

  And then the ground slams into me—or I slam into it, I guess. I’m so disoriented that nothing makes sense. Pain explodes in my right leg and quickly spreads to the rest of my body.

  I try to move, but I can’t. All I can do is close my eyes and moan.

  I’m dizzy. I’m in so much pain.

  I call out for help. I doubt anyone can hear me, but I call out anyway.

  2

  Caleb


  I follow my three girls as they run ahead of me through the field toward the fruit trees. If I hadn’t seen the genuinely scared looks on their faces, I probably wouldn’t have believed them. They’re always trying to get me with their little pranks.

  I’ve gotta hand it to them, though. If this is a prank, it’s one of the better ones they’ve pulled off. I can even see a figure lying under the apple tree.

  “Over here, Dad,” my oldest daughter, Jane, calls over her shoulder as she motions toward the figure under the tree. “Hurry! I think she broke her leg!”

  I pick up the pace and squint as I see the figure start to move. I’ll be damned. There really is a woman propped up under that apple tree.

  My heart starts beating faster as I break into a full run. I slow down as I get to the row of fruit trees, then stop dead in my tracks.

  Damn, the woman is beautiful.

  Even with her wavy hair half-covering her face, she looks like she should be on the cover of one of those fashion magazines the girls are always trying to sneak into the house.

  I close the distance between us without taking my eyes off her. The thin, white t-shirt and shorts she’s wearing look like they’ve been painted on, clinging to every curve of her body as she leans forward to rub one of her long legs. Her shirt rides up in the back, exposing several inches of pale, perfectly creamy skin that makes my cock twitch awake.

  Jesus, Caleb. The woman needs your help. Stop staring at her and get it together.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, doing my best to clear my mind and focus on the task at hand.

  “I had a little…um, altercation…with the apple tree,” she says, turning up her angelic face and offering me the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. “As you can see, the tree won.”

  I run a hand down my face and try to ignore the effect that this woman’s smile is having on my body. “My daughter thinks you may have broken your leg. Do you mind if I take a look?”

  “Feel free. I don’t think it’s broken, though, thank goodness. It certainly felt like it when I fell, but now the pain’s not so terrible. I can still move it, just…”

  Her voice trails off as I ease down onto my knees next to her and place a hand just below her knee. “Does this hurt?”

  Our eyes lock and my hand stops moving for a moment. Christ, her skin is so soft and warm. I know I should move my hand again but I can’t seem to make myself do it.

  Get it the fuck together, Caleb.

  “No,” she says, shaking her pretty little head. “It doesn’t hurt there.” Her cheeks flush the lightest shade of pink. “It’s my thigh. Could you help me up? I’m staying in the cottage.”

  Ah. So this is the writer.

  “Of course,” I say. I put an arm around her back and lift so she doesn’t have to put too much weight on her leg. Once she’s on her feet, I keep my arm around her for another second before reluctantly pulling it away.

  When she tries to take a step forward, though, she falters. Immediately, I slide my arm around her again, holding her tighter this time.

  “Thanks,” she says, smiling up at me, shaking her head. “Guess I’m not as steady as I thought.”

  “I’ll help you walk.”

  She nods, and we begin to make our way back to the rental cottage. The girls walk ahead of us, glancing back every so often.

  “I’m Caleb, by the way,” I say. “My daughters are Lydia, Kayla, and Jane.”

  She looks ahead at my daughters and smiles before looking up at me again. “I’m Adrienne.”

  I feel the urge to repeat her name. Feel it on my tongue. Instead, I just ask if we’re walking too fast.

  “No, this pace is good,” she says. “So, are those your strawberry fields?”

  I nod. “They are indeed.”

  “You know, I could actually smell the fruit when I first arrived. I can only imagine how good they must taste.”

  I tell her a little about the farm. A minute later, we’ve reached the cottage. The girls open the front door for us and follow us in as I help Adrienne inside. I walk her over to one of the kitchen chairs and ease her down into it. Then I step over to the kitchen to put some ice in a bag, which I wrap in a kitchen towel before bringing it over to her.

  “Thank you,” she says, pressing the ice to her thigh.

  I catch myself staring a second too long at her bare legs. I pull my eyes away and quickly survey the inside of the cottage. “Do you have everything you need here? I sent the girls over yesterday to make sure everything was in order, but I want to be sure.”

  Adrienne looks up at me curiously. “You’re the owner?”

  I nod.

  “No, of course. That makes sense.” She nods. “I definitely have everything I need. This place is perfect. And the land…I mean, talk about scenic.”

  The dreaminess in her eyes goes right to my heart.

  I clear my throat. “You’re a writer, right?” Earlier in the week, when I got an email from a woman who wanted to book the cottage, she explained that she wasn’t booking it for herself, but for one of her clients.

  Before Adrienne can answer, my middle daughter, Kayla, pipes up. “A writer? Like…you write books?”

  “Can you write one for us?” Lydia, my youngest, asks. “Can I be a wizard?”

  “What is it with you and wizards, Lyd?” says Jane.

  “Girls,” I say, my voice low and stern. The three of them are crowded around Adrienne now. “Girls. Give her some space.”

  “Sorry,” the three of them say in unison.

  “That’s all right, girls,” Adrienne says, smiling at them.

  As the girls move away, murmuring amongst themselves, I step closer to Adrienne again. “You’ll want to keep that leg elevated for a while. How’s the pain?”

  “Not too bad anymore, actually. The ice is really helping.” She smiles up at me. “Thank you so much for your help, Caleb.”

  Hearing my name on her lips sends a wave of need through me. I want to carry her back to our house. Take care of her. Spoil her. Press my lips to those bare thighs. Push them open and—

  “We’ll let you get back to writing,” I say, cutting off my thoughts.

  Adrienne laughs. “I don’t think I’m going to get much work done this evening, but thank you.” Her cheeks flush that delicious pink color again. “And I’ll try to be more careful next time I’m out gathering ingredients for a pie. It’s a shame, though. I think it was going to be a good one.”

  “We have pie!” Kayla says, reappearing at my side. “You should come have some with us. You should come for dinner, too.”

  Lydia’s head pops up on my other side. “And then we can write a book together!”

  Jane rolls her eyes in that oh-so-annoyed way that only a teenager can truly master. “It doesn’t work like that, Lydia.” She gives Adrienne a kind smile. “But you should come over for dinner. We’d love to have you.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” says Adrienne. “But I don’t want to put you out.”

  “You won’t be,” I say.

  “Well…okay,” Adrienne says, her eyes twinkling at me. “Sure, then. Dinner sounds great.”

  “And pie,” Kayla reminds her, grinning.

  “And pie,” Adrienne adds with a laugh.

  3

  Adrienne

  I close my eyes as I savor the last bite of the most delicious strawberry pie I’ve ever tasted. Every bite has been exquisite: the pie is sweet and jammy, but it also has just a hint of tartness.

  When I open my eyes again, I see Lydia, Kayla, and Jane all staring at me with wide-eyed anticipation.

  “Girls, this is delicious,” I say.

  “You really like it?” Kayla asks. “Do you want more? There’s lots and lots more.”

  Lydia is almost bouncing out of her seat as she clasps her hands together. “Can you tell us a story after we finish with the dishes? Please?”