Stealing Daddy’s Heart (Daddy’s Good Girl)

Prologue

Skylar

4 Years Ago (Age 18)

The ballroom glows with chandeliers and laughter, ladies in sparkling gowns and gentlemen in crisp tuxedos. Yet none of it feels real. After so many years at boarding school, this isn't home anymore.

It hasn’t been my home since Mom passed. Vanessa tries hard, but I miss the easy warmth that used to fill these rooms.

“Skylar, darling,” my stepmother coos, her hand gentle on my arm as she steers me toward yet another potential match.

I smile, not wanting to be rude as he introduces himself—James, maybe, or Jason? All of these guys seem the same: nice enough, polished, but nothing beneath the surface that feels real.

“Nice to meet you,” comes out automatically.

I barely register when James-or-Jason explains something about his university. Vanessa is watching, hopeful and expectant, but all I want to do is leave.

I pick up a canape from a tray, hoping it’ll at least give me a reason not to talk. But as soon as I take a bite, something sharp pinches against the tight bodice of my dress, the offending piece slipping somewhere extremely uncomfortable. Great. Just what I needed.

I glance around for an escape route. The line for the restroom is as long as Vanessa’s list of eligible bachelors, so that’s out of the question. But there, across the room, I spot the door to my father’s library—a quiet, hidden haven away from the chaos. Perfect.

“I, um, need to freshen up,” I mumble, already stepping back from the conversation.

I push through the crowd, the canape still causing havoc. Reaching the library, I slide inside and close the door with a firm click. The party’s noise fades, replaced by blessed silence. I lean against the cool wood, catching my breath.

I've escaped the suffocating expectations out there, but now what? I'm not a child anymore, but I'm not sure I know how to be an adult either.

First things first. I need to get this damn canape out of my dress before it drives me insane. I hurriedly cross to the far corner, where the shadows are deepest, glance around the empty room, and shove my hand down the front of my dress to fish out the offending item.

I twist and arch to create even a millimeter of space between my skin and the steel boning inside the corset.

This isn't underwear. It's an instrument of torture.

“Come on, you little bastard.” A deep, amused voice startles me.

“There must be easier ways to do whatever it is you're doing. But damn, girl. That mouth on you could make a sailor blush.”

I freeze, my hand still halfway down the front of my dress, and look up in shock. Garrett Hayes, Dad's best friend and business partner is sitting comfortably on one of the leather couches, with a glass of scotch resting casually in his hand.

How did I miss him? His presence fills the room, commanding attention even in silence.

“Well, if I'd known you were in here, I would've asked for help sooner,” I shoot back, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

I turn away, fish out the crumbled canapé, and hold it up like a trophy. Smoothing my dress, I flick the mess into the trash and dust off my hands. Done.

Garrett chuckles, taking a slow sip of his scotch before setting the glass down on the side table. “I'm not sure that would've been appropriate. But I'm sure you could've convinced me.”

My breath catches, the double entendre hanging in the air between us like a secret challenge. This is a man I've known since childhood, yet tonight, in the soft glow of the library lamps, he seems entirely new.

Damn, he looks good in that suit.

I might be out of my depth, but I’m not a kid anymore. It’s time to see if he notices the difference.

“Well, if you're offering,” I say, giving him a smile that’s just a little bolder as I walk toward him.

Garrett watches me, his face unreadable, though there’s a flicker in his eyes of something unrecognizable. Amusement? Curiosity? Whatever it is spurs me forward.

I stop a foot away from him, feeling the warmth of his presence and smelling the heady scent of his cologne.

“Skylar,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes my stomach flip, “you know this isn't a game you should be playing.”

There's a warning in his tone, but it only makes me want to push harder.

I tilt my head. “Who says I'm playing?”

He leans back against the couch, his gaze flickering over me, taking in the disheveled strands of hair that have escaped my chignon, the flush still coloring my cheeks, the way my dress hugs too tightly against my curves.

His throat bobs when he swallows and his grip tightens around the glass of scotch, betraying the tension he’s working so hard to keep hidden.

“You like testing limits, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice so low that it feels like a caress against my skin.

I bite my lip, sensing the flush spreading across my chest. “Maybe I'm looking for someone who won't be afraid to push back.”

For a moment, time seems to suspend. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he's wrestling with the invisible line between what's right and what's dangerously tempting. And for just that moment, I'm certain he's about to cross it.

But then, with a shake of his head, Garrett shifts, his posture straightening. The mask of the responsible adult slides back into place.

“You're a firecracker, Skylar. Your father used to worry you'd burn the house down one day,” he says, his tone shifting to something safer, yet still tinged with warmth. “But I have to say, you've definitely grown up.”

My heart leaps. He sees me—not fully, not yet, but it’s a start.

“Thanks,” I reply, my fingers absently smoothing the fabric of my dress, grounding myself in the moment. “I think.”

He chuckles, a warm, deep sound that sends a flicker of something through me, something I’m not ready to name. “It’s a compliment. Don’t worry.”

Garrett’s expression softens, a trace of melancholy settling in his eyes.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve really seen you. How are you coping with everything?”

The question touches a nerve, tightening my throat. I swallow, forcing the words out.

“I’m fine. I haven’t called this place home since I was twelve. It’s different now.” I hesitate, glancing away before letting more slip than I should. “Honestly? I’m ready for university. A fresh start.”

The regret is instant, a knot forming in my chest. I can hear my own privilege in the words, and it feels wrong to complain.

Garrett leans forward, his gaze steady and compassionate. “You've been through a lot of changes. If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here.”

Garrett doesn’t rush to comfort me or offer advice. For the first time in a long while, I feel seen and understood.

“Thank you. Most people tell me how ‘strong’ I am, or how lucky I should feel. But no one really sees it for what it is.”

The warmth in Garrett’s eyes and the gentleness in his voice make me feel safe in a way I haven’t in years. The tightness in my chest eases.

Sinking onto the couch beside him, I tug at my dress, my nerves settling. “Why are you hiding in here anyway?”

He lifts his glass, swirling the scotch. “Needed a breather. And your dad hides the good stuff in here.”

I laugh softly. “Don’t tell me Vanessa’s trying to set you up too.”

His smile fades, growing distant. “You should be out there, enjoying yourself. Not hiding away with me.”

The way he says ‘with me’ lingers between us. Part of me wants to press him on what he means, to see how far I can push. But the other part—the part that's still trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing—holds me back.

Instead, I lean back against the couch, mimicking his relaxed posture, and glance up at the Rothko painting above the fireplace. The colors blend together in thick, abstract strokes—deep reds merging with shadowed blues, creating a swirl of emotion on the canvas.

It’s a piece I’ve seen a hundred times, but tonight, it feels different. Maybe it’s the weight of Garrett’s gaze, or the way the room feels charged, like the air right before a storm hits.

“Do you ever think about what paintings are saying?” I ask, the art student in me taking over without thinking.

Garrett follows my gaze to the Rothko hanging on the mantle. “Are you into art?”

“It's what I’m studying at university. I’ve always loved how paintings can speak to you without words. Like that one.” I gesture to the abstract shapes. “At first glance, it’s just blocks of color. But if you stare long enough, you start to feel something deeper underneath.”

I pause, suddenly embarrassed, realizing I’ve slipped into lecture mode. “Sorry, I know it sounds a little intense.”

Garrett shifts slightly, glancing from me to the painting again. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Not intense. Art has a way of speaking in whispers, doesn’t it?”

He's still studying the canvas, but his words are layered, holding more. My pulse picks up, the tension returning, feeling different this time.

“Exactly,” I say, pulling my attention away from him, focusing on the painting instead, to steady myself. “There's always more under the surface—if you're willing to look.”

He meets my gaze, his expression thoughtful, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But then he leans forward, bridging the distance, enough that I can feel the heat of his body.

“Maybe it’s about boundaries. About knowing when to step closer and when to step back.”

The words settle over me like a challenge, and I can't help the way my breath catches. Boundaries. It's a concept I'm all too familiar with, but one I've never been good at respecting.

“And what happens,” I ask quietly, “if someone decides to cross those boundaries?”

His gaze sharpens, the intensity of it stealing the breath from my lungs. “Then they'd better be prepared for the consequences.”

Are we still talking about the painting? The air between us crackles with tension, thick and heavy.

For a moment, the world stops. I can see the pulse at his throat quicken, hear the faint crackle of the fire, smell the wood smoke mingling with his cologne—earthy, masculine, intoxicating.

His eyes darken, the ocean-blue depths pulling me in, promising something I've never dared to reach for before.

“Skylar—” His voice is a low, gravelly warning, but there's an edge to it.

Before he can say another word, the door to the library swings open with a sharp creak. The spell breaks, reality rushing back in like a cold wave.

I look up to see Vanessa standing in the doorway, her perfectly manicured hand resting on the knob.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Skylar. The guests are asking about you.” Her eyes flick to Garrett, and her smile tightens. “I didn’t realize you were keeping Skylar company.”

Garrett is on his feet in an instant. “Just catching up,” he says smoothly, his voice devoid of the simmering tension that had filled the room just moments ago.

“I see,” Vanessa replies, though her tone suggests she’s already making assumptions. “We really must get back to the party,” she adds, turning her gaze to me. “Your father wants to introduce you to Senator Whitman’s son.”

I can't help the sigh that escapes my lips. The thrill of the moment with Garrett lingers, a heady buzz under my skin, but I know it's over—for now.

“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile as I stand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” I turn to Garrett and add, “Thanks for the chat.”

“Good luck, if I don't see you again,” Garrett says, his voice smooth, controlled.

But I don’t miss the way his gaze lingers just a moment too long, the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” I reply, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. It feels wrong to be so formal, so distant, after what just happened—after what almost happened.

I follow Vanessa out of the library, casting one last glance over my shoulder at Garrett. He simply watches me leave, his expression unreadable.

Vanessa, oblivious to the turmoil roiling inside me, loops her arm through mine as we re-enter the party.

As I move through the crowd, nodding and smiling at faces I barely recognize, my mind races. I should let it go. He's my father's best friend, for God's sake. There are a million reasons why crushing on him is a bad idea.

But the heart wants what it wants, and right now, mine is screaming for more. So I make a silent vow. This isn't over. Not by a long shot. And when I return, I'll be ready to cross all those boundaries he talked about.

And Garrett Hayes won't know what hit him.