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  We Have Till Monday

  Cara Dee

  We Have Till Monday

  Copyright © 2021 by Cara Dee

  All rights reserved

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  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be reproduced in any way without documented permission of the author, not including brief quotes with links and/or credit to the source. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction and all references to historical events, persons living or dead, and locations are used in a fictional manner. Any other names, characters, incidents, and places are derived from the author’s imagination. The author acknowledges the trademark status and owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction. Characters portrayed in sexual situations are 18 or older.

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  Edited by Silently Correcting Your Grammar, LLC.

  Formatted by Eliza Rae Services.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  More from Cara

  About Cara

  Prologue

  Camden Adair

  “Oh, shoot,” I mumbled, sliding off my bed. Then I ran out of my room and toward the stairs. “Daddy! Can I have more screen time?”

  In my defense, this was work-related. He better not get on his Domly high horse and deny me.

  I found Daddy downstairs in the kitchen, where he was preparing his next recipe. Or maybe more than one. Thanksgiving was a very important holiday for chefs, and his upcoming video series would show his followers how to best use the leftovers to make some spectacular meals. Which he hated. Not the food or the cooking, but he did not like the social media part.

  “I yelled for you,” I said, stopping on the other side of the big kitchen island. I placed my iPad on the countertop and watched him bend down to brush a couple drops of sauce from the edge of the plate. It looked amazing. He’d used a piping bag to make duchess potatoes, and they formed a circle around a stir-fry of turkey, leftover vegetables, cranberries, and gravy.

  “And we don’t like yellin’ in this house, do we, darlin’?” he murmured distractedly.

  He was very focused.

  I scratched my nose. He’d forget the yelling shortly, because I knew Clara and the film crew would arrive soon, so Daddy had to get this done ASAP.

  “You can grab your camera and take the pictures,” he told me. “And tell me why you need more screen time. I gave you four hours.”

  Well…maybe four hours weren’t enough when you accidentally stumbled across someone gorgeous in the comment section.

  That stuff required time for investigation.

  Daddy had placed my camera on one of the stools, so I unpacked it, attached the lens, and joined him on his side of the island. He’d completed the setup with the dinner plate on a thick cutting board, and he’d strewn some cranberries around the plate. There was also his favorite knife, a dark-red dish towel on the side, and a small gravy boat.

  He was getting better at this part, but there was a reason I handled the pictures and the presentation of the dishes he made. I was the one with a degree in photography and design. Daddy just wanted “peace and quiet,” and for people to enjoy his cooking.

  “I was picking the winners from your Insta,” I explained, as that was my task for the day, “and it’s possible I got stuck on one follower.”

  “What a surprise,” he drawled. “My boy got distracted by a shiny object.”

  I giggled and took some photos from different angles, adjusting the settings as well as the setup along the way. Daddy thought a single photo was enough to promote a video series, when in reality, it was more like a hundred.

  “It’s a very hot object,” I said in my defense. “And I guess…well, maybe, just maybe, I ended up going through his entire Instagram.”

  Daddy chuckled and grabbed a beer from the fridge, then rounded the island and took a seat there to give me space. “Why do I get the feelin’ you’re gonna choose winners for the wrong reason? It’s for a cooking class, not a modeling contest.”

  I looked up from the viewfinder and mock-scowled.

  He just flashed me one of his charming, super-sexy smiles.

  After six years with my Daddy, that smile still disarmed me.

  But that smile was also a reminder of our complicated situation, and in order to see my Daddy smile more, it was time to test the waters. Or rather, it was time to leave the shallow end of the pool.

  It was time to start inviting a third party for play again. Otherwise, we’d never find our missing piece. And before we even went that far, we actually had to meet people and see if there was any chemistry.

  As I refocused on taking pictures, I told Daddy I wanted to make one tiny exception. This guy I’d found—I wanted him to be one of the six winners. His response to the contest, or giveaway, was definitely valid. For a chance to win, Daddy—and by Daddy, I meant Clara, his PR person—had instructed his followers to leave a comment about what they’d had for dinner. And the guy I liked had answered oatmeal, because it was apparently the only dish he couldn’t mess up. If that wasn’t a good reason to grant him a ticket to the food festival here next spring—and the cooking class Daddy would host—I didn’t know what was.

  I knew a cry for help when I heard it. Or read it. Which I told Daddy, who just shook his head at me in amusement.

  “So the exception is that you wanna pick him because you find him attractive,” he concluded.

  “Like I said, his comment is still valid,” I replied. “It’s possible I would’ve chosen him even if I hadn’t seen how flippin’ sexy he is.”

  But in a comment section with over five thousand entries, it was impossible to be sure.

  I carried the plate over to the sink, where a mountain of dishes waited to be rinsed and placed in the dishwasher. In my eyes, this was what Leftover Day was all about. Finding the good stuff, enjoying the leftovers, in a house that looked like a war zone after the guests had gone home. So I took a few pictures of the plate where the dishes in the sink were visible in the background and thought it would make for a fun, relatable post. That Daddy would no doubt leave for Clara or me to write.

  If only Daddy’s four million followers knew how little he contributed on his own account.

  “When you’re done takin’ photos of the dirty dishes, maybe you should show me your new obsession,” he said.

  Oh, but Daddy…

  I snickered to myself, because I was an evil genius. With what I’d learned, it wasn’t so much my new obsession as I hoped it would be my Daddy’s next obsession.

  The man wasn’t perfect for me. Okay, that was going too far. He was exactly my type too, but it was Daddy’s perfection I was searching for.

  Over 300 pictures and posts from an Insta user named Anthony Fender had given me the confidence to at least hope for some seduction if we played our cards right.

  A good beginning to our search for that missing piece of our puzzle.

  Once I was done taking photos, I stowed away the camera and swiped up my iPad to show Daddy.

  I stepped between Daddy’s legs as he retrieved his phone from his pocket, and he gave me more screen time.

  “Username,” I mumbled to myself, typing it in. I’d learned the “TFI” in Mr. Fender’s username stood for The Fender Initiative. He ran a mu
sic academy and could not look sexier holding a guitar. Or sitting by a piano. Or all the other instruments he evidently played.

  “He’s a musician?” Daddy asked.

  I nodded. “And a teacher. He has his own school for music.”

  Daddy rested his chin on my shoulder and absently brushed his hand up and down my back. It gave me the shivers.

  “A New Yorker like you,” Daddy murmured.

  That was all the info we were given in Mr. Fender’s bio. It merely said “Brooklyn. The Fender Initiative.” And his name, of course.

  I wasn’t sure I could call myself a New Yorker, though. Not anymore. I was born in Staten Island, but we’d moved to Charlotte when I was ten. After that, I’d stayed there until I’d attended college in California, where I’d met Daddy. He still had his restaurant in LA, but his flagship was here in Nashville.

  The top photos in Mr. Fender’s feed were of instruments, a couple shots taken in a park, one of a little girl, but I’d deduced she wasn’t his child. She seemed to be the daughter of a friend. Farther down the scroll was the picture that’d made me stop the first time. Aside from a freaking gorgeous profile picture that revealed the hint of a smirk on a partly shadowed face, this was the one. A picture of Mr. Fender and his younger brother. The caption read, “Beer, wings, and rehearsal with Nicky.” And Nicky had taken the photo, flashing a wide grin while Anthony looked more like he was humoring his brother.

  “Look at those eyes, Daddy,” I said quietly. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  The brothers shared similar features, brown hair and green eyes, but Anthony stood out. He was significantly older than Nicky, who I guessed was around my age, midtwenties or something. Anthony looked to be around forty. He had the sexiest laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and he had that soulful appearance. Not unlike Daddy, actually. Maybe it came with age for some people? Either way, it was one of the most attractive attributes to me. When you could see the whispers of a person’s life journey, when childhood hell-raisin’ mingled with grown-up wisdom and experience.

  Anthony Fender had that look.

  “He’s definitely handsome,” Daddy agreed.

  I scrolled down some more, showing photos of Mr. Fender’s life. Guitars he built and repaired on his own, students at rehearsal, more pictures of his brother, and a very, very, very sweet photo of Anthony and his grandmother, both smiling and holding up pastries. She was a short little thing next to him, and that was saying a lot coming from me. I’d been teased mercilessly throughout my childhood for being so short.

  “So you’re lookin’ for some eye candy for the festival, huh?” Daddy kissed my neck, smirking against my skin.

  I smiled to myself. “Yes, Sir.” Total lie. I had a plan. I just couldn’t clue Daddy in yet, because he would become the galaxy’s biggest party pooper.

  “Who’s that?” He pointed to a photo.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Some guy.” I kept scrolling instead. Having studied Mr. Fender’s pictures a little too hard, I knew very well that the guy was likely The Boyfriend.

  I’d actually started out thinking that Mr. Fender could be, as Daddy called it, some eye candy. But then I’d figured out that Anthony was most definitely gay, which had opened up the door to better ideas.

  “So can I pick him as one of the winners?” I asked.

  Daddy laughed under his breath and straightened in his seat. “Sure. But quit stalkin’ the man, little one. Let Clara contact the winners.”

  I pouted. I wanted to contact him!

  Daddy smacked a kiss to my pout. “I won’t tell you twice. We have a more important thing to discuss.”

  Oh? What could be more important than finding someone to play with?

  Daddy’s warm gaze softened, and he touched my cheek. “It’s been weeks since you regressed.”

  Darn it. Of course he’d noticed. He’d hinted at it before, too.

  I shrugged and set down the tablet. “You know how it is. That urge comes and goes as it pleases.”

  It wasn’t technically a lie.

  Not that Daddy cared about technicalities…

  He sighed and slipped his hands under my arms, then grunted as he picked me up and positioned me on his lap.

  I wasn’t ready for this talk. I didn’t wanna go there, not when I had a plan that could fix everything. It was a master plan. A genius plan. The beginning would hopefully include a certain New Yorker when he came down to Nashville next spring, and then…maybe once Daddy got a taste for adding a third for our playtime, he might open up to the possibility of finding someone to take that spot permanently.

  Someone who fit right in. Someone who could complete our dynamic. Then Daddy wouldn’t feel lonely when I did regress.

  “You have to talk to me, Camden.” Daddy brushed back some hair that’d gotten in my eyes. “You’re the happiest when you revert to my little baby boy, and I love seeing you so carefree and mischievous.”

  I grinned a little at the last part. And he wasn’t wrong at all. The problem was that our kinks became a double-edged sword when we let go of all our inhibitions and sank into the roles we loved the most. I wasn’t always a sexual Little; I required more space and had my own room for a reason. My touches were often laced with innocence and curiosity, whereas Daddy was very sexual and very affectionate.

  I wanted to sleep alone, buried in a mountain of stuffed animals. My room was a kid’s room. I had my Star Wars Lego collection, my computer games, my coloring books, my action figures, my arts and crafts boxes…

  Most of the time, when I really regressed, sex wasn’t on my mind. Only sometimes.

  I believed Daddy when he said he loved seeing me that way. He showed it all the time, and he was the best Daddy in the whole galaxy. But he also had his own needs, and whenever he shouldered the role of protector and caregiver, I knew he’d feel even better if he had someone next to him. A partner.

  I rested my head on his shoulder.

  “Talk to me,” Daddy urged quietly.

  I didn’t know what to say! He already knew. He knew of our dilemma. We both wanted a lifestyle. This wasn’t a game or something we just enjoyed as an occasional spice. When we were home, we wanted to be Daddy and Little to the fullest. But we couldn’t. Not for longer periods of time, and a weekend here and there just hurt my brain. I needed a lot of cushion to come out from a regressive phase.

  And I wouldn’t have Daddy sacrifice his own needs for love and sexual affection just so I could be Little.

  We’d made it work for six years. He was willing to go further—he’d do anything to protect our relationship. I wasn’t as concerned to seek alternative options, just like we’d done in the beginning when it was more play than love. I had faith in our trust in each other. I believed we were solid.

  So I was going to hunt down a darn solution.

  Chapter 1

  State I’m In

  “Next up, straight from Brooklyn! Give it up for The Second Initiative!”

  It was a freaking rush to hear the people cheering right away. Maybe they were drunk already. They hadn’t fucking heard us yet. But I took advantage, quickly plugged in my guitar, and took a chord, holding it in place to pour a feedback effect out of the speakers and through the crowd. Then I took my spot in front of my mic and my overdrive on the floor, pressed down the pedal as Luiz hit the hi-hat, and Nicky followed suit. As the music exploded, so did the stage. Spotlights lit us up and killed the nerves.

  I threw myself into the song, managing to block the outside world like I hadn’t been able to do this morning.

  I’m leaving…in the morning.

  I don’t…I don’t know where I’m going.

  But we’ve got a long way to go.

  Anthony Fender

  “Why so glum, chum? Spring is fucking finally here. It deserves a good mood.”

  I lifted a brow and side-eyed Nicky. God knew I loved the kid with all my heart, but I’d need some goddamn distance soon if he kept this up. It wasn’t spring th
at made him cheery; it was sweet, sickening love.

  “I’m not glum. I’m hungry.” Actually, I was both. But whatever. I just wanted to get home and heat up some of the food Nonna had passed on to me after our last Sunday dinner.

  “You’re glum,” Nicky stated.

  I ignored him and locked up for the day. My hope that Nicky would take off with the other instructors as soon as the last classes were over had been in vain. Then I remembered that Nicky’s man was picking him up. They were going to a second showing of a condo…or a house, I wasn’t sure. Since this past winter, it felt like they’d ransacked all of Brooklyn for the perfect home.

  In my brother’s defense, it was Gideon, his partner, who was the picky one.

  Juggling a stack of books and countless folders of sheet music, I took the lead toward the staff parking lot behind the school and reluctantly agreed to go to dinner with Nicky and Gideon on Friday. Nicky had already noticed I’d become withdrawn recently, and there was no need to stoke that fire.

  “Can you at least be happy about your upcoming vacation?” Nicky asked, frustrated.

  I frowned at him and dug out the keys to my truck. “I am happy about it.”

  “You’re hiding it well,” he muttered.

  All the work shit I was bringing home with me ended up in the back seat.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was the reason I’d been down. I had no right to take a dump on his sunshine either. My little brother was one of the best guys I knew. Genuine, caring, funny, protective. He was also still in his twenties, and he’d recently found the love of his life, and it was all he could fucking talk about. Gideon this, Gideon that.