Page 2 of Claimed By Daddy

Dalton's ringtone.

"Crap," I groan. It's like they have a sixth sense for when I'm doing something they aren't going to like. As soon as I start doing it, one or the other of them appears to ruin my fun.

I briefly consider ignoring the call, and then quickly decide against it. If I don't answer, he'll keep calling. Eventually, he'll hunt me down. They always hunt me down.

I juggle my bags and fish my phone out of my pocket, swiping to answer.

"Hey," I say, slightly out of breath. Maybe I brought too much stuff.

"Hey." Dalton pauses. "Are you trying to run again? You sound out of breath."

"We agreed we weren't going to talk about that, Dalton," I remind him. Last year, I decided to take up running. I don't know why. Mistakes were made. I hate running. I'm not a runner or a track star. I'm a big girl. I've always been a big girl. But I decided I wanted to be a thin girl.

I lasted one run. Dalton found me with a sprained ankle, gasping for breath on the side of the road not even half a mile from the estate, and had to drive me home. He brought me an ice pack, and I swore him to secrecy.

I apologized to my body profusely for trying to change what my mama gave me, rewarded myself with ice cream, and never ran again. I don't need to be thin. I'm healthy. That's more than enough for me.

"Right," he says, amusement in his voice. "It never happened."

"Precisely!" I cry, making him chuckle.

"If you aren't running, why are you out of breath?"

"Who says I'm out of breath?" I push the door closed with my foot, trying to avoid answering the question as I look around.

The inside of the cabin is far less impressive than the outside. Honestly, it's a little rundown. The furniture is faded, and the rugs worn. There is no artwork or personal touches. It's very rustic. The kitchen and living room are one big room with a door to the bathroom on the right of the living room and a door to the bedroom on the left. But it's nice and cozy, and it's all mine for an entire week.

"Why are you calling me?" I ask. "I thought you had a meeting or something this morning."

"I did," Dalton growls. "But something came up, so I canceled it."

"What came up?" He never misses meetings. If he canceled it, whatever came up must be serious.

"Why are you avoiding my question, Lena?" Suspicion trickles into his voice.

"I'm not avoiding anything," I lie like the wind. "Why are you avoiding mine?"

"You're a shit liar, baby cousin. Where are you and what are you doing?"

"I'm somewhere minding my business."

"Lena."

"Dalton."

"Tell me where you are before I send security to find you."

"No." I drop my bags on the worn sofa, stomping my foot like a toddler. Sometimes, he makes me feel that way. He's ten years older than me and completely infuriating. "I'm where I want to be and I'm staying here until you and Gramps work out your issues, Dalton James Grady. I'm tired of being dragged into the middle!"

"You aren't in the middle."

"Yes, I am! You complain to me about him. He complains to me about you. And the whole house is miserable all the time," I cry. "I hate it! So I'm taking a vacation from both of you."

"We're family. You can't take a vacation from family."

"Um, yes, I can."

"Where are you?"