I didn’t grab the shirt I wore over. I accidentally grabbed one of Big Daddy’s shirts. WHARTON arches over my breasts and panic seizes me, stealing air from my lungs, replacing my blood with a stir of nerves in my veins. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. We were gonna tell her together. We were gonna wait. We were… fuck. “Oh my god,” Brielle breathes, staring at the worn college letters. “Big Daddy,” she says, repeating the nickname I gave her father in jest years ago. “I never meant for it to happen,” I hear myself saying, the edges of my vision darkening with my impending panic. My hands fly to
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