I'm desperate.
So desperate, I throw a tantrum at the customer service desk, begging the lady to let me on a plane, then yelling at her when she doesn't. Probably not a good look, considering there are armed cops everywhere, and I really don't want to be drawing attention to myself.
So when a Kiwi rugby player literally scoops me up off my feet and puts me in a quiet corner to cool off, away from the attentions of the millions of people trapped in this airport, I should be grateful.
Except then he demands I call him Daddy. And that's when I think that maybe I should run.
If only he wasn't the only one who can help me.
This was previously published in the International Daddies anthology.
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