Page 1 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER ONE

Brooke

The wine glass is nice. Cold and thin-stemmed, something a younger version of me would have posted on my social media stories with the caption Miami nights .

A live jazz trio plays in the corner while the scent of truffle oil and citrus lingers in the air. That’s about the only thing holding my attention right now.

This is why I never ever agree to blind dates. Ivy owes me. No, she really owes me.

Her colleague is still talking. Something about depositions and a funny thing a partner said in court last week. I fake another polite laugh. That makes four so far. I’m keeping count, mostly because my brain needs stimulation, and clearly, I’m not getting it from across the table.

Chad’s attractive enough. Clean-cut. Expensive watch. Sharp suit. The kind of guy my best friend Ivy swears up and down is a “total catch.” He’s also been staring at my mouth for the last five minutes like he’s debating whether to make his move right here and kiss me. I'm really hoping he doesn’t.

I glance down at my phone, pretending to adjust the volume settings, when I see it.

Notification. Call of Duty. Match concluded. Leaderboard updated.

My thumb hovers before I give in. Just a quick look. One second. I discreetly open the app and scan the leaderboard.

PixelVixen — Rank #1

Still holding strong.

My mouth quirks, not quite a smile. Shoot, I’ve had that name since I was sixteen. At the time, it sounded fierce and hot. Now I’m wondering if it’s finally time to retire the alter ego or maybe update the name. HeadShotMama? Mother.Load? CallOfBooty30 ? Hell, no.

I slide my phone facedown and try to redirect my attention. Chad’s now deep into a story involving a mediation gone wrong. Or maybe it’s about his ex-girlfriend’s dog. Honestly, I stopped listening after he used the word “perjury” for the third time.

I sip my wine again. The stem slips slightly against my fingers, damp from holding it too long.

The place is gorgeous. It has dim lighting, Edison bulbs, and a sleek bar glowing with that soft amber hue you only get in places where cocktails start at twenty bucks.

Couples laugh, clink glasses, and exchange heated glances.

My heels dig into the floor, reminding me that yes, I dressed up for this. Squeezed into a thong, put on lashes, paid a sitter to watch Jackson. And now I'm sitting here, listening to a man who thinks explaining “tort law” to me acts as foreplay.

Spoiler alert: it does not.

“So, Ivy tells me you’re a single mom,” Chad pivots, suddenly animated. “That’s...wow. That’s so admirable. I mean, not a lot of women could do that. I don’t know how you manage.”

The way he says wow makes my stomach tighten.

He leans in, grinning. I blink and sit back.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had help. And caffeine.

” And also, violent video games, late-night Twitch streams, and one very excellent vibrator I keep hidden in a drawer labeled Tax Documents .

But no one needs to know about all that.

He chuckles like I made a joke. I didn’t.

“Kids are great,” he adds. “I think I want one. Someday. Probably once I make partner.”

I nod, my eyes drifting past him to the open kitchen where a chef tosses flames in the air for an audience. Fire. Drama. Actual excitement. Lucky bastards at that table.

Chad reaches across like he’s going to touch my hand. I instinctively pull back to lift my wine glass again. “Brooke,” he says, lowering his voice in what I assume is his idea of sexy, “you’re really easy to talk to.”

Oh, God. Please.

I drain the last of my wine like it holds the answers, then lift the glass slightly and glance over it. “Do you mind getting us a refill?” I ask, the edges of my voice softened to make it sound like a casual request and not a tactical retreat.

Chad stands, eager, giving me a nod before heading off toward the waiter. The moment his back is turned, I whip out my phone and text Ivy.

I hate you. Never setting me up again. This is why one-night stands are superior. Also, I’d much rather sit through Jackson’s entire Bluey phase on repeat than hear one more word about tort law.

I’m hitting send when I sense it. That tightening across my skin, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. I glance up, expecting—hoping—it’s nothing.

Four tables away, seated with a woman whose boobs could get their own zip code, is Cam.

Cam. As in the Cam.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I go still. Everything inside me cinches tight as if my body’s reacting before my brain catches up.

He hasn’t changed much, and what has changed only makes him worse in the best way.

Dark brown hair, shorter now, still tousled enough to hint at recklessness.

Clean lines of a suit that probably cost more than my rent.

His date sips wine, glossy lips parted in some exaggerated laugh.

But Cam isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at me.

A decade. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen that face outside of dreams I never admit to. And yet here he is. Just existing in the same restaurant, breathing the same wine-and-truffle air.

Chad returns, flanked by the waiter with a fresh bottle of red. It’s poured into our glasses like nothing’s changed, like the earth hasn’t just tilted off its axis.

Cam is still watching.

Chad’s saying something about sushi and whether I like spicy tuna, but I’m not listening. Every nerve in my body is pulled toward the man across the room like he’s a magnet I swore I threw away. I nod along until Chad’s words blur into a question. “Should we order?”

I blink. “I think I’ll have to raincheck. I’ve got a headache.”

Chad frowns but recovers quickly. “No problem. Let me get the check.”

I excuse myself and head toward the bathroom, practically sprinting. Inside, I grip the porcelain sink and meet my reflection. “You’re not spiraling,” I mutter. “You’re just wine-drunk and hormonal. This means nothing. You are not seventeen again.”

I wash my hands for no reason other than to do something, then step out, head down, already rehearsing my goodbye.

I slam directly into someone. Solid. Tall. Expensive watch glinting off a tailored cuff.

“Hey, sugar.”

The nickname slices through me, sharp as memory. I look up.

Cam’s green eyes are exactly how I remember—intense, unreadable, and entirely too knowing. His scent hits next, all smoky tobacco and amber, nostalgia punched up by adult sophistication.

I take his outstretched hand without thinking. His palm is warm and rough, the kind of rough that comes from weight and work and doing things I don’t want to think about right now.

“What are you doing in Miami?” he asks.

“I’m on a date,” I snap, shaking my head like that’s supposed to mean something. “And we’re not doing this.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Judging by the look of your date, neither should you.”

“And your date?” I arch a brow. “Not exactly subtle, Cam.”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “You haven’t missed me?”

“I haven’t seen you in years.”

“Then give me your number and we can properly catch up.”

I step around him, refusing to be reeled back into whatever this is. “Not happening.”

Back at the table, Chad’s glancing at his phone while the server drops the check. “They’ve got a great dragon roll,” he says half-heartedly. “Next time, maybe?”

I manage a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He pays the bill, ever the gentleman, even offers to drive me home. I wave him off. “I’ll Uber. Text you when I’m back.”

“It was nice meeting you,” he says, tone sweet, almost apologetic, like he knows we won’t speak again.

Outside, a sudden breeze cuts through the lingering humidity. My Uber is five minutes away. I’m trying not to look like I’m scanning the sidewalk when the restaurant door swings open.

Cam walks out with his date, one hand on the small of her back, placing her into a taxi.

She giggles, thanks him, and they exchange numbers.

I turn away, pretending I’m reading something fascinating on my phone, something not at all about how Cam is somehow even more attractive than he was back then.

He’s walking toward me before I can act surprised.

“Don’t,” I say immediately. “Just keep walking.”

“One drink.”

I exhale, hating how much I recognize the line. “You haven’t changed.”

His gaze doesn’t move from mine. “I haven’t seen you in too long, sugar.”

It’s the sugar that gets me. Not because it’s sweet. Because it’s dangerous. Because it’s a trigger wrapped in affection and heat and years of wondering what-if.

He’s not the boy I remember. No letterman jacket, no messy curls brushing his collar. Now he’s all adult edge, in a buttoned shirt that clings too perfectly to his chest. He’s confident, practiced, and so goddamn beautiful.

“One drink,” I say, and my voice isn’t confident. It’s quiet but definite. I don’t know what I’m doing, only that I’m already doing it.

His smile barely touches his mouth, but it lights something behind his eyes.

I cancel my ride.

We walk. Not far. Just around the corner to a tucked-away bar and restaurant with velvet chairs and dim lighting. He holds the door open and lets me order first. Bourbon neat. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He gets the same.

We sit in a booth. Too close. Music hums low and sultry through the speakers, some slow-tempo cover of an '80s hit. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just thick.

“You straightened your hair…” he says.

I run a hand through my glossy do. I decided a long time ago to relax my hair instead of having to deal with the curls in the blistering Miami heat. “Yeah,” I say instead, “It was easier.”

“You look different.”

“Bad different?” I freeze. I hate how insecure I suddenly feel. Why does he still have this power over me?

“Fuck no, Brooke. You look amazing. You know you always look amazing.” He smirks.

I blink. “What?”

“Beautiful, sugar. You are fucking gorgeous.”

I smile despite myself. “You clean up pretty nicely yourself.”

He laughs once. “I did my best.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t bring up the time I cried into his hoodie the week before prom, or how we spent two summers tangled in each other like we’d never get tired.

He doesn’t say he missed me again. But it’s there.

In the way he looks at my mouth, like he remembers what it tastes like.

In the way his thigh brushes mine, and neither of us moves.

I sip my drink and let the warmth slide through me. His gaze lingers on my neck, my collarbone, then lower. Like he’s mapping me out all over again.

I should leave. I should walk away now, before this goes exactly where it wants to.

Instead, I finish my drink. Set the glass down. His hand finds mine again, thumb brushing the edge of my wrist.

It’s not a question when he says, “Let me drive you home. It’s a lot quieter, and maybe we can talk.”

But I hear it like one. And I answer without words—just a nod.