Page 58 of Daddies on Ice

There was no script, no clever timing. Just him and me and years of tension breaking loose all at once. It scared me how much I wanted it. It still does.

And then there’s Carl. The way he looks at me, like he already knows I’ll bend to whatever plan he lays out.

It’s power, not heat, but it makes my body react all the same.

I hate that I notice. I hate more that a part of me likes being noticed by him.

The thought makes me squirm in my seat.

Three men, three different pulls, all tangled in the same mess I can’t seem to escape.

Jake is the fire, Ash is the storm, and Carl is the mountain.

And me?

I’m the one stuck between them, pretending I can keep control while my heart and body betray me at every turn.

The door opens behind me and I know who it is before I turn.

Carl.

His presence hits like a shift in air pressure. Heavy. Solid.

He strides in with the unhurried confidence of a man who always commands the room.

His gaze sweeps the pool. It softens when he sees Krystal splashing with Becky. But then it shifts. To me.

“Girls look happy,” he says, stopping beside my chair.

He’s dressed casually, if you can call it that. Dark track pants hang low on his hips, and a fitted black T-shirt stretches over his chest and shoulders like it was tailored just for him.

The fabric clings to muscle, outlining every curve of strength beneath. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s just run a hand through it, and it only makes him look more rugged.

My gaze catches on the way the shirt hugs his arms, veins visible as he pushes his hands into his pockets.

It’s unfair that a man his age still looks this good, like time decided to skip him. Heat crawls up my throat when I realize how long I’ve been staring.

Carl doesn’t glance at me right away, but when he finally does, his eyes linger.

They travel down my body even though I’m sitting, even though the cover-up hides most of me.

Heat climbs my cheeks, worse when it spreads lower, traitorous and undeniable.

My cover-up suddenly feels paper thin, my body too aware of itself under the weight of his attention.

“They are,” I answer. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

Carl’s gaze drifts toward the girls, their splashing laughter filling the air. For a moment, something softens in his expression, something I rarely see. His jaw eases, and his shoulders drop slightly.

“My wife used to bring my daughter to the pool every Saturday,” he says, his voice quieter, rougher. “She said swimming lessons were important, and it was the one thing she’d never let our girl skip.”

I glance at him, caught off guard. Carl doesn’t talk about his wife, not ever. The memory sits heavy in his voice, thick with something he usually buries beneath layers of authority.

“She’d hold her up in the shallow end,” he continues, his eyes fixed on Krystal as she paddles clumsily, bright yellow arm wings keeping her afloat. “Let her float on her back until she wasn’t scared anymore.”

The ache in his tone tugs at me. I’ve heard stories from the others, whispers about how much he lost when his wife died, but hearing it from him feels different. It’s raw, unpolished. A side of him most people probably never see.

“I think she’d be proud,” I say quietly. “Of both of you.”