Page 12 of Daddy’s Muse (Bloody Desires #12)

I stood outside Mae’s Diner beneath the overhang, watching the glass fog slightly from the temperature shift as the door opened and a pair of regulars wandered out, laughing at something I couldn’t bother to care about.

Inside, Colby was behind the counter, cleaning one of the coffee machines.

When the little bell jingled above the door, announcing my entrance, his head snapped up. Pink immediately bloomed on his cheeks as he caught sight of me. His mouth parted slightly, then shut, then opened again with a stuttered breath.

“Hi,” he said, voice soft and skittish.

I gave him a warm smile. “Hello, Colby.”

He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and asked, “Back again?”

“Best pie in the city,” I said easily, settling into the same seat I’d taken during my last visit. “I need to try every flavor.”

His lips twitched into a grin. “Of course you do. Which would you like to try today?”

“Dealer’s choice,” I said. “And maybe some light conversation on the side.”

He paused, fingers tightening ever so slightly around the cleaning rag he held.

“I’ll, um… I’ll get that for you right away,” he said, turning quickly toward the back kitchen, the tips of his ears practically glowing red.

When he returned with the plate, I noticed the whipped cream on top was shaped into a small heart.

“Can’t go wrong with chocolate.” He looked at me through his heavy lashes, unknowingly tempting me with his demureness. After placing the pie in front of me, he stood in place and fiddled with the edge of his apron, looking unsure.

I glanced around, confirming that I was the only customer in at the moment. “Sit,” I offered gently. “Please.”

“Okay,” he murmured, a small smile softening his face. He gingerly sat down across from me.

I smiled back at him, pleased at his growing ease. Each visit, he stammered less and made eye contact more. Taking a bite of the chocolate pie, I hummed my pleasure and watched the way his eyes lit up in response. So eager to please.

“Very good,” I complimented. “Thank you, Colby. Excellent choice.” His slight hitch of breath at my praise didn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m glad you like it,” he breathed, cheeks still pink.

“Do you like all of the different flavors?”

“Yeah, they’re all yummy.”

I took another bite, savoring the creamy texture. Swallowing, I said, “Bring me another slice. Any flavor.”

He perked up and nodded, quickly jumping up and heading to the kitchen.

It took him only a minute to return with a second plate.

Setting it down at the table, he excitedly chirped, “This is coconut cream!”

As he sat back down in the booth, I pointed at the plate. “For you.”

Colby blinked at me in confusion. “For me?”

Oh, my sweet boy.

“Yes. For you to eat. It’s nice to eat with someone once in a while, isn’t it?”

Colby hesitated, his eyes flitting from the plate to my face as if trying to gauge whether I was serious. I tilted my head slightly, offering a patient smile that I knew always helped lower his guard.

He bit his lip—a nervous habit I’d noticed—and murmured, “Okay… yeah. Thank you.” He picked up the fork slowly, like he thought the pie might vanish if he moved too fast. He took a small bite, almost shy, then let out a soft, surprised hum.

I didn’t miss the way he closed his eyes for a second as he chewed.

“It’s good?” I asked, watching the bob of his throat as he swallowed a little too closely.

He nodded, still chewing, the pink tip of his tongue darting out to catch a bit of cream at the corner of his mouth. “It’s my grandmother’s favorite,” he admitted after he swallowed.

“Ah, I’m sure she has great taste.”

Colby bounced a little in his seat. “She really does. She makes the best monkey bread.”

My brow quirked. “Monkey bread? What is that?”

“You know those cake pans that look like big donuts? With the hole in the middle?”

I laughed, “Yes?”

He lit up. “Okay, so you pick apart biscuit dough to make these little balls, then you roll the balls in cinnamon, sugar, and butter, and then you dump all the balls in one of those pans and bake it! It’s so good.”

“It sounds great, but why is it called monkey bread?”

He stilled his fork, tapping at his lips in thought. “Um… I’m not sure if I actually know. Maybe ‘cause you pull it apart? Like how a monkey eats?” He mimed the act.

“Ah, I see. So, there are no actual monkeys in the bread? That’s a shame,” I sighed sarcastically, loving the way he erupted into giggles.

“No, silly!”

I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but his voice seemed different. Maybe just a little higher in pitch, a little more carefree.

“You know,” I said conspiratorially, voice low like I was telling him a secret. “I think if you made it, I might be willing to forgive the lack of actual monkey.”

Colby burst into another fit of laughter, nearly snorting as he pressed his napkin to his mouth to stifle the sound. His eyes sparkled in a way I hadn’t seen before—unguarded, wide, and so alive .

“Maybe I’ll make you some someday,” he said shyly, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.

I smiled, letting the silence stretch just enough for him to wonder what I might say next.

“I’d like that.” I gave him a meaningful look as the words hung there, deceptively simple.

He ducked his head, biting the inside of his cheek, clearly flustered. A few moments passed while he fiddled with his fork, turning it over in his fingers. Then, almost too quietly, he asked, “Do they have stuff like that in Norway?”

I tilted my head slightly. “Monkey bread?”

“No,” he said quickly, cheeks flushing again. “I mean like… like sweet things. Well, no, of course there’s sweet things—but like, are there any pastries or desserts that you can’t get here?”

So he had been thinking about me. It wasn’t just curiosity. He wanted to know me.

That pleased me greatly.

“Yes, there are many,” I said, voice softening. “But they’re different. Heavier, sometimes. Spiced. My mother made this thing called kanelboller—like cinnamon buns, but not quite as sweet. Denser. Warm and sticky, fresh out of the oven.”

“That sounds amazing,” he whispered. “I love cinnamon stuff.” Colby looked up at me through his lashes again. “Maybe I’ll make you monkey bread, and you can make me those.”

A trade.

It sounded so innocent. So casual.

But the invitation was there.

“I’d like that too,” I said, smiling gently. “Very much. We could even make a day of it.”

His face practically glowed.

We ate in silence for a few moments, not awkward—just quiet. He relaxed more with each bite, each soft glance I gave him. There was a rhythm to it now, one I could fine-tune.

He was still wary, still confused by my attention. But I could feel it beginning to shift. Like he wanted to believe this was real, that someone might actually care about him.

When we finished, he reached for the empty plates, but I stopped him with a hand on the table. Not touching—just close.

“Thank you for sitting with me,” I said.

He smiled, ducking his head. “It’s okay. I… I liked it.”

I stood, sliding two folded twenties under the edge of my plate. His brows furrowed instantly.

“You really don’t have to do that,” he said quietly, fingers fidgeting at the edge of the table. “I mean, I’m just… talking to you.”

Exactly.

“I know what it’s worth,” I replied. “Even if you don’t.”

He looked down at the bill like it might burn him, then back up at me, confused and pink-cheeked and so heartbreakingly sincere.

That was the best part of all this.

He hadn’t figured any of it out yet.

Not the camera, not the tracking, not the search logs I’d scrolled through at midnight while he slept unaware.

Not what he meant to me.

Not who I had decided to be for him.

But he would.

I reached for my coat and offered him one last smile before heading toward the door.

“See you soon, Colby.”

His voice was barely audible. “Yeah… see you.”