Page 83 of Double Daddies (Dirty Daddies Anthologies #8)

Chapter One

Wren

The bell above the door chimes softly as I push it open, stepping into the little coffee shop that has become my refuge.

The scent of fresh espresso envelops me, warm and grounding, like a promise that everything might, one day, be okay.

It’s been three months since I drove into the night with nothing but a suitcase and my fractured resolve.

Three months of trying to piece myself back together.

“Morning, Wren,” comes a voice from behind the counter.

It’s Wyatt, the owner of Grounds For Joy.

He built this business himself when his wife, Joy, was alive and now runs it in her remembrance.

His weathered hands expertly guide the steam wand, frothing milk for a cappuccino.

He’s been kind in an almost unnerving way—offering me a job wiping tables and a chance to stay in the room above the shop when he found out I had nowhere else to go. No strings. No questions. Just trust.

I came in here that night from the pouring rain, needing somewhere to rest for even a moment. Wyatt saw the blood, the bruises, my battered soul and swooped in when all hope was lost.

“Morning,” I reply, giving him a faint smile.

I’ve learned to smile again in this place.

It’s still tentative, like a flickering light bulb, but it’s there.

I make my way to the back of the shop, where the small stairwell leads to my room.

The wooden steps creak under my weight as I climb, carrying a small bag of groceries in one hand and my still-growing courage in the other.

The room isn’t much—just four walls, a bed, and a window that overlooks the street below. But it’s mine. No fists pounding against the door. No voice tearing me down until I’m nothing. Here, the silence doesn’t terrify me; it heals me.

I set the groceries on the counter, catching a glimpse of the calendar pinned to the wall. The date is circled—a reminder to myself that today marks three months since I left. Three months since I stopped being his shadow and started searching for myself.

As I unpack the bag, my thoughts drift to the customers downstairs, to the hum of their conversations. It’s strange how normal it feels to be here now, pouring lattes for strangers, learning their orders and their stories. I’ve started to feel... human again.

Wyatt’s voice echoes from below, calling for me to help with the morning rush.

I shove the last of the groceries into the cabinet, take a deep breath, and head back down.

The air hums with life, the scent of coffee mingling with the muffled clatter of mugs and plates.

It’s chaotic, but it’s also simple and safe.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t dread the hours ahead.

The café is alive with its usual morning bustle—steam hisses from the espresso machine, muffled conversations blend with the clinking of spoons, and the rich aroma of coffee fills the air like an embrace.

I step behind the counter, tying the apron around my waist. Wyatt’s already working on a line of orders, his movements precise and practiced.

“Perfect timing, Wren,” he says without looking up, sliding a latte toward a customer. “We’re slammed today.”

I nod and pick up a damp cloth, wiping down the counter as the next customer steps up.

A woman with a harried expression rattles off her order, her words blending into the background noise.

My hands move automatically—cups, lids, milk, buttons—each action grounding me in the present.

There’s something oddly soothing about the rhythm of it all.

By the time the rush slows, my arms ache, and the stray wisps of hair escaping my ponytail stick to my damp forehead. I lean against the counter, catching my breath as Wyatt pours two cups of coffee.

“Good work this morning,” he says, sliding a mug toward me. “You’re really gettin’ the hang of this now.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, wrapping my hands around the cup.

The warmth seeps into my fingers, chasing away the lingering chill of the memories that still haunt me.

I glance out the window, where the sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the sidewalk.

For the first time, I let myself think about it—maybe I’ll be okay. Someday.

But as I sip my coffee, the familiar knot of unease tightens in my stomach.

I’ve learned to live with it, this constant undercurrent of fear.

It keeps me vigilant, my eyes always scanning the crowd, my mind rehearsing escape routes.

Even here, in this place that feels safe, I can’t help but wonder if it’s only a matter of time before he finds me.

The bell above the door chimes again, and my heart stills in my chest. I glance up instinctively, my grip tightening on the mug. But it’s just a man in a fancy business suit, engrossed in his phone. The relief washes over me in a dizzying wave, leaving me shaken.

“Hey, you okay?” Wyatt’s voice pulls me back. His brow furrows as he studies me, concern softening his features.

“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a small smile. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” That’s actually true. I might have gotten away from Richard but I can’t escape the nightmares.

Wyatt doesn’t push; he just nods and sips his coffee. That’s one of the things I like about him—he doesn’t pry. He just lets me exist, lets me heal in my own time.

I take a deep breath and look back over to the tall newcomer in his tailored suit that looks like it costs more than my entire apartment used to.

His presence is magnetic, commanding attention without even trying.

Light-brown, neatly combed hair and sharp features.

He carries himself like someone who owns not just the room but the whole block, the city, maybe even the world.

For a moment, he scans the café, his piercing gaze settling on the worn wooden counter, the mismatched chairs, and the chalkboard menu with its slightly crooked lettering.

I feel myself tense, suddenly hyper-aware of my apron, my faded sneakers, and the coffee stain on the hem of my white shirt.

The stark contrast between the two of us is evident as if we are from two different worlds.

Wyatt notices him too, raising an eyebrow but quickly returning to his routine. “Be right with you,” he calls out as he finishes pouring a macchiato.

The man steps up to the counter, his movements precise and deliberate.

Two things about him strike me. The first is that he is absolutely gorgeous.

The second is the way his eyes lock onto mine. They’re an exotic emerald-green, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as if they can see straight into my soul.

“Just a black coffee,” he says, his voice smooth but commanding, like someone used to giving orders. No syrup, no milk, no nonsense. He’s not here for the experience; he’s here for something else. Maybe the simplicity. Maybe an escape. I can relate with that.

“You got this one, kid?” Wyatt asks.

“Yes, sir,” I answer as he goes off to prepare another order.

My hands move automatically, but his eyes stay on me.

There is something about him, about the way he holds himself, that draws me in.

The faint hint of an expensive cologne that smells like a forest after a summer storm lingers in the air.

It brings a sense of comfort, a feeling that I have met him somewhere before, even though I am sure that isn’t the case.

His gaze is intense, making my heart flutter in a way it hasn't for a long time. As I reach for a mug, I realize that he's not just watching me, but studying me. I can practically feel the questions radiating off him.

“Here's your coffee,” I murmur, sliding the cup across the counter. He catches it effortlessly, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest of moments. It's a simple touch, barely noticeable, but it sends a spark of electricity up my arm.

“Thank you,” he replies, his voice smooth like a cup of French press.

He lifts the coffee to his full lips, taking a slow sip as if to savor every drop. The corner of his mouth twitches, his gaze still locked on me.

“How is it?” I ask, my voice sounding distant and small.

“It's perfect,” he replies, setting the cup back down. “You know, I was told the coffee here was exceptional. I had to see for myself and I'm not disappointed.”

The compliment hangs in the air between us, heating my cheeks.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, unsure what else to do.

His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He grabs the mug, turning toward an empty table in the corner. As he sits, his eyes find me again. They're dark and intense, but there's a warmth behind them, pulling me in.

Instead of drooling over the customer, I busy myself wiping the counter again, pretending not to notice his presence. But it’s impossible not to. He’s like a storm that’s rolled into the calm of this café, disruptive and fascinating all at once.

He sits near the window, his posture perfect as he scrolls through his phone with an air of casual detachment. Yet, every so often, his eyes drift away from the screen, taking in his surroundings as though he’s measuring the weight of this tiny, inconsequential place.

I can’t help but watch him out of the corner of my eye, curiosity bubbling up despite myself. What is he doing here, in a café that barely makes ends meet? He doesn’t look like someone who stumbles anywhere by accident. And yet, here he is.

“Wren, can you grab more blueberry muffins from the back?” Wyatt chimes in next to me, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Of course.” I nod, dropping the cloth behind the counter as I make my way to the back refrigerator. The cool air hits my skin as I step inside, the chill chasing away the heat of the man’s gaze. I let out a breath as the tension in my shoulders releases.