Page 84 of Double Daddies (Dirty Daddies Anthologies #8)
My eyes wander the shelves, scanning for the muffins.
I spot them on the top shelf and reach up, the fabric of my shirt riding up as I strain to reach.
My fingertips graze the edge of the tray, but the damn thing refuses to budge.
I bite back a curse and stretch further, balancing on my toes as I lean against the cold metal.
Why do they always put the good stuff out of reach? It's like the universe is conspiring against short people. Just grab the tray and go. No big deal. Except... why does this feel like a metaphor for my life right now?
I jump and finally manage to catch the edge of the tray, but it comes down in a rush and I feel my feet slip from under me.
The muffins fall and I brace for impact, but it never comes.
Large arms encircle my shoulders and stomach, forcing me to look into those damn green eyes that have been running rampant through my thoughts.
He smells faintly of cedarwood and something warm, like bergamot—comforting and maddening all at once.
“Careful, sweetheart,” the man croons in my ear and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we are. Even the faint sheen on his cufflinks catches my eye, distracting me just enough to lose my train of thought.
“How did you–” I begin, but the words die on my tongue.
“I saw you struggling as I was passing by on the way to the restroom. Fortunately, I caught you before you hit your head.”
I straighten quickly, backing up to put some distance between us when I step on a rogue muffin and find myself slipping again.
He catches me by the waist, his suit brushing against my arms as he pulls me tightly against his hard chest. His grip is strong but careful, grounding me with every movement.
“Are you alright?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Workplace hazards.” I laugh, trying to loosen the knot in my throat.
" Get it together. I haven’t been touched in so long, and for some reason I’m not completely repulsed by it.
The heat of his hands on me sends a shiver through me, and for a moment I lean into his touch.
The tailored suit feels impossibly smooth against my skin, and I catch a glimpse of the faint pinstripes running down the fabric—subtle, elegant, and perfect, just like him.
“You’ve got quite the knack for slipping, don’t you?” he teases, his lips curving into a small smile that’s equal parts infuriating and irresistible.
I let out a nervous laugh, trying to ignore the way his cologne seems to wrap around me, pulling me into his orbit. Why does he have to smell so good? And why does he have to look like he walked straight out of a magazine? Focus, Wren. He’s just being polite. Nothing more.
“Well, I like to keep things interesting,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. “You know, keep people on their toes—literally.”
His laugh is warm and rich, like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning, and I hate how much I want to hear it again. He steps back slightly, giving me just enough space to breathe, but his gaze remains locked on mine, sharp and unyielding.
“Interesting is one word for it,” he says, his tone playful but laced with something deeper. “Though I’d recommend a little less danger next time. Muffins aren’t worth a concussion.”
I glance down at the scattered muffins, their once-pristine tops now slightly squashed and forlorn. “You’re right,” I murmur, bending down to pick one up. As I straighten, he’s still watching me, his expression unreadable but undeniably intense.
I offer him a sheepish smile, my cheeks heating under his gaze. “Thanks for catching me… twice . I promise I’m not usually this clumsy.”
His lips curve into a slow, teasing grin, and I feel a flutter in my chest that I have no idea what to do with. “Twice, huh? I might start thinking you’re doing this on purpose.”
I let out a nervous laugh, brushing imaginary dust from my shirt. “Yeah, because falling into the arms of strangers is exactly how I planned to spend my afternoon.”
“Stranger?” he echoes, cocking an eyebrow. “We’ve shared a near-death muffin experience. I think that makes us more like… acquaintances, at the very least.”
I roll my eyes, biting back a smile as I crouch down to start gathering the muffins. “Well, Mr. Acquaintance, thank you again for saving me. I’m sure you have more important things to do than rescue someone from baked goods.”
“Not at the moment,” he says lightly, kneeling down beside me.
His movements are smooth and deliberate, even in that sharp suit, and I find myself glancing at the way it stretches across his broad shoulders and muscular arms before quickly looking away.
I never thought I’d look at a man again after what happened and yet here I am, entranced by the fine specimen before me.
“You really don’t have to help,” I say, my voice quieter now.
He pauses, a small smile playing on his lips as he hands me one of the damaged muffins. “I wouldn’t feel right walking away. Besides,” he adds, his tone softening, “you’ve made my day a lot more interesting.”
When the last muffin is thrown away, he straightens, brushing his hands together as if to rid himself of the chaos we’ve just cleaned up. I expect him to say something—anything—but instead, he simply looks at me, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than it should.
“Well,” he says finally, his voice low and steady, “try not to let the muffins win next time.”
I laugh softly, the sound awkward and unsure. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nods, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and then he turns to leave. I watch him go, the sharp lines of his suit disappearing down the hall, and I feel a strange emptiness settle in my chest.
What the hell just happened? And why do I wish it would happen again?
The scent of cedarwood and bergamot still lingers in the air, and I find myself standing there, surrounded by the remnants of our brief encounter, wondering if I’ll ever see him again.
“Wren,” I hear Wyatt call from the front.
I look at the muffin massacre and wring my hands together.
I haven’t messed up this much since I first got here and I don’t want to do anything to screw up the arrangement I have with him.
Fear threatens to clog my throat as Wyatt walks in.
He looks in the trash bin, then at me and I can feel myself shrinking under his scrutiny.
“Are you alright, dear?” he asks, his expression full of concern not anger.
“Y-yes sir. I slipped and they went everywhere. I’m so sorry. You can take them out of my check–”
“I will have none of that. It was an accident. Now, are you hurt? You must have fallen hard on this floor.” He scans me up and down for any injuries.
“Actually, someone happened to catch me,” I murmur softly.
“Is that so? I’m thankful for that. Here let me grab a new tray so we can get back out there.” Is that it? He’s not angry at me?
I glance nervously at Wyatt as he pulls a fresh tray from the storage shelf with practiced ease. His movements are calm, deliberate, and reassuring in a way that eases some of the tension coiling in my chest.
“Here you go, dear,” he says, offering me the tray with a smile that’s full of quiet understanding. I blink, momentarily caught off guard. I expected frustration, maybe a disappointed sigh, but instead, there’s only patience.
Why isn’t he upset? I practically destroyed half the muffins. He has every right to be angry, but he’s… not.
“Are you sure?” I ask, gripping the tray tightly. “You can take this out of my check. I—I mean, I understand if you want to?—”
“Wren.” Wyatt cuts me off gently, his voice steady and calm. “Accidents happen. You’re doing a great job here. Don’t let a few muffins shake your confidence, alright?”
My throat tightens, and I nod quickly, not trusting myself to speak. He’s always been so kind to me. The relief washes over me like a wave, and for the first time since the muffin debacle began, I feel like I can breathe.
“Now,” he adds, his tone lightening as he heads back toward the front, “we’ve got customers out there, and I know they’ll want to see your bright smile.”
As I carry the heavy tray to the front, the bell above the door chimes again, drawing my attention.
At first, I think it’s the same man that saved me, possibly returning from outside, but then I notice subtle differences.
The man who walks in shares the same height, the same sharp features, and the same aura of effortless power, but his energy feels lighter, more relaxed.
While the first man carried the weight of precision and control, this one walks with a casual confidence, a faint smirk playing at the edges of his lips.
He spots the other immediately and strides over to his table in the corner, moving through the café like he owns it—or perhaps like he’s been here a thousand times before.
The first man’s posture shifts when he sees him, tension melting from his shoulders as if he’s been waiting for this moment.
The resemblance between them is uncanny, but there’s something about their dynamic that sets them apart.
Wyatt gives me a questioning look as he wipes down the espresso machine.
“You know them?” I whisper, watching as the men greet each other.
He shrugs, a slight smile playing at his lips. “They look familiar but no, I don’t believe I know them.”
“They look to be twins,” Wyatt adds, his voice quiet.
I nod, not needing confirmation. There's something about them that transcends words, an unspoken connection that runs deeper than their matching features.
They're a striking pair, their suits tailored to perfection, their expressions serious but not severe. But it's their eyes that draw me in. Even from across the café, their gazes hold a spark of intensity that ignites something inside me
“Ezra,” the newcomer says, pulling out the chair opposite him without asking. “Still hiding out in tiny coffee shops, I see.”
He responds with a pointed look, his tone calm and measured. “I’m hardly hiding, Elijah. You’re the one who decided to track me down.”
Ezra and Elijah—names easy to remember, ones that seem to match the charm radiating from them. Elijah leans back in the chair, draping an arm over the backrest as he surveys the café with a curious gaze. His smirk widens as if he finds the place amusing.
“Well, you weren’t answering your phone,” he replies, feigning offense. “Thought I might find you brooding over a cup of overpriced coffee.”
Ezra shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. “You’d do the same if you weren’t so caught up chasing headlines.”
They banter like this, their words sharp but laced with the kind of familiarity that only comes from years of shared history.
I can’t help but watch them from behind the counter, though I pretend to be focused on wiping down the espresso machine.
There’s a strange allure to their presence, the way they command attention without even trying.
Elijah’s gaze sweeps across the room again, and for a fleeting moment, it lands on me.
I feel my cheeks heat as his smirk softens into something warmer, more approachable.
If Ezra is the storm, Elijah feels like the calm just before it.
But both are undeniably powerful, their presence impossible to ignore.
As their conversation continues, I catch snippets—mention of a tech company, a deal gone sideways, someone named Donovan. It’s all business, but the tension between them is palpable. Whatever brought them here, it feels important, like a ripple that could turn into a wave.
I turn my attention back to the counter, forcing myself to focus on the mundane tasks at hand.
But deep down, I know this moment is anything but ordinary.
These two men, so alike yet so different, have brought something into this café that I can’t quite name—a feeling that life, once quiet and predictable, is about to change.