Page 23 of Her Hat Trick Daddies (Game On Daddies #3)

She looks up from her computer. “Morning, Leighton. Yeah. They managed to brake in time, but a pickup behind them rear-ended their car into the one in front. Panabaker had a nasty gash on his head, bled a lot, but he passed concussion protocols. He should be cleared in a couple of weeks, once the stitches have healed. Strisik’s worse.

Broken clavicle and jaw. He’ll be out for months. ”

My chest sinks. “That’s tough. I bet he hates being sidelined.” Athletes live for the game. One missed match is rough. Weeks or months? Devastating.

“He’s definitely not thrilled,” Cecille says, aligning her stapler and tape dispenser with neat precision. “Everything good on your end?”

“Great.” I offer a fake smile, rehearsed, the kind that lifts my cheeks but doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

She notices. Of course, she does.

“Well, let me know if that ever changes.”

This time, my smile is real. Grateful. “I will.”

When I reach my office, I’m nearly knocked off balance by the flood of emails waiting for me. I work through them quickly, methodically, anything to distract myself, while deliberately skipping over one from [email protected].

Only once all other tasks are handled do I circle back to his message.

Hi Leighton,

Just realized I don’t have your number—and I’m guessing none of us do—so I thought I’d reach out here. I’m sending over all our mobile numbers and addresses, just in case you need them. You mentioned you had more to share with us before we had to run. Can’t wait for your call.

Talk soon,

—Shane

Short. To the point. But still… maybe a tiny bit flirty?

There’s a lightness to it that I wasn’t expecting, and for a moment, it cuts through the fear that’s been wrapping itself around me since this morning.

I mean, could a man who “can’t wait for my call” really turn around and become some cold-hearted tyrant just because there’s a little girl in the world who shares his DNA?

I don’t think so. Right?

Still, I don’t reply. I tell myself it’s because I’ve got more work to do and still need to meet with a handful of people I haven’t spoken to yet.

The truth? I’ve made time for everyone except Shane.

Even the janitor made the cut—because really, who’s got better eyes and ears than the least-suspecting janitor?

And yet, when I check my inbox again, there’s another email from him.

Sorry, I forgot to add that we’re all generally free around 5:30 PM these days. If you happen to be around tonight, maybe we can all grab a quick bite and finish that conversation.

-Shan e

His persistence makes me pause. Is this pushy, or just nerves?

It hovers somewhere between professional, direct, and friendly—hard to tell.

These are work emails, so they have to be professional.

But maybe it’s because I’ve only ever seen them naked and in a state of bliss that I can’t read the tone through a screen.

Still, I plug their numbers into my phone. I didn’t come this far just to back out now. This is one more step toward the truth. Toward Luna’s future.

I text Ava.

Leighton: Hey girl. Is there any way you can keep Luna overnight?

Ava: Of course. You always pack her bag like you’re preparing for the apocalypse.

It’s true. I hate being unprepared. But tonight, it might actually work in my favor. Because I’m laying everything out on the table.

And if shit hits the fan, I’ll at least have the space to fall apart in private, without having to pretend to be normal for Luna’s sake.

Leighton: I owe you. Hugs.

Ava: Lol! Oh, I’m for sure holding you to that.

No more excuses. It’s time .

I keep myself busy until 5:30, then finally, I make the call. But I can’t help it. Part of me hopes it goes to voicemail. A delay. An out.

He answers on the second ring.

“Jacobson.”

I swallow. “Hey, Shane. It’s Leighton.”

A pause. Then his tone shifts, warmer, lighter. “Leighton… damn good to hear from you. Are we on for tonight? Can you meet us at David’s, or do you want to grab a light dinner?”

“David’s should be fine.”

“Great. See you in a few.”

I rehearse what I plan to say the entire way. But no matter how many versions I run through, none of them sound right. I’ve written and rewritten this confession a dozen times in my head, but the second I pull into David’s driveway, my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, and it all dies.

His house could pass as a mansion. Holy shit. It’s big and spectacular… and big.

Shane opens the door. Not David. And I don’t know what it is, maybe the dream or the reality of seeing him like this, but the second he smiles at me, all my nerves combust into something else entirely.

I walk straight into his arms.

“Well, hi there,” Shane drawls, voice like honeyed whiskey. He backs us into the foyer, kicking the door shut behind us .

I pull back just a little, his arms still wrapped around me, and take in the beautiful space in flashes: dark crown molding framing pale walls, the gleam of polished tile underfoot, the silhouette of a baby grand at the far end of the living room.

A mouthwatering scent lingers in the air. Barbeque, maybe?

They’re ready to wine and dine me. But I’m done with pretending. With waiting. So, I take the less conventional route.

I lock eyes with him and then kiss him. Hard.