Page 11 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

NIKOLAI

F ern Hills looks like the kind of place where nothing ever happens.

Main Street. White picket fences. The whole American dream bullshit wrapped up in a postcard.

Perfect place to disappear.

I park the Aston Martin between a rusted pickup and a soccer mom SUV. Feels a little like dropping a wolf into a petting zoo.

I shouldn't be here. Should be back in Chicago, cleaning up the mess I left behind.

But the heat's too much right now.

Police asking questions.

Bratva politics turning ugly.

The man I killed deserved worse than what I gave him.

No regrets. He had it coming.

But the cops don't care what I think. And the rival family wants blood for blood, consequences be damned.

So here I am. Middle of nowhere.

I step out of the car. The air tastes different here. Clean. Like it's never seen anything dark, ugly.

That's when I see the bakery.

“Sugar and Spice” in curving script across the window. Gingham curtains. The kind of wholesome that makes my teeth ache.

The place pulls at me like gravity.

I cross the street. Push through the door. A bell chimes overhead—cheerful, innocent.

And that's when I see him.

A boy. Maybe four, five years old. Dark hair that won't stay flat. Serious eyes that track my movement like he's cataloguing threat levels.

Smart kid.

He's standing behind the counter on a wooden step stool, small hands gripping the edge. Alone.

Something twists in my chest. I don’t understand what it means.

“We're not open yet,” he says sweetly. Voice clear, though. Confident. No fear.

Most kids take one look at me and hide behind their mothers. This one plants his feet and meets my stare head-on.

Brave little bastard.

“That so?” I keep my voice gentle. Soft as I can make it. “What time do you open?”

He checks a clock on the wall. Frowns. “Fifteen minutes. But Mama will tell you.”

The way he says “Mama” gets me curious. I don’t know why. But I’d like to see who he belongs to.

“You work here alone often?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Rosa's supposed to be here. She's always late. She’s a busy writer.”

As if summoned, the front door chimes again. A woman rushes in—mid-twenties, wild curly hair escaping from a messy bun.

“Sorry, sorry!” She's breathless. “The muse struck at three Aa.m. and I completely lost track of time.”

She notices me and stops. Takes in my size, the ink crawling up my neck, the way I fill the space.

“Oh. Um. Sorry, we're not quite?—”

“I told him,” the boy interrupts.

The woman—Rosa—ruffles his hair. “Good man, Chleo. Where's your mom?”

Chleo. The name hits me like déjà vu for no reason.

“Pantry,” Chleo explains. “She’s getting sugar.”

Rosa nods, ties an apron around her waist. “Right. Well, I can help if you'd like to wait, sir. Though fair warning—I'm much better with words than pastries.”

“You're a writer?” I ask.

She blushes. “Romance novels. Escapist stuff, really. But it pays for coffee and rent.” She gestures around the bakery. “This is just for extra cash. And because Chleo's mom is basically family.”

Chleo tugs on her apron. “Can I take his order?”

“Of course.” Rosa steps back, lets the kid take point.

Chleo straightens his shoulders. All business. “What would you like?”

I lean against the counter, bring myself closer to his eye level. “What do you recommend?”

He considers this seriously. Weighs options like he's negotiating arms deals instead of baked goods.

“Mom makes the best scones. Lemon ones are my favorite.” He pauses, then tilts his head, stares right into me. “But you might like chocolate. You’re old. Old people like chocolate.”

Christ. This kid reads people at this age?

“You're very observant,” I tell him.

“Mom says it's important to notice things.”

Smart mother. Teaching her son to be aware. To be careful.

But there's something else. The way he holds himself. The tilt of his chin when he's thinking. The exact shade of his eyes.

Grey-green. Like looking in a mirror.

My chest tightens. Blood pounds in my ears.

No. Coincidence. Kids can look like anyone.

But the pull I felt walking in here. The recognition. The way he doesn't flinch from me.

“Chocolate croissant then,” I manage.

Chleo nods. Turns to the display case. Has to stretch on his toes to reach the tongs.

“I can get that,” Rosa offers.

“I've got it.” His voice carries that same stubborn determination I hear in my own.

Fuck.

The door to the pantry opens. Rosa and Chleo both look up, smiling.

“Finally,” Rosa says. “I was starting to think you'd fallen asleep.”

I turn to see who she’s speaking to.

And I freeze.

She’s pale.

She’s five years older. Hair longer. Curves fuller.

But unmistakably, it’s the woman who disappeared from my bed. From my life. From Chicago without a trace.

Lilly.

The woman I've thought about every day since.

Our eyes meet and she stumbles, loses balance as she tries to clutch at the table behind her. A bowl slips. Shatters on the floor. Brown liquid spreads across white tile like spilled blood.

“Mama!” Chleo jumps down from his stool. “You're making a mess! You said we can’t waste things. We have no money!”

Mama.

The word echoes in my skull.

And what does the kid mean that they have no money?

I look at Chleo. Really look. The eyes. The stubborn chin. The way he stands like he's ready for war.

The timeline crashes over me like a freight train, reels into my mind like an itch.

Could it be…?

Five years ago. A few nights together. No protection.

Holy fuck.

Lilly hasn't moved. Hasn't breathed. She's staring at me like I'm a ghost. Like I'm the devil come to collect.

Which, apparently, I am.

“Lilly,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than intended.

Rosa looks between us, confusion written across her face. “You two know each other?”

“We...” Lilly's voice cracks. She clears her throat, tries again, but can’t speak.

Chleo tugs on Lilly's hand. “Mama, you're shaking.”

She is. I can see it from here. Can see the way her pulse hammers in her throat.

“I'm fine, baby.” She kneels down, starts picking up ceramic pieces with trembling fingers. “Just clumsy.”

I move without thinking. Kneel beside her. Our hands brush as we both reach for the same shard.

Electric. Five years and she still burns like live wire.

“Let me,” I say quietly.

“No.” She jerks her hand back. “I've got it.”

But she doesn't. She's shaking too hard. Cuts her finger on a sharp edge.

“Shit,” she hisses, then glances at Chleo. “Sorry. Language.”

“It's okay, Mama. You're bleeding.”

I pull a handkerchief from my pocket. Clean white cotton. Reach for her hand.

She lets me. God knows why, but she lets me wrap the fabric around her finger.

Her skin is soft. Warm. Familiar.

I want to pull her against me. Want to demand answers. Want to ask her why she ran.

Why she has a kid that looks like me.

I can see it now. Clear as day.

The realization should terrify me. Should send me running.

Instead, it makes me want to hear what she has to say.

“There,” I say. Release her hand before I do something stupid.

Like kiss her. Like claim her. Like show Rosa and my son exactly what it means to call someone mine.

“Thank you,” Lilly whispers.

She stands. Backs away. Puts distance between us.

But there's nowhere to run. Not anymore.

I found her.

And I'm not letting her go again.