Page 11 of Second Chance Daddy

Sunlight spills through my bakery’s window. I have frosting on my jeans, flour on my cheek, and a tiny tyrant trying to steal a cupcake.

My daughter pauses—one hand already smudged with lemon filling, her face pressed against the glass like a puppy drooling over a treat.

She turns those big storm-blue eyes on me and smiles like the picture of innocence. “I didn’t lick. I breathed.”

“Through your tongue?”

She nods and levels me a glare that screamsMommy doesn’t know a thingin toddler-speak.

I sigh, crouching to wipe the glass. “Okay, Your Majesty. Go wash your hands, and then you can steal one mini cupcake. One.”

“Two,” she negotiates, already skipping toward the back.

“One,” I bellow and shake my head, smiling at her retreating form. She’s three years old and the light of my life. There’s not a single moment of boredom when the little nugget is around.

With no customers in at the moment, I stand behind the counter and get started on kneading the dough for some bread. Aria bounds back with her cute little palms all clean and held up for me to see.

“Mommy. Cupcake.”

“Okay, sweetie.” I sigh and open the display cabinet, picking out her favorite flavor. Chocolate. While I plate it, I see her darting from the corner of my eye for the still-open display.

“Aria Louise Russo,” I call out, without turning. “If you touch that vanilla bean swirl, I swear on your bedtime?—”

Plop. Too late. She took it and dropped it. One more mess for me to clean up. Not that I mind. For her? I’d clean the whole world.

I turn, and she flashes me a toothy grin that’s all baby teeth and mischief. I flash her the mom glare. The one that says: I’ve seen things, kid. Don’t test me before coffee.

She suddenly wipes the smile off her face. God, how I want to laugh. Poor thing. She looks terrified, but someone’s got to play bad cop. It’s just us.

Some days I wonder if I made the right choice. Most days, I know I had no choice at all.

“Come on now,” I tell her. “You’re going to sit at your little chair and table. Eat the one cupcake I give you and then help Mommy like I taught you, okay?”

“Okay,” she stands straighter, always up for helping.

The bell above the bakery door jingles just as I put Aria into her tiny apron and set her up in the corner with her cupcake and “important mixing job,” which currently involves dry oats and serious concentration.

“Good morning, Ruthie,” I call out as my favorite neighborhood gossip breezes in.

Ruthie Patterson, eighty-four and blessed without a filter, totters to the front counter in oversized sunglasses.

“You will not believe what that awful Trudy’s granddaughter did,” she huffs, slamming a folded newspaper down. “Posted photos on the internet. In a bikini. With one of those football boys. And that’s not all!” she declares with a huff, eyeing the treats on sale for the day.

When I say nothing, she looks up at me, gravely offended. “Don’t you want to know what else?”

“What else, Ruthie?” I flash her my best partner-in-crime smile, leaning in like we’re co-conspirators, because I know she won’t rest till she has it out of her system. Honestly? If Oprah called her on live TV, she’d still talk about Trudie.

“She also got a tattoo. On her rear end. Of the devil’s pitchfork. I swear her poor old sweet grandpa’s turnin’ over in his grave.”

I bite back a smile, hand her the usual—one blueberry scone, warmed, and a hot cappuccino. “Scandalous. I’ll alert the church board.”

“She’s nineteen, Cassie. And his arms were huge.”

“Maybe he’s a trainer? That’s good, right? He takes care of himself.”

“She was sitting on him like a saddle.”

I nod. “Well, maybe she’s into horses.”