Page 20 of Second Chance Daddy

“Boss—”

“A week, Viktor. Handle it.”

I hang up and toss the phone onto the passenger seat.

Let Chicago burn. Let the whole fucking world burn.

I’ve got more important things to worry about now.

I’ve got a family to claim.

5

CASSIE

Iburn the muffins. Again. Ina Garten would slap me with a spatula right now.

Third batch today, and I swear to God, the oven’s mocking me. The smell of charred chocolate wafts through Honey & Hearth, and I chuck the tray across the counter with such profuse hatred that a glass topples over and breaks.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

A tiny gasp echoes from the corner.

I glance over to find Aria perched on her little stool, eyes wide as saucers.

“Mommy said a bad word,” she announces, scandalized, like she’s got a hotline to the morality police.

I sigh and grab the broom and pan, getting on my knees to clear up the shards. “Okay, listen up, nugget—shitis a grown-up word. You don’t say it. You hear Mommy say it, then you pretend I sneezed. Deal?”

“But it’s funny.” She giggles.

“It’s illegal for toddlers,” I retort, chucking the glass in the bin and opening the bakery window to air out the disaster zone. “Just trust me.”

“What’s illegal?”

Toddlers and their damn questions. Tiny, sticky detectives with no sense of timing and a direct line to your last nerve.

I exhale, brushing crumbs off my knees, already bracing for the next round of questions that will follow, as they always do with my bright little one.

I lean on the counter, point my spatula at her like I’m swearing her in. “Illegal means… against the rules. And the rules are: toddlers don’t cuss. Mommy can because she’s older, and we don’t eat cupcakes except on weekends.”

I threw in the last one for good measure because I’d seen the little thief eyeing the leftovers from last night.

“Why?” she asks, disappointed, and lets out a big huff, looking at the cupcakes again with adoration.

“It’s not healthy,” I tell her.

“What’s healthy?”

And there it is. The toddler spiral. One innocent question turns into a full-blown interrogation faster than I can burn another tray of muffins.

I groan internally, already regretting my life choices and my decision to teach her words like “illegal.”

“Healthy means… good for you,” I explain, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter. “Like apples. Or naps. Or Mommy drinking coffee first thing she wakes up.”

Aria blinks, considering. “Cupcakes make me happy.”

“Same, kid,” I mutter under my breath, tossing the rag in the sink. “But happiness and health are two different departments.”