Page 27 of Second Chance Daddy

I smirk. “Me too.”

“And I like dragons,” she announces. “And singing. Mommy sings when she thinks no one’s watching.”

My chest tightens.

“Yeah?”

Aria nods, all wide-eyed and conspiratorial. Then, she tilts her chin, studying me with that unnerving stare.

“Hey, guess what?” she says, the corners of her little mouth turning up into a smile. “You have the same eyes as me.”

My throat dries out like desert sand.

Fuck.

7

CASSIE

Three AM and sleep’s flipping me the bird. I’m lying in bed like an insomniac squirrel—heart racing, palms sweaty, brain running laps.

When trying to sleep doesn’t work, I toss. Turn. Pace my bedroom until the floorboards creak their protest. I sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, heart racing so fast it’s like I ran a marathon barefoot over hot coals.

It doesn’t stop.

The look in Dante’s eyes plays on repeat like a bad pop song. The way that stormy gaze of his went all soft the second he looked at Aria. That stupid, crooked smile cracking his face when my daughter beamed up at him like they were best friends from another life.

I close my eyes.

It was supposed to be harmless. He was supposed to watch her for just five minutes while I figured out a way to dodge Tina’s ambush. That’s all.

God, what a mess. What a stupid, predictable mess!

The party had been torture enough. Tina dragged me around like a prized poodle, introducing me to men with names like Chase and Dick the Third and whatever the hell rich people name their kids.

And then I’d lost track of time.

Five minutes dragged into thirty, and even an ice plunge couldn’t have prepared me for what I found when I went looking for Aria at the lake house: Dante and her giggling like they’re old friends in the kitchen, eating cake.

When the hell did my life turn into Matilda?When I steered Aria away, Dante looked at me like I was Miss Trunchbull.

My heart keeps on drumming a warning beat:he knows, he knows, he knows.

Maybe he doesn’t.

But what if he’s done the math? What if he shows up at my door tomorrow with questions I can’t afford to answer?

Oh God.

My brain won’t stop replaying it, twisting it into a thousand what-ifs.

He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

Yes, he looked at her. Even spent some time having fun. But men don’t pay attention to details. They see blue eyes and curly hair and move on. Right?

Fuck me, who am I kidding?

I spend the whole damn night spiraling—my palms clammy, heart in overdrive, brain chasing itself in frantic circles until morning dragged its sorry ass over the horizon.