Page 3 of Second Chance Daddy

“Yeah. Fuck him. Your life is just starting over,” Tina says, now calling for shots. “And you’ve got me watching your back.”

Except now her big brother is here, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.

She hands me a shot and grabs hers, pouring some salt on the back of her hand.

Dante doesn’t take a shot. He just watches me, and the intensity of his stare is making me squirm.

I never do this. I never hook up with guys in bars. I don’t do one-night stands. I’m the responsible one. The one who thinks things through.

So why am I imagining what those hands would feel like on my skin?

I clink my shot glass against hers. “To never making the same mistake twice.”

Dante raises his beer. “To new mistakes.”

The way he says it, looking directly at me, makes heat pool low in my belly.

The liquor burns, but not as much as his stare.

“What’s new?” I change the topic because if I keep staring at Dante’s mouth, I’m going to do something stupid.

“First, promise me,” Tina says between chews, “no more tall, tattooed Italians with anger issues.”

I glance at Dante, who’s tall, tattooed, and definitely Italian.

“That might be harder than you think,” I mutter.

Dante’s lips twitch. “Something wrong with Italians?”

“In my experience? Everything.”

“Maybe you’ve been meeting the wrong ones.”

Is he seriously doing this? In front of his sister?

“Maybe I have terrible taste in men.”

“Or maybe,” he leans closer, voice dropping low enough that Tina can’t hear, “you just haven’t met the right one yet.”

Oh, fuckity, fuckity, fuck, fuck.

My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it over the bar music.

“I should go,” I say suddenly, standing up so fast I nearly knock over my drink.

Because I know myself. And I know that if I stay here much longer, I’m going to do something really, really stupid.

Like, find out what Dante Romano tastes like.

“It’s early,” Tina protests.

“I know, but I’m...” I trail off because Dante is standing too, and the way he’s looking at me makes my knees weak.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says.

“That’s really not necessary?—”

“I insist.”