Page 34 of Second Chance Daddy

“Aria, go on now.” I plaster on a smile like my world isn’t seconds from imploding.

Dante steps aside as she trots past him, his gaze tracking her movements. My chest caves a little.He doesn’t know. Fuck. Does he?

I wait until she disappears behind the door. And then I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks. It’s just Dante and me now. And the silence? Thick enough to choke me.

Our eyes meet, and they look like trouble’s here for answers. Don’t look at him, I tell myself, but it’s easier said than done.

How does he look like that at seven in the morning? Like he just rolled out of bed and straight into my bloodstream. That black t-shirt might as well have been sewn onto him, his hair perfectly mussed and his eyes cutting into me with such sharp confidence, like they already know every filthy thought sprinting through my head.

I’m screwed. Completely, hopelessly, morally bankrupt levels of screwed.

The heat pools low in my belly, the way it always has around him. My thighs clench. My brain short-circuits. So, naturally, I do the one thing that’s saved me from spontaneous combustion before.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

I bolt behind the counter and start making coffee like it’s a damn emergency drill.

I busy my hands by making coffee because it’s something to do. Something to keep me from grabbing the panic and wearing it on my sleeve. I grind the beans with such fury, just enough to forget that this isn’t my personal apocalypse happening live.

I keep my eyes on the mug like it’s the Holy Grail, because if I look at him again?Game over.

I can’t afford to lose right now.

“You’re up early,” I say, because silence makes my mind go haywire with possibilities.

“Never really went to bed.”

I glance over my shoulder. “Trouble sleeping?”

“You could say that.”

The espresso machine hisses, and I pour out two cups. Dante takes the coffee without a word. His fingers brush mine and zap—every fucking nerve I’ve got lights up like we’re running electricity through the floorboards.

We sit across from each other in the empty bakery—the lights dim, chairs stacked, CLOSED sign still swinging in the window. It feels like a damn interrogation room with better pastries.

“Coffee’s good.” He takes a sip, his tall frame making the bakery chair look like doll furniture.

“So.” My voice comes out all wobbly, like a teenage girl at prom trying to ask the quarterback for a dance.Smooth, Cassie. Real smooth.“You, uh… wanna talk?”

His stare? All quiet power. Like a lit fuse with nowhere to run. Calm on the outside, but I can feel the explosion coming.

“You work too hard,” he says. “I’ve seen it. Taking care of this place. Taking care of her.”

I swallow at the acknowledgment. “That’s life.”

His gaze hooks onto me and doesn’t let go, stripping like he’s pulling answers straight out of what I choose not to say. “How are you, Cassie? Really.”

And just like that, I’m two seconds from folding like cheap patio furniture.

I grab my coffee, fingertips knocking against the ceramic like I’m in withdrawal. “I’m fine.”

“Fine?” He sounds like he’s already called bullshit and is just waiting for me to catch up.

My throat closes. I can’t handle this. I can’t handlehim. He’s too calm. Like he knows I’m lying but wants me to say it out loud, anyway.

“You’re doing all this alone, and you’re fine? Where’s that ex of yours? He giving you trouble?”