Page 49 of Second Chance Daddy

In Dante’s office.

My three-year-old perched on his chair like she owns the damn place, stuffed animals lined up in front of her, plastic teacups scattered across his desk.

And him—six-foot-something broody, tattooed, walking-heartbreak—sitting there like it’s the most normal thing in the world, pink tiara totally on his head.

I finally look at him—a mistake. Big mistake. He’s in a soft gray t-shirt that clings to every muscle, hair damp like he just showered, jaw dark with stubble. And when our eyes meet?

Zap.

Like touching a live wire. My skin prickles, my heart stutters, and everything low in my body clenches in memory.

He smirks, the bastard, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Welcome back, Cass.” He grins at me.

I hover in the doorway and look away, throat tight. “Hey, nugget—maybe we should let Dante work?—”

His eyes cut to me, sharp, steady, and impossible to argue with. “Cass.” His voice drops an octave, all warning and dark velvet. “Stop.”

My kid pretends she didn’t hear me. Knows Dante’s the real power here.

“More tea, Your Highness?” Aria asks, wielding her plastic teapot with regal authority.

“Yes, please, Princess Aria,” he responds, completely straight-faced, like this is a state dinner instead of a toddler’s fantasy.

I watch from the doorway, tears burning behind my eyes, throat so tight I can barely swallow.

He would’ve been there from the beginning if I’d told him. He would’ve watched her take her first steps and heard her first words. He would’ve been her dad, not Gino with his anger issues.

Thank God I pulled her away in time, at an age where the bad memories won’t stick.

The guilt is a living thing now, clawing at my insides, stealing my breath, making me dizzy with its weight. I stand at the door with my arms crossed tight, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to untangle the mess I’ve made.

I turn around and walk away, knowing that with Dante, Aria’s safe.

Aria curls into me that night, her head on my chest, her tiny hand fisting the fabric of my shirt. Her voice is barely a whisper against the dark.

“Mommy… Is Dante my other daddy?”

My heart stops dead in my chest. “W-what?” I stammer, buying time, feeling the room spin around me.

“Tommy at daycare says everyone has a daddy,” she explains, so matter-of-fact it hurts. “And mine is far away, but now Dante plays with me like Jamie’s daddy plays with her.”

She’s looking up at me with those same blue-gray eyes, wide, trusting, and waiting. And I’m cracking in half because I shouldn’t lie to her.

But fear’s louder.

“No, baby,” I croak, forcing a smile. “Daddy’s… Hey, you know what? I think there are some cupcakes in the kitchen. The chocolate ones with sprinkles you like. Want one before bed?”

Distraction. Sugar. Anything but the truth.

“Yes, please!”

She perks up and forgets the question fast because she’s three, and cupcakes still outrank complicated family history.

But I can’t forget. I can’t sleep.

Which is how, after I tuck her in and put her to sleep and fail to do the same with myself, I end up in the kitchen at 3 AM, trying to bake to get my mind off things.