Page 100 of Breakaway Daddies

CHAPTERTHIRTY

Rowan

The tiearound my neck feels like a damn noose, but the steak in front of me is perfectly cooked, so I can’t complain too much. I cut through the tender meat with a satisfying slice and chew slowly, half-listening to the chaos happening around me.

It’s our first real date. Like, an actual date, not an injury checkup, not a “come over because we’re idiots and set something on fire again” kind of night.

This is a table-for-four situation. Candlelight. Fancy clothes. Real silverware. A white tablecloth that Bruno’s already spilled something on. But it’s ours.

And Jinx? She’s actually here. With us. Looking like sin in black eyeliner and a spiked choker, laughing like she’s not sure if this is a terrible idea or the best one she’s had in a long time.

“I can’t believe I let y’all talk me into this,” she says, poking suspiciously at her salad like it might bite back. “You know I haven’t eaten anything green voluntarily since 2023.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Thomas says, raising his glass in her direction and nearly elbowing a passing waiter. “Look at you! Fancy and leafy.”

She glares, but it’s the kind that curls at the corners with amusement. “I wore heels for you lunatics. My feet are actively staging a rebellion.”

“You wore heels,” I say, a little dazed, “and that dress. Jinx. Thatdress.”

She raises a brow. “I bought it off a goth Instagram boutique during a two a.m. scroll. Zero regrets.”

Bruno sets down his glass with a clink and leans in, all warm eyes and low voice. “You look beautiful.”

Jinx actually blushes, which sends Thomas into a fit of celebratory finger guns.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, fanning herself with the menu. “You’re lucky I like you. All of you. Even when you act like golden retrievers in suits.”

“I’m not a retriever,” Thomas protests, full of whiskey and dramatics. “I’m a majestic, semi-responsible wolf. Or like, a very jacked meerkat.”

“You’re a disaster,” Jinx says fondly, and I watch her face soften in that way it does when she’s fighting not to fall harder.

I keep thinking about that sign she held up at the game.WILL YOU GO ON A DATE WITH ME?Everyone else saw it as a joke. A cute moment for social media. But I knew what it really was.

Jinx, lowering her walls just enough to let us in. Letting me see her. All of her.

Thomas is across from me, demolishing a pile of cheesy potato something while throwing back whiskey like it’s juice. His hair’s a mess, his shirt’s wrinkled, and somehow he still looks like the guy you’d want to be stuck on a desert island with, if only because he’d make you laugh until you forgot you were starving.

Bruno’s on a mission to get us all drunk on what he’s calling “cultural enlightenment.” He’s already forced a round of shots on the table, something with fire in it, I think, and now he’s passionately arguing with Thomas about whiskey versus vodka, waving his hands around like a lunatic professor.

“Whiskey has depth,” Thomas insists, stabbing the air with a fork. “Vodka is just sad water for people afraid of taste.”

“Vodka is refined!” Bruno argues, grinning like a man who’swaytoo proud of being Eastern European. “It’s clean. Elegant. Like me.”

“You just chug it because you’re immune to shame,” Thomas fires back.

Jinx is trying not to laugh, but she’s losing. Her lip quirks, and then she’s full-on giggling, head tilted, eyes sparkling.

I lean over toward her, nudging her shoulder. “You actually having fun, or just putting up with us because you have to…you know, since you made the dramatic sign and everything?”

She looks at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I am,” she says. “But I really can’t take them out in public again. They’re like two drunk philosophers arguing about fermented potatoes.”

I chuckle, watching her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You sure you’re not the one who can’t handle them?”

She laughs again, a bright, clean sound that cuts through the noise of the restaurant. “Oh, I can handle them. I just don’t want to be the one explaining to the waiter why Thomas is trying to climb the wine rack.”

“I only did that one time,” Thomas interjects loudly from across the table. “And that was because I thought the bottle of Bordeaux was a trophy. Honest mistake.”

Jinx gives him a deadpan look. “It was nailed to the wall.”

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