Page 40 of Breakaway Daddies

It’s nothing short of extraordinary.

Utterly addictive, even.

But I can’t deceive myself; it’s evolved into something much deeper. I find myself observing the guys as they go about their day-to-day activities.

I laugh genuinely at Thomas’s painfully bad jokes, listen intently as Rowan passionately describes his vision of opening a sports camp for kids, and watch Bruno sit quietly at the kitchen counter, his face illuminated by his phone as he grins at a sweet text from his grandmother.

I’ve developed real feelings for them. Intense feelings. And that realization is utterly terrifying.

I’ve never excelled at emotional commitments. Always the free spirit, I’ve been someone who drifts with the wind’s whims. Yet here I am, ensnared in something far more complex than I ever anticipated. And now, there’s a small, significant secret growing within me.

I gently lay a hand on my still-flat stomach and let out a long breath.

I have no idea how I’m going to navigate this.

It’s a rare slow morning, so we’re all cleaning up the house together. The sun streams through the windows, casting warm patches of light on the hardwood floors.

Rowan grabs a broom, but instead of sweeping, he grips it like a hockey stick, taking aim at a dust ball and whacking it across the room like a puck. Thomas, with a mischievous glitter in his eyes, seizes the opportunity and launches himself at Rowan, tackling him onto the couch.

Laughter erupts as they tumble onto the floor, a whirlwind of flailing limbs and playful shouts echoing throughout the room.

I shake my head, a chuckle escaping my lips, but my focus drifts away from their antics. My gaze shifts to Bruno, who steps out of the room with his phone pressed tightly to his ear.

He’s usually not one for long phone calls, so whoever’s on the other end must be significant.

Thomas and Rowan continue their mock wrestling, hurling playful insults at each other, but their voices fade into the background. My attention is stolen by Bruno’s changing expression—his lips flatten into a tight line, and his dark brows knit together in a serious frown.

My stomach twists with unease. When he finally reenters the room, he rubs the back of his neck, then lightly taps Rowan on the back of the head to break up their scuffle.

“My grandma called,” he announces, his voice carrying a hint of something I can’t quite place.

“Oh yeah?” I reply, tilting my head in curiosity.

“She reminded me I have dinner with her tonight.”

My mind drifts back to our previous conversation about her, and how important she is for Bruno—how important family is for him…

Later in the day, I’m in my room, surrounded by a mountain of laundry, folding each piece with care while the guys are at practice.

The atmosphere is tranquil, with the mellow strum of an acoustic guitar drifting through my playlist, and the room is infused with the soothing, floral scent of my lavender detergent.

I’m halfway through folding one of Rowan’s oversized hoodies, the fabric wrinkled and well-worn, when I hear the front door creak open and shut with a thud.

Footsteps, steady and familiar, echo down the hallway, and a moment later, Bruno appears, leaning casually against my doorframe, his eyes warm and intent as he watches me.

“Hey, you’re home early,” I remark, setting the hoodie aside on the growing pile of neatly folded clothes.

He offers a nonchalant shrug, his shoulders rising and falling with ease. “Coach ended practice early. Gave the team a breather after the last game.”

His voice carries a hint of relief, the kind that comes after a hard-fought match.

With a few long strides, he crosses the room, his presence filling the space, and presses a slow, lingering kiss to my lips. I melt into it, feeling the gentle pressure and savoring the comforting warmth that spreads through me.

His lips have the familiar taste of coffee, with an undercurrent of something uniquely his—a taste I’ve come to crave. When he finally pulls away, I feel the urge to lean back in, unwilling to break the connection.

Instead, he gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my skin lightly. “So… about my grandma,” he begins, his voice quieter now, tinged with a hint of nervousness.

I stiffen slightly, a reflex more than a reaction. He notices, his eyes flickering with understanding, but he doesn’t mention it.

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