Page 48 of Her Possessive Daddies

The leather wheel squeaks as I twist it beneath my hands. I should tell Corey the truth. I should cancel on Chandler. I should do a lot of things that the old, responsible Abbie would do.

But the new me? The one who had a threesome with two gorgeous older men? The one who tends bar and makes her own decisions?

That Abbie is apparently an idiot who agrees to meet her ex-boyfriend for lunch while lying to her... whatever Corey is.

Another text comes through:Miss you.

The words make my stomach flip, even as guilt claws at my throat. I start the car without responding, because what can I say when I'm about to have lunch with my ex tomorrow?

My phone lights up again as I turn the key in the ignition.

Drive safe, beautiful. Text me when you're home.

The warmth within me battles with the cold knot of guilt inside. I tap out a quickWill dobefore tossing the phone back onto the passenger seat.

The streets are empty this time of night, streetlights casting orange pools across my windshield. My apartment's only fifteen minutes away, but each mile feels like an eternity with my thoughts racing. Corey's genuine concern makes the lie about lunch tomorrow feel even worse.

Such simple words shouldn't make my heart race like this. They shouldn't make me forget about everything else – about Seth's visit tonight, about Chandler's call, about tomorrow's lunch. But they do.

I pull into my parking spot and kill the engine. The silence feels heavy, broken only by the soft ping of my cooling engine. I unlock the phone screen, wanting to call him, to come clean about everything. Instead, I type:

Home safe. Thank you for thinking of me.

His response comes instantly:Always.

23

COREY

Sweat drips down my back as I jog up the curved driveway, my shoes crunching against the gravel. The front door's already unlocked, and the mouth-watering smell of bacon hits me before I even step inside the cool air-conditioned foyer.

"About damn time. Your food's getting cold."

Donovan lounges at my kitchen island, demolishing what looks like half the menu from Annie's Diner. His plate is loaded with eggs, hash browns, and enough bacon to feed a small army. Classic Donovan, treating my house like his personal playground.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you?" I grab a water from the fridge, gulping down half the bottle in one go. My workout shirt clings uncomfortably to my skin.

"Someone had to check if you were still alive. Two weeks, man. Two Taco Tuesdays." He points his fork at me accusingly, though the hint of concern in his eyes doesn't escape my notice.

"Been busy." I snag a piece of bacon from his plate, dodging his half-hearted swat at my hand. The crispy strip practically melts in my mouth - Annie's always did make the best bacon in town.

"Get your own plate, asshole. And yeah, I heard about your little speakeasy adventure with Seth. Didn't think you had it in you anymore, old man." Donovan's smirk is equal parts amusement and judgment, the kind only a lifelong friend can get away with.

I grab a clean plate from my cabinet and load it with scrambled eggs, trying to ignore the knowing look he's giving me. "Thanks for bringing all this. It's complicated." The word feels inadequate for the mess I've gotten myself into, but it's all I can offer right now.

"When isn't it with you? Seth mentioned the girl's been distant." He settles back in his chair, crossing his muscled arms over his dark henley. The gesture reminds me of all the times he's listened to my problems over the years.

"Abbie." Her name is there suddenly, and I hate how much weight it carries. "And yeah, she's barely responding to texts." Her last message - just a simple 'okay' - sits heavy in my mind.

"Plus your kid's latest scheme?" Donovan raises an eyebrow, reminding me that my personal life isn't the only fire I'm trying to put out.

I groan, rubbing my temple where a headache is starting to form. "Kid wants to go back to school. Claims he's turning over a new leaf." The words feel hollow, like every other promise my son has made over the years.

"Let me guess - Daddy's funding this age of enlightenment?" Seth's tone carries that knowing edge I've grown tired of hearing from my friends.

"When isn't he?" The eggs taste like sawdust in my mouth, and I push the plate away. "At least it's better than bailing him out of impound lots." Or drunk tanks, or covering his bounced checks at bars - the list of past disasters seems endless.

"You're too soft on him." Donovan's blunt assessment hits a nerve, probably because he's right. He's always been the one to call me out on my parenting mishaps.

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