Page 5 of Wrong Number, Right Single Dad
She sighs. “I’m Delaney. My name is Delaney.”
“I like that name. It’s pretty. You’re pretty,” my daughter says. “I’m Hannah. And Mr. Gold lives in my bedroom. And this”—she points at me proudly—“is my daddy.”
Delaney raises her gaze to mine. “So I’ve heard. Daddy.”
I sigh. “Jared. I’m Jared.”
Ignoring the tension between us, Hannah carries on. “Want me to show you Mr. Gold now?”
“Sweetie.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, just holding on to my patience. “Can you please give the grown-ups a few minutes to talk? In private.”
“Ooooohhhh.” She draws out, a mischievous expression plays on her lips. “I bet you’re going to say swear words.”
“I do have a few of them on my mind,” Delaney says brightly.
I scowl at her. “Just give Daddy five minutes with the nice lady, and then we’ll get you dinner.”
Hannah moves down the hall toward her bedroom at glacial pace. I tighten my grip on Delaney’s arm and pull her into the room I use as my office and close the door.
“What the fuck is going on here?” I hiss.
“I could ask you the same thing.” She tugs her arm free and glares at me. “You’re married.”
“I’m divorced.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders drop. That seems to take most of the heat out of her expression. “And you’re a single dad.”
“Clearly.” I give her an exasperated look. “It still doesn’t explain how you found out where I live or why you chose to knock on my door.”
Her brow furrows. “Are you serious?”
“I’m pretty fucking serious.” Not to mention hanging on my last fucking nerve. “How did you get here?”
“I drove.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I glare. “I mean it. How did you get my address?”
“You sent it to me.”
“I sent it to you? I…” I trail off as a realization dawns on me. “Just a second.”
I dig into my pocket and pull out my phone. I open my messages and look at the last one I sent.
It’s my address.
And an invitation to come over now. Because I need her.
Sent to “Baby.”
When I meant to send it to… “Son of a bitch.”
“Are you okay?” She tilts her head to the side. “You aren’t having a stroke or something. Are you?”
“No. I’m not.” But this might very well push me over the edge. “I meant to text the babysitting agency I use.”
Her jaw drops open. “You were looking for a babysitter?”
“My usual nanny just called in sick. And I’m supposed to be leaving for a work retreat and recertification in”—I check the time on my screen and wince—“fifteen minutes.”
