Page 1 of Cross Check Daddies
CHAPTER ONE
Brooke
The wine glass is nice.Cold and thin-stemmed, something a younger version of me would have posted on my social media stories with the captionMiami nights.
A live jazz trio plays in the corner while the scent of truffle oil and citrus lingers in the air. That’s about the only thing holding my attention right now.
This is why I never ever agree to blind dates. Ivy owes me. No, shereallyowes me.
Her colleague is still talking. Something about depositions and a funny thing a partner said in court last week. I fake another polite laugh. That makes four so far. I’m keeping count, mostly because my brain needs stimulation, and clearly, I’m not getting it from across the table.
Chad’s attractive enough. Clean-cut. Expensive watch. Sharp suit. The kind of guy my best friend Ivy swears up and down is a “total catch.” He’s also been staring at my mouth for the last five minutes like he’s debating whether to make his move right here and kiss me. I'm really hoping he doesn’t.
I glance down at my phone, pretending to adjust the volume settings, when I see it.
Notification.Call of Duty. Match concluded. Leaderboard updated.
My thumb hovers before I give in. Just a quick look. One second. I discreetly open the app and scan the leaderboard.
PixelVixen — Rank #1
Still holding strong.
My mouth quirks, not quite a smile. Shoot, I’ve had that name since I was sixteen. At the time, it sounded fierce and hot. Now I’m wondering if it’s finally time to retire the alter ego or maybe update the name.HeadShotMama?Mother.Load? CallOfBooty30? Hell, no.
I slide my phone facedown and try to redirect my attention. Chad’s now deep into a story involving a mediation gone wrong. Or maybe it’s about his ex-girlfriend’s dog. Honestly, I stopped listening after he used the word “perjury” for the third time.
I sip my wine again. The stem slips slightly against my fingers, damp from holding it too long. The place is gorgeous. It has dim lighting, Edison bulbs, and a sleek bar glowing with that soft amber hue you only get in places where cocktails start at twenty bucks. Couples laugh, clink glasses, and exchange heated glances.
My heels dig into the floor, reminding me that yes, I dressed up for this. Squeezed into a thong, put on lashes, paid a sitter to watch Jackson. And now I'm sitting here, listening to a man who thinks explaining “tort law” to me acts as foreplay.
Spoiler alert: it does not.
“So, Ivy tells me you’re a single mom,” Chad pivots, suddenly animated. “That’s...wow. That’s so admirable. I mean, not a lot of women could do that. I don’t know how you manage.”
The way he sayswowmakes my stomach tighten. He leans in, grinning. I blink and sit back. “Yeah, well, I’ve had help. And caffeine.” And also, violent video games, late-night Twitch streams, and one very excellent vibrator I keep hidden in adrawer labeledTax Documents. But no one needs to know about all that.
He chuckles like I made a joke. I didn’t.
“Kids are great,” he adds. “I think I want one. Someday. Probably once I make partner.”
I nod, my eyes drifting past him to the open kitchen where a chef tosses flames in the air for an audience. Fire. Drama. Actual excitement. Lucky bastards at that table.
Chad reaches across like he’s going to touch my hand. I instinctively pull back to lift my wine glass again. “Brooke,” he says, lowering his voice in what I assume is his idea of sexy, “you’re really easy to talk to.”
Oh, God. Please.
I drain the last of my wine like it holds the answers, then lift the glass slightly and glance over it. “Do you mind getting us a refill?” I ask, the edges of my voice softened to make it sound like a casual request and not a tactical retreat.
Chad stands, eager, giving me a nod before heading off toward the waiter. The moment his back is turned, I whip out my phone and text Ivy.
>>I hate you. Never setting me up again. This is why one-night stands are superior. Also, I’d much rather sit through Jackson’s entire Bluey phase on repeat than hear one more word about tort law.
I’m hitting send when I sense it. That tightening across my skin, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. I glance up, expecting—hoping—it’s nothing.
Four tables away, seated with a woman whose boobs could get their own zip code, is Cam.
Cam. As intheCam.
