Page 40 of Second Chance Daddy
CASSIE
It’s still dark when the bed dips.
Tiny feet. Little sigh. Warm, sleepy weight tucking itself under my arm like we do nearly every morning.
“Hey, nugget,” I mumble, voice scratchy with sleep, eyes still closed. Aria’s a good kid. Always has been. Never had to wrestle her out of bed like some grumpy, foot-dragging toddler. She’s up before the sun most days, bright-eyed and ready to cause trouble.
Aria nestles in, her cheek pressing against my chest, one of her hands worming its way under my shirt to lay flat over my ribs. My heart damn near melts into a puddle right there.
I should probably tell her to go back to her room. Be a responsible parent about boundaries. But it’s five AM and the bakery’s calling, and my bones are tired.
So instead, I wrap my arm around her small, warm body and soak it in.
These moments, when the world’s still quiet and my kid’s all loving up on me? They’re what makes life worth living.
Her breath evens out, her lashes fluttering against my skin, and I press a kiss to her messy curls.
God, I love her so much it makes my chest hurt.
But we’ve got bills to pay. The bakery waits for no one.
I ease out from under her, careful not to wake her completely, already bracing for the caffeine and chaos.
The kitchen’s quiet except for the hum of the old coffee machine sputtering to life. I lean against the counter, still half-dreaming, breathing in the smell of my little pick-me-up.
I hear Aria fumbling around upstairs. Oh good, she’s up. I should probably make us pancakes or oatmeal.
I pour the coffee first—priorities—and grab my phone off the counter to scroll through the usual morning nonsense.
That’s when I see it.
A message:Tell him the kid is his or I will.
That’s it. No name. No number saved. But I know exactly who it is. The cup nearly slips from my hand, hot coffee burning on my fingers. I set the cup down with trembling hands.
My pulse bottoms out. My stomach follows. The walls tilt, and not just a little.
I delete it fast—like that’ll erase the weight of those words—but my hands won’t stop trembling, no matter how hard I squeeze them into fists.
“Mommy?” I hear Aria’s voice behind me as she takes her seat. I’m too afraid to turn and look at her. If I see her, I see those eyes. I see the truth that Gino now suspects.
She’s not his. And I lied to the devil that she was.
Fantastic life choices, Cass. Gold fucking star.
“Mommy?” she asks again.
I choke down the panic, force my breathing to level out, and plaster on the fakest mom smile in history as I turn to her and ask what she’d like for breakfast.
The bellabove the door jingles, and I’m already running on fumes.
I just tucked Aria down for her nap in the back—the little cot tucked in the corner of our large pantry. She was out cold in two minutes flat, lucky little thing.
The espresso machine hisses, the low hum of chatter buzzes around me, but it’s all static—background noise under the one, poisonous line still flashing in my skull like a goddamn neon sign from hell.
Tell him the kid is his…
My fingers twitch on the notepad as I scribble the next order down. Some smiling tourist rattles on about how she’d like her coffee.
