Page 19 of Becoming His Perfect Daddy
P.S. Please never shut up.
Chapter seven
Cameron
Mid-April
Iwas fully embroiled in tax season, and I’d been working brutal twelve-hour days six days a week just to hit all my deadlines. If I could ever find the inspiration I needed to write again, I might be able to build my author empire enough where I could limit my clients then eventually let all of them go. That was the dream, and I was close, maybe just a few short years from seeing it come to pass.
But I had returns to complete and submit for my clients in the present. And since I was going cross-eyed looking at endless spreadsheets and tax forms—thankfully this would all be over in a few days—I decided I needed a break, so I grabbed my phone and sent a text to my bestie.
Wanna grab coffee?
Yes, Camethon!
I grinned at Tristan’s characteristically enthusiastic response and ridiculous nickname-of-the-moment.See you in 10.
The only response I got was a gif of someone doing a happy dance, so I suspected Tris was as desperate for company as I was.
I threw on my wool navy peacoat and favorite red scarf, grabbed my keys, wallet, and phone, and headed for the door.
***
We always met up at the same place, Bears and Brews, an adorable coffee shop run by a bear of a man and decorated with an eclectic collection of stuffed bears and other bear-themed décor. It sat next to Mountains of Books, a bookstore owned by a couple of my good friends, Zander and Joey. This adorable neighborhood was starting to get a reputation as queer-friendly—one of many in Seattle adorned with pride, progress, and trans flags in windows and on flag poles—which I loved. Plus, it wasn’t too far away from my house and almost equidistant between Tristan’s place and mine.
And they made thebestcoffee.
I found us a table by the front windows, overlooking a park across the street. I loved to people-watch—writer’s brain, probably—and this way I could see Tristan when he got here.
I was a few minutes early, and Tris had to come a little farther than I did, so I puttered around on my phone while I waited.
As I did, the bell over the glass door chimed, and I glanced up. Seattle was a big town, so I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew. But as I watched this person I’d never seen before walk through the door and toward the counter, I couldn’t stop myself from tracking their movements. What was it about them that had grabbed my attention?
I’d never really connected with many people in my entire life. I’d had a handful of good friends in high school, college, and over the intervening years, and I’d felt a connection to a rare few enough to count them as good friends. Like Tristan, my BFF—his words—who’d forced his way into my life and became my best friend.
But I’d never felt a pull to anyone quite like this.
Tristan came in right behind them, and I gave him a quick nod and a pointed look at the counter. It was his turn to buy, and he knew my standard order—a vanilla latte—so he might as well just order for both of us.
Plus, that would give me time to track the mystery person.
I watched as they shuffled up to the counter, shoulders hunched as though uncertain or shy but their eyes bright and unwavering. Once they’d placed their order—I couldn’t hear what it was—they scanned the small café.
And their eyes met mine.
It was brief, but for the few seconds our eyes met, I swear I saw something in them that my soul recognized. Some connection, however fleeting.
I didn’t know why, but my heart dared to hope they felt it, too.
My breath caught as they glanced away, seemingly unaffected. But I couldn’t help but wonder . . . had their breathing picked up? Was their chest heaving beneath that sexy leather jacket? Were they just hiding the signs that they’d felt something when they looked at me as well?
“Vanilla latte for, uh, Sam . . . or, um, Cam?”
I blinked at the barista’s disjointed question before shooting a glare at Tristan, who had somehow gotten his caramel macchiato before my drink and was headed my way. He shot off a quick “You’re up” before plopping down in the seat across from me. I stared him down as I stood and hurried over to the counter.
I pointed at the drink on the counter, catching the barista’s gaze and asking, “Vanilla latte for Cam?” Damn Tris and his extremely not funny sense of humor.
“Uh . . .” The guy behind the counter, a young dark-haired attractive twink—similar in build to me, actually—looked over my shoulder to the person I’d caught eyes with across the room. Then he picked up the cup and squinted at the name written on it. “I . . . think so?”
