Page 7 of Dad Bod Undercover Boss

I grab the towels I placed by the dishwasher this morning in case of any more leakages and place them in the washing basket. It’s hardly worth repairing with just me here. I can wash up the few plates and dishes I use. Besides, I don’t have the money to repair or replace the dishwasher and can’t imagine I will anytime soon.

The rich aroma of chicken stew permeates the air from the slow cooker I set going before work this morning, and my stomach grumbles.

"Yoga, shower, then food," I tell myself.

I change into yoga pants and a stretchy t-shirt and pull out my yoga mat in the living room. Selecting my favourite yoga instructor on YouTube, I flow through the sun salutations before moving into the more challenging poses. Yoga was something Mum and I enjoyed together, and we attended a class not far from home. Sadly, that all fell by the wayside when she became ill, and after she was gone, the class was no longer running.

An hour later, I’m freshly showered and dressed in pink jeans, a pink T-shirt, and pink fluffy slippers. Pink became my favourite colour when Mum was diagnosed, being as the pink ribbon is synonymous with breast cancer. I even dyed my hair pink when I did the Run for Breast Cancer UK charity event a few months after Mum died.

I leave my hair down around my shoulders and smile at myself in the mirror. Pretty sure Max would laugh his head off if he could see me in all my pink glory. Although why I'm thinking about him at all is a mystery. I don't go ga-ga over men, no matter how good-looking they are. I've always been far too practical for romantic flights of fancy. But there's no denying that there was something simmering between Max and me. Something I've never experienced.

I head downstairs and grab a dish from the cupboard, and I fill it with stew from the slow cooker. Carrying it into the dining room, I sit at the small drop-leaf table. Tears prick my eyes as I remember all the meals Mum and I shared here. It's the four-year anniversary of her death in a few months, and for some reason, I’m extra emotional today. Too many days have passed since our final hug.

We don’t remember days, we remember moments.

Mum’s favourite quote comes back to me. She read it somewhere, and it resonated with her. I didn’t truly appreciate its meaning until she passed away.

I remember the moments I blew out the candles on my birthday cakes at this table. She baked me a cake every year until she got sick.

I remember the moment we switched on the tree lights one Christmas, and the whole lot went up with a bang and singed part of Mum’s eyebrow.

I remember the moment we brought Monty home as a kitten, and he peed on Mum’s lap.

And I remember the moment the spark left her eyes as Mum finally succumbed to breast cancer. It was two days after my eighteenth birthday.

Another moment wiggles its way into my memories. Looking into Max’s gorgeous brown eyes and the electricity that sparked between us when we touched.

For the first time in my almost twenty-three years, my heart is in danger … and it scares me to death.

Chapter5

Max

“How was your evening?”I ask Eva the following morning.

She turns from her locker in the break room, where she’s placing her personal belongings. “Quiet. Monty and I watched a film.”

“Which film?”

“I’ll give you a clue.” She smirks and clears her throat. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

I burst out laughing. “Worst accent ever.”

“Rude!” Eva glares at me as she closes her locker “Casablanca is a classic.”

“I know the line, but I’ve never seen the film,” I admit.

Eva’s mouth drops open, and her eyes widen in horror. “You’ve never seen Casablanca? Max Lincoln, you havenotlived.”

She’s right, I haven’t. Not fully. Not until I met her. “Maybe I should swing by one night, and you can show me what I’m missing.”

Her blue eyes flare, and her cheeks warm with colour. It’s clear to see where her mind went with my words, and my cock twitches in response.

Eva blows out a shaky breath, and her eyes cloud over. “Max … I-I don’t date co-workers.”

“Who said anything about dating?" I tease. "Besides, who are you trying to convince?” I ask softly. “Me? Or yourself?”

She opens her mouth to reply when we’re interrupted by an annoyingly nasal voice.

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