Page 114 of Rescued by the Single Dad

Nodding, she gathered up her pants and underwear, then walked to the bathroom where she peed and got re-dressed.

Rejoining him in the bright warehouse-style brewery was a little strange.

Yes, they’d had sex already, but nothing that ... wild. Nothing that ... passionate.

Even their first time together, which had been spontaneous and fevered, wasn’t like this.

It was as if Clint was pouring out not only his feelings for her but also revealing his true self. That until now, he’d been playing it safe. But now, he was letting her see who he really was.

Which was a closet dominant who liked to talk dirty, spank and bite her ass. He was also an expert at hair pulling.

Was he also an expert at choking?

That thought took root in her brain before she could stop it, and a smile curled her lips just as he turned around. His brows hiked up in curiosity.

“What’s got you smiling like that?” Looping an arm around her waist, he steered them to the door, flicking off the light before he locked up. “Hmm?” he probed again, shoving the keys into his pocket.

“Just thinking about how I like this new, passionate and dirty side of you. Wondering what other surprises you have for me. And also wondering about some of your other hidden skills.”

He switched his arm from her waist to her shoulder and tugged her right under his arm, tight and protective as they carefully made their way past the cabins and toward the road that led to their houses on the hill. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You’ll have to stick around and find out, I guess.”

Her belly warmed at his words, but something niggled at the back of her brain at the same time. Two opposing forces. One happy and wrapped in positivity, possibility, and idealism. The other shrouded in reality, practicality and logistics

Unfortunately, it was the latter that was the loudest, and when she went to bed wrapped up in Clint’s arms, she felt the cold brush of doubt wash across her skin. Nothing good ever lasted for Brooke. It never had and it never would. Maybe she just wasn’t worthy of love and happiness.

Happily ever afters were for the heroines she played in the movies, but not for her.

That voice, the one that sounded an awful lot like her father, whispered and taunted in the back of her mind, trying to convince her that the only reason Clint wanted her was because she needed help. His white knight complex kicked into gear and he got something out of being the one to rescue her. To pick her lifeless body off the rocks and carry her to safety. To haul her around the house because she couldn’t walk or crawl. He liked being her savior. He got off on it. So, what would happen when she no longer needed help? Would he no longer want her? Would he no longer have need for her?

Once the truth got out about her still being alive and she was no longer a damsel in distress for Clint to save, would he lose interest? She didn’t want to believe it, but a big part of her believed he would.

After their evening on the beach and in the brewery, finding a blissful and comfortable routine with Brooke came easily. They woke up before the rest of the house, made love in the morning, showered together, and met Talia and Rocco downstairs in the kitchen for breakfast. Then Talia went to school—well, at least she did on Thursday and Friday—and Clint went to work, while Rocco and Brooke unproductively stewed over their father and the entire situation. Their routine only spanned three days so far, but he was ready for it to last the rest of his life.

Minus, of course, Brooke hiding in his house and stewing about her father and a free-roaming would-be assassin.

One Friday, after a full day of work, he returned home to find that Brooke and Rocco had made dinner, and Talia was in better spirits than she had been a couple of days ago. She didn’t let Barnacle bother her anymore, and she planned to give her Mother’s Day gift to Clint, as per Brooke’s suggestion.

Now, it was Saturday, and Clint and his brothers were heading to Bonn Remmen’s celebration of life in the field across from the grocery store.

The children still had another month of school, but the college kids were out for the summer, and in some of the southern states the kids got out of school in May. So the tourists were already flooding the island, making everything busier. The ferry had a three-sailing wait Friday night and all day Saturday.

It was going to be a very chaotic summer on the island.

Which was good for business—all the businesses—but it made relaxing where you lived a bit tougher for the locals.

Clint knew he and all of his brother’s needed to go to this evening's celebration, but he felt bad leaving all the kids with Brooke and Rocco. She wasn’t a babysitter, and he certainly didn’t want her feeling like he was treating her as one.

But she actually insisted that they leave all the kids with her and Rocco. She said she was excited to babysit and that she and the kids had some surprises planned that did not involve the dads.

Rocco was rolling out pizza dough for a make-your-own-pizza night, and they were going to watch as many of the Toy Story movies as they could before tiny people started falling asleep.

The kids begged for their fathers to let them stay with Brooke and Rocco, so who were they to say no when they had two free babysitters eager to wrangle their wildlings for a few hours?

Of course, people on the island would wonder who was watching the children if all six brothers were there, so they came up with the excuse that a couple of the new college-aged servers were babysitting. They’d keep details vague, but it was the easiest lie since newcomers to the island, particularly temporary transplants, didn't fall across islander’s radar as quickly. Nobody would question two random servers babysitting for extra cash. No names would be needed. It was a safe, benign lie.

“I don’t want to stay too long,” Bennett said, covering his mouth with a yawn as Clint drove them all in his truck toward the venue. “It’s not that I don’t trust Brooke and Rocco with the kids. It’s that six kids is a lot for anybody.”

“We’ll stay long enough to make sure everybody who needs to see us there sees us. Mingle, shoot the shit, drink some booze—I hear Hardwood tried to donate spirits just like we tried to donate beer, but they were turned down—,” Wyatt said from the back seat of Clint’s truck. “Westhaven Winery and Twisted Witches Cidery tried, too.”

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