Page 33 of Reckless Single Daddy

As I walk in front of Cade and lead him to my bedroom, he follows close behind me. In the distance, I can hear Mom, Dad, and Mia start asking Mike what is going on in anxious voices.

I hear Mike answer, “Sloane has a very eager fan, and I asked Cade for help with it. You know Sloane. If you tell her to stay put, she does the opposite.”

Thanks, Mike. At least my eagerness to rebel will keep them away.

But for now, my sights are on Cade.

Chapter fifteen

Cade

I have very few regrets. I’ve never been one to live life with many simply because it doesn’t change the mistakes you make. It doesn’t mean you can’t learn from them, but regretting your decisions is a useless mindset.

But I regret this decision. Barging into the Bennett house, expecting the worst, and making a mess of everything before I even could see what was right in front of me—that’s going to haunt me for a while. I can’t fix it. I can’t learn from this mistake. The people Sloane and I tried so hard to keep this from now know that something is going on between us, and it’s my fault.

The look in Sloane’s eyes was enough to burn me like molten lava. But I didn’t simmer down, despite seeing her fiery rage, but I certainly felt my mood shift. I wish I could turn back time and arrive here calmer and more collected, but I know that would be too much to ask of me.

Once we get upstairs and Sloane ushers me into her room, she shuts the door behind her. My eyes land on the painting in the corner. I knew she was a remarkable artist, but I didn’t realize just how much until now. Though the painting is clearly unfinished, it’s undeniably a portrait of Mike, and it’s a stunning start. I never spent much time looking and appreciating art until Sloane and I got closer, but I can see why she enjoys it so much.

When I tell her to paint with her emotions, it isn’t based on factually knowing and understanding the craft, but simply knowing creativity in a general sense. Creativity is rooted in feeling, whether it’s painting, writing, or even photography. People don’t create simply because it’s a job; they create because their feelings allow them to, thus transforming it into a possible source of income. Sloane always knew that painting was rooted in emotions, but it seemed once she turned it into a job and people noticed, the pressures outshone what she loved about it. She allowed it to become a chore, which made it less passionate.

But that’s not why we’re in her bedroom, is it? She’s not here to show me her progress.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

I turn around to look at her. Her arms are crossed over her chest, as if they’re a shield to protect herself from me. I suppose I deserve it. I came in here like some type of caveman, demanding her to answer my messages and calls, not even considering that she could be completely fine. But can she blame me? I got her text message at the office, showing a new message from the stalker. And not from her family’s mailbox like before, but sent to her email address. This person has internet access to her now, and the details they shared were much more revealing than the first message.

The first one was just a teaser. This one was a warning. It’s chilling because it isn’t just Sloane involved now, but me. I’m on this person’s radar, and whatever secrets they’ve dug up on Sloane don’t hold a candle to the secrets they could dig up on me.

But that’s all meaningless in comparison to Sloane’s safety, and Liam’s. Dig up all the information you want on my past. It isn’t perfect by any means, but leave my son and Sloane alone. Then again, none of this would be happening if not for Sloane. I’m not saying she is at fault because that obviously isn’t the case, but she is the object of their affections. I’m nothing more than a potential casualty.

“You sent me a text with that message. What was I supposed to think?” I ask, still gravely upset that she’s actually angry with me about this. All I want to do is protect her. Why is that so wrong?

“I don’t care that you came here as fast as you could,” she says, dropping her hands at her side. “I care about how you spoke to Mike. And how you spoke to me,” she adds.

I shake my head and scoff. Did I insult Mike? Yeah, I did. I shouldn’t have, that’s for sure. After all, he knew about the first letter from the stalker, and it was him who called me, asking me for additional resources. Even if I hadn’t already known about it, he trusted me enough to get me involved. Yes, I shouldn’t have said he and the police department were essentially useless just because they’re a small-town force. They do a good job for this community. But that doesn’t mean they are equipped to handle something like this.

This stalker is much more calculated than some loser hacker using the Rose Valley Public Library to send messages that are deemed untraceable because the town doesn’t have the funding to up its security. This person may not even be in Rose Valley at all.

“I wanted to make sure you were safe,” I say. We’re already in this mess, and I won’t apologize for caring about her enough to bulldoze anyone, including my best friend, to get to her. Yes, I admit it was wrong of me, but I won’t apologize for it.

She shakes her head. “So you thought you could boss me around like you own me or something?” she asks, her jaw tightening.

Her eyes, already blazing with anger, alight with something new entirely, and it sends a lick of flame towards me, stirring up my own fire. A newfound heat that I never thought I wanted—a sense of possessiveness that I’m beginning to see I have with Sloane. That feeling of wanting her, but keeping her at a distance… it’s all beginning to make sense.

I want Sloane more badly than ever. I want her to be mine and mine only, like a rabid beast staking my claim on her. But I know I still keep her at arm’s length as a way to protect myself from eventual heartbreak. The pain I’ve known with love is too much, and I can’t bear to go through it again.

I step toward her until our chests press against one another. Neither of us is backing down from this desire between us. “Don’t I?” I say, finally answering her question.

Her breath catches, and her chest heaves like she’s trying to regulate the anger and lust warring inside her body, cooling it to match the temperature in the room.

But how can she, when the room is scorching with my now-desperate need for her?

I place my hands on her hips and tug her even closer to me. She doesn’t push away, but lets me guide her to the closed door. I can feel her heart pounding as I grab her hands and put them above her head in a submissive position.

“Are you enjoying this?” she asks in a husk of a whisper that barely reaches my ear.

I press my body against hers in answer, causing her breath to hitch again as she feels the proof of my desire poking against the warm apex of her thighs.

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