Page 60 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

“Skylar!” he exclaims, hopping off his stool and running toward me. His arms wrap around my waist in a tight hug, his head barely reaching my stomach.

Elodie, not one to be outdone, scurries over and attaches herself to my side, her tiny hands fisting the hem of Theo’s sweatshirt where it drapes over my thighs. "You're awake! Daddy said we shouldn't wake you."

I force a smile, pushing aside the lump in my throat. "Well, I'm awake now. What did you dream about?"

Lucas pulls back just enough to grin up at me. “I dreamed about hockey! And pancakes!”

Elodie gasps. “Me too! Pancakes with chocolate chips and whipped cream.”

Lucas looks instantly betrayed. “Mine had blueberries.”

I let out a soft laugh, ruffling his hair. “Guess we’ll have to make both, then. Won't we Daddy Cohen?”

As I approach the counter, Cohen turns from the stove, a spatula in hand. His eyes find mine, those deep blue pools that have a way of seeing right through someone. He gives me a once-over, and I can almost hear his thoughts clicking into place—Cohen never misses a beat, not even when he's buried in fatherhood and work responsibilities.

"Morning," I manage, my voice sounding more hoarse than I intended.

"Hey," he replies, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he steps closer. He hands me a mug of coffee, the black liquidsteaming gently, and I wrap my fingers around it, savoring the heat as it seeps into my palms.

"Thanks," I murmur, lifting the cup to my lips, letting the bitter aroma fill my senses.

"Any time." His hand reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that contradicts the strength in his calloused fingers. It's a simple gesture, but my skin tingles where his touch lingers.

"Hey, kids," he continues. "Go on up to the playroom and I'll call you when pancakes are ready."

Lucas and Elodie hightail out of the kitchen, discussing which game they wanted to play first.

"Did you sleep okay?" Cohen asks, his voice low enough that it doesn't carry.

"Fine," I lie, and take another sip of coffee. "You?"

"Like a rock," he answers, but the shadows under his eyes tell a different story—one of late nights and early mornings, of burdens shouldered alone.

The doorbell's chime slices through the quiet hum of the kitchen, and Austin's voice echoes from the foyer, "I've got it!"

Cohen’s gaze takes on a more serious tone as he looks down at me. He hasn’t pulled back, still standing so close I can almost feel his chest with each breath. But something has shifted.

"Skylar," he murmurs, his tone carrying a weight that pins me to the spot. "We need to talk."

Before I can muster a response, Theo is there. His chest presses against my back, his arms possessively circling my waist. The oversized hoodie I've thrown on does little to shield me from the solidity of him, the familiar scent of his cologne engulfing me. For a moment, I'm drowning in memories, in what his touch used to mean. Still does.

"Hey," Theo breathes into my hair, the word a soft caress against my ear.

"Hey back," I echo, voice barely above a whisper. My gaze flits to Cohen, who watches us with an unreadable expression, his proximity setting my nerves alight.

Then, the atmosphere shifts, heavy footsteps signaling Austin's return. He strides into the kitchen, Brielle in tow. She's all sharp angles and sleek lines, the epitome of poise and polish. But her composure fractures when her gaze lands on me, disheveled in Theo's hoodie, trapped between the two men who've managed to unravel me in their own ways.

"You," Brielle seethes. Her eyes rake over me, taking in every detail—the tousled hair, the way I'm sandwiched between Theo and Cohen. It's a scene ripe for misinterpretation—although it isn’t really a misinterpretation, is it? From the tightening of Brielle's lips, I know she's drawing every possible conclusion.

"Hi, Brielle," I manage, stepping forward to untangle myself from Theo's embrace. I inch away from Cohen, too, striving for a semblance of professionalism despite the incriminating setup. But the room feels smaller now, charged with tension that no one dares to address—not yet.

The silence in the room feels like a tangible thing, thick and suffocating. I swallow hard, my pulse racing as I catch the narrowing of Brielle's eyes. Her perfectly shaped lips twist into a sneer, and she turns her head toward Austin, seeking some sort of solidarity in her outrage.

"Are you kidding me?" The sharpness in her voice slices through the tension, making everyone still. It's a sound that demands attention, from someone who is accustomed to bending others to their will.

Her gaze snaps back to me, dissecting every inch of my disarray with clinical precision. "This is completely inappropriate," she hisses, stepping closer. "How unprofessional can you be, nanny? Or is it teacher? Or whore? Iknewit. Ijust didn’t realize—" She gestures at Theo and Cohen with a manicured hand, her tone dripping with disdain.

I feel my cheeks burn hot with embarrassment, but there's a fire in my belly, too. This isn't her place, her business. But then she takes it a step further, her eyes lighting up with a cruel kind of glee. "I should take this to the school board," she threatens, voice laced with smug satisfaction. "They would have a field day with this scandal."

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