Page 118 of Bossy Hero

Fuck. No.

Unfortunately, I can’t bottle it up. No matter how tempting of an approach that may be.

“Um,” I start, my gaze searching for the words in my morning coffee like a dumbass. In my defense, I’ve barely slept over the last forty-eight hours. If my words are anywhere, they’ll be at the bottom of the mug.

Eying me over her avocado toast, Maddie rapidly loses her patience with my lack of a response. Any second, she’ll start pelting me with leading questions in that unobtrusive way of hers.

A lifetime of being around volatile assholes has taught her tact in touchy situations. And a few years with me has given her what I think of as the ability to stop giving a fuck about everyone’s feelings and put herself first.

Exactly as predicted, my inability to speak brings out her gentle cajoling. “It’s got to be quite a shock.”

“That it is, Maddie.”

Yesterday, I learned I had a daughter. A daughter who was trafficked by the Russian fucking mafia as payback against me. The same mafia that took out a hit on me, shooting Maddie in the process.

Shocking is one way to describe things.

She fights off a grin, reaching out to wrap her hand over mine. “Sorry for saying the most obvious thing. I’ll be quiet since I have nothing of value to add.”

“You don’t need to be quiet or have anything profound for me. Just be with me.”

I thread our fingers together, longing for her comforting touch. The stark contrast of our skin tones never fails to capture my attention. Maddie’s an indoor gal, whereas I’ve spent most of my life outside, often in grueling conditions. My hands are proof of the overly physical life I’ve led. She was never a kept woman in the spoiled princess way, but she hasn’t done hard labor. Our hands reflect those differences in blinding color.

“Even still, I wish I had some words of wisdom for you. But all I can think is...”

I eat up the wistful look on her face for a second before prodding her to continue. “Is what?”

“This is your first daughter. Kri doesn’t count, considering she’s tougher than some of your boys.” She giggles to herself. “It’ll be interesting to see how you handle a girly girl. She seems... soft.”

“She does seem soft. But it isn’t weakness.” I shake my head for emphasis. “She’s got grit inside that pretty, polished package.”

She sets down her coffee, leans close, and whispers, “Did you do the thing?”

I crick my head, my eyes raising in question. “The thing?”

She purses her lips at me, and it hits me instantly what she’s getting at. “The brain probe thing,” she confirms my suspicion in that same hushed tone.

Her stifled volume brings an unexpected lightness to my shitty mood. There’s no one at my house but us, yet she’s whispering like we’ll be overheard.

I hide my grin behind my coffee cup. “Very funny.”

She knows I hate it when they call it that. Her daughter started it. At least, I think she did.

Then again, most people probably see it that way. To be honest, I don’t know what it is or why it works. It just does.

“I did,” I finally admit.

“And?” She leans forward, bracing her forearms on the kitchen table. “Is she fooling everyone with her cute little Southern twang and big, beautiful eyes? Or is she as sweet as she seems?”

Having finished my breakfast, I push my plate toward the side and scoot my chair around the table to get closer to her. “Why do I feel like you’re dancing around something?”

The tiny twitch under one eye gives her away.

I rest my hand on the top of her thigh, pulsing it gingerly. “Maddie, talk to me.”

“I was just um... wondering about her mother.” Her gaze falls to the table as if she’s unable to meet my eyes. “Do you remember her?”

Where is she going with this?

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