Page 5 of Power Play Daddies
I don’t know who chose it, but the opening notes of a ridiculously cheesy love song blast through the speakers. A drunken guy stumbles to the mic, slurring his way through the first line.
“Oh, no,” I mutter under my breath, trying not to laugh.
I glance toward the stage, and that’s when I see him.
Dark brown hair, messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night. A black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, ripped jeans, boots scuffed to hell. He’s leaning back in his chair,arms crossed, and there’s this look on his face—like he’s trying not to cringe at the singing.
And then he looks at me.
His lips curve into a slow smile, and my stomach flips.
Holy shit. It’s Beau Callahan. Beau “Blaze” Callahan.
I try to play it cool, but when he stands up and starts walking toward me, I’m pretty sure I forget how to breathe.
“Hey,” he says, stopping in front of me. His voice is low, a little rough.
“Hi,” I manage, my own voice surprisingly steady.
“I’m Beau.”
“I know.” Crap. That sounded weird. “I mean… uh, I’m Daisy.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and deep. “Nice to meet you, Daisy.” He glances toward the door. “Your boyfriend ditched you?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “That was my friend. He went to meet his husband.”
“Ah.” His smile widens, and he motions to the stool next to me. “Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all.”
He slides onto the stool, signaling the bartender. “So, Daisy, you from around here?”
“Yeah. You?”
“For now.” He orders a whiskey, neat. Of course, he would drink whiskey.
“Work?” I ask.
“Something like that.” I can tell he’s deliberately avoiding the topic, so I decide to abandon that line of conversation.
The guy at the mic hits a high note—badly—and we both wince.
“Wow,” I say, biting back a laugh.
“That’s one way to clear a bar,” he says, smirking. I laugh, and he glances at my beer. “Not a whiskey fan?”
“Beer’s cheaper,” I say with a shrug.
“Fair enough.” He lifts his glass, and I clink my bottle against it.
For a while, we talk about nothing and everything. I tell him about Slim, and he tells me about the Doberman he had as a kid.
His smile is easy, his laugh infectious, and there’s an energy between us that makes the rest of the bar fade away. Neither of us talks about our jobs, and I have a feeling he has no interest in talking hockey.
“So, karaoke,” he says, leaning back in his stool. “What’s your go-to?”
“‘I Will Survive,’” I say without hesitation.
