Page 2 of Off-Limits Daddy
But no matter how many cups of diner coffee I drank, I couldn’t wash the aftertaste ofBenout of my mouth.
My relationship with the man started like all the best mistakes do—with charm thick as honey and eyes that made promises too big to fit in one person. For a while, I thought I’d won the lottery. Late-night talks, wild compliments, kisses that made me feel like I mattered.
Then came the tiny cracks. Little comments about my sketches. How the hands looked awkward, or the colors were wrong, or“Maybe this would be better if you tried something different, babe.”
Different always meant smaller. Quieter.Less.
And when people started noticing my work—professors, other students, even galleries—I saw it in his eyes: that sharp twist of jealousy masked as “just being honest.”
But then I caught him lying. It wasn't even the cheating that wrecked me—it was the way he acted likeIwas the one being dramatic for caring.
I ended the relationship before I forgot who I was entirely.
Coming home wasn’t part of the plan. But right now, surrounded by Formica counters and bad fluorescent lighting, it felt like the smartest thing I’d done in months.
Being here, sitting with these two idiots, smelling fryer grease and bad coffee? It was the first time in months I could breathe properly.
“Anyway,” Sage said, snagging a fry from my plate like it was his God-given right, “Reid said he might swing by the shop later.”
The fry I’d just picked up hovered halfway to my mouth, suddenly heavy. “Reid?”
“Yeah. We’re working on something.” My brother waved his hand vaguely. “You know how he is with projects.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
It was a nothing word. Small, awkward, not nearly enough to hide the way his name hit me like stepping on a LEGO barefoot in the dark.My pulse thudded hard against my ribs—embarrassing, really, howjust his namecould do that to me. Like a bruise I kept poking to see if it still hurt.
I shoved the fry in my mouth, chewing hard. Swallowing. Not choking. Definitely not avoiding eye contact. Definitely not stirring my coffee like it suddenly needed to beblended.
Across the table, Cael gave me a look. Eyebrows lifted, mouth curved, because he knewexactlywhere my head was.
I ignored him. Or tried to.
Reid Morgan. Local firefighter. Built like he could carry a refrigerator by himself. Divorced. Basically the human version of a summer storm—grumpy, hot, and slightly dangerous.
And yeah. I might’ve had a stupid crush on him since before I knew what having a crush even meant.
But that was ancient history. I was here for lasagna, emotional damage repair, andpossiblyfiguring out how to start my life over without turning into a complete mess.
“Relax,” Sage added. “We’re just fixing the truck.”
“I’m relaxed,” I said too quickly. “Totally relaxed. What made you think I'm not relaxed?”
Cael kicked my foot under the table, smirking like a cat who’d just knocked something off the shelf on purpose. “Sure you are.”
I focused on the coffee again. Bitter. Too much powdered creamer. Warm enough to settle something shaky in my chest, anyway.
Not long after, we piled into Sage’s truck. His vehicle wasn’t exactly built for comfort. It was an older Ford—extended cab, bench seat up front, a narrow excuse for a back seat behind it. The kind of truck that smelled like motor oil no matter how many pine tree air fresheners you hung from the rearview.
“Shotgun,” I said automatically, tugging open the passenger door. The bench could fit three if you didn’t mind brushing shoulders, but Sage kept the middle spot reserved—neatly stacked manuals and a small crate of tools riding shotgun like permanent passengers. Practical. Predictable. Veryhim.
Cael peered in behind me, wrinkling his nose. “Seriously?”
He yanked open the smaller rear door and folded himself into the cramped back seat like a newborn deer with limbs everywhere. Boots bumping into the back of my seat. Rings catching the overhead handle as he tried to balance himself.
“No worries,” he said brightly. “Ilovebeing uncomfortable.”
“Watch the leather,” Sage muttered, sliding behind the wheel, but his tone was more muscle memory than actual irritation.
