Page 28 of Second Chance Daddy
By seven AM, I’m already in the kitchen, slamming pots around with all the grace of a raccoon in a dumpster.
“Mommy,” Aria calls softly from the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes, hair sticking up like a baby bird. She climbs onto a chair, watching me cook.
“Morning, nugget.” I force cheer into my voice, ignoring the exhaustion scraping at my edges.
I flip a pancake too hard. It lands half off the pan, batter splattering across the stovetop.
Fantastic.
“Oops. Mommy’s a little clumsy this morning.”
“Why?” Aria asks.
“Just tired, baby.” I toss the ruined pancake, pour more batter.Focus, Cassie.Don’t burn the house down.
“From the party?”
“Something like that.”
“I liked the party. The tall man gave me cake.”
I knew that already. “Did he?”
“Uh-huh. He likes chocolate too and said I’m a grown-up, so I can have some more.”
Of course, he did. God forbid Dante Romano not be charming, even to our three-year-old.
No.
Not ours.
Mine.
I slide a lopsided pancake onto her plate, drown it in syrup the way she likes. “Eat up, nugget. We’ve got a busy day.”
She digs in and all is quiet on that front until she asks it—the loaded grenade toddler curiosity has unlimited access to.
“Where is my daddy? Everyone at daycare has a daddy. Will mine come to visit soon?”
The spatula slips. Butter hisses in the pan. My throat closes like someone took a steel clamp to it.
I grip the counter. Smile like my world isn’t detonating and switch off the gas. “Look at the time!” I deflect the best I know how. I hate lying to her. “We’re going to be late! Better hurry and finish those pancakes, nugget.”
She frowns, confused, but doesn’t argue. She’s going to ask again. And next time, I’d better have an answer ready that doesn’t crack me in two. I just need to decide who to tell her about—Gino or Dante.
Forty-five minutes later,we’re at Honey & Hearth. The morning rush hasn’t started yet, giving me time to prepare. I set Aria up at her usual spot with some crayons and paper and head to the kitchen.
And that’s when the day really goes to shit.
The first batch of muffins collapses in the center, deflated as my soul. The next batch burns because I’m too busy overthinking last night to set a timer.
The butter order? Forgot to place it. Now I need to get this next batch just right because I’m out of fucking butter.
I'd better call my supplier to see if he’ll deliver.
My to-do list laughs at me from the counter.
By noon, I’m ready to cry into the frosting bags.
