Page 100 of The Single Dad Project

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER ONE

ALLBROOKLYNHAYESwanted for Christmas was a calm, unexciting, even downright boring, holiday. Oh and maybe some of her gran’s homemade peanut brittle in her stocking.

She didn’t foresee also wanting, above all, Elvis Presley’sBlue Christmasto shut. The. Fuck. Up.

“Make it stop.” She groaned, rolling over in her bed, wrapping her arms around her pillow and dragging it over her head.

But the thick down couldn’t drown out Elvis, and what the hell? Her family was more Jackson 5,Give Love on Christmas Daythan the King of Rock ’n’ Roll. Who’d decided to go rogue? And why were they in her house doing it?

“Oh my God, enough,” she muttered, shoving the pillow aside and jackknifing to a sitting position when it started playing over again.

And she immediately regretted the abrupt action.

Holy shit.

She groaned again, her hands shooting up to clutch her head. Pain pounded against her skull. What the...? Who had unleashed the flying monkeys inside her head, and why in thehellwas that music still playing? And so loudly? Christmas cheer, her ass. Did no one around here respect the dead and dying?

Another groan ripped free of her, and she ground the heels of her palms tighter to her temples as if that would somehow crush the steady drilling inside her head. Slowly lying back down, she curled onto her side, her foot brushing against a... Oh God!A what?

Not giving a damn about her aching head, she threw the covers back and scrambled from the bed. Her heart tried to fight its way out of her chest, scrambling for her throat.

“Oh God,” she rasped. Even without her glasses she could see the human-shaped lump under the white hotel blankets. “Oh God. There’s someone... There’s someone in my bed,” she apparently explained to the sleepingsomeone.

Not that he or she was paying attention because, y’know,sleeping.

Hand circling her throat, she gaped—until the recycled air of the room’s AC brushed over her skin like cool trailing fingertips.

Her very naked skin.

I repeat, holy shit!

Gasping, Brooklyn jerked her head down, staring atallof her.

Oh God. OhGod. OhGodOhGodOhGod.

What had she done?

Nonono. What had she done andwhohad she done itwith?

With her fuzzy, nearsighted vision, all she could tell from the figure shrouded by the covers was he or she seemed tall. And a very deep sleeper. Or maybe—she groaned again, one hand pressed to her forehead and the other to her roiling stomach—as hungover as she was.

Hungover. Vegas. Corporate bonding trip for her marketing company, Media Mavens. Casino. Drinks.

Oh Lawd, sooo many drinks.

Slowly dropping her gaze to the floor because damn, even her eyeballs hurt, for the first time she noticed all the clothes scattered around like breadcrumbs. At least, she assumed they were clothes. That could possibly be a dark pair of pants there. Her black skinny jeans there. A blue dress shirt thrown over the back of the chair. Her green cropped sweater at the feet of the same chair. And... She squeezed her eyes shut. Were those her lilac lace panties hanging for dear life to the lampshade?

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