Accidental Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

HANNAH

Ifucking hate Spanx.

Why the hell do I bother?

Spanx and heels. If you ever need to torture someone for information, have them wear these for a few days.

That’ll make anyone talk.

I click across the marble floor of this ridiculously upscale Chicago bar in River North, my stilettos echoing with each step.

The little black dress I picked out this morning felt like armor when I was standing in my apartment mirror, but now it feels like a costume I'm not sure I know how to wear.

The Spanx are cutting into my ribs with every breath, and I'm already regretting this entire plan.

But I closed the Morrison condo today. Three point seven million dollars, and I earned every penny of that commission. If that's not worth celebrating with a terrible dating app meetup, I don't know what is.

After a year of being on the stupid app, I finally swiped right.

I’m ready for love.

Okay, maybe not love, but I’m certainly looking for a little action.

I’m twenty-four and live like a spinster. No dating. No sex. Nothing.

I want some action. Just one night with a little flirting and maybe a little kissing.

Hell, I might even go for a little touching.

The bar is the kind of place where everything costs too much, and everyone looks like they stepped out of a magazine. Low lighting, exposed brick, and bartenders who probably have actual degrees in mixology. I scan the room, looking for Kevin, the accountant.

Kevin was the man who was finally going to break my dry spell.

I wasn't thrilled when I learned he was an accountant, but I realized I was being a little judgy. He only had three pictures on his profile and none of them were all that clear, but he looked hot.

Good body.

And I did have a fondness for accountants.

I maybe should have asked for more specifics about what he was wearing. Every man in here was wearing a dark suit and the women were wearing little black dresses.

And this is why I didn’t do apps.

I sigh and scan the area.

Bingo.

There. Corner table. Black suit, black hair. Broad shoulders.

Kevin said he did boxing in his free time.

That’s him.

Hot damn!

I take a deep breath and walk over, my confidence building with each step.

This is it. After a year of swiping left on every guy who looked like he might ask me to split the check, I finally said yes to someone.

Kevin seemed nice enough in our messages—a little mysterious, but maybe that's exactly what I need.

"Kevin?" I slide into the seat across from him, offering my best smile.

He raises an eyebrow. Something in his expression makes my stomach flip. Not the nervous flutter I was expecting, but something deeper. Darker. His eyes are blue—not the friendly blue of summer skies, but the cold blue of a violent ocean.

Danger.

I sense danger from him.

It’s rolling off him in waves.

A little voice in the back of my head tells me to get up and leave. This is not the one. Swipe right on someone else.

This man—he’s sexy and dangerous and making my body flush from head to toe.

"Hello, Red." His voice is smooth, with just the hint of an accent I can't place. "Let me buy you a drink."

I blink. "Red?"

He doesn't answer, just signals the bartender with two fingers. No smile, no explanation, just that steady stare that makes me feel like he's very literally undressing me with his eyes.

"Are you Kevin?" I ask, suddenly uncertain. I get to my feet.

This feels off.

Caution lights are blinking behind my eyes. Danger, danger.

A server appears with two drinks, puts them on the table and practically runs away.

Smart woman.

Kevin slides a drink across the table—something amber and expensive-looking that I definitely didn't order. "Sit down, Red."

The way he says it isn't a request. There's authority in his tone that makes me want to do exactly what he says, even though every rational part of my brain is screaming that this man is not Kevin the accountant.

Kevin was supposed to be safe. Boring. The kind of guy who'd order a beer and ask about my five-year plan.

This man looks like he could buy the bar without checking his bank balance.

I suppose he could be Kevin. Maybe he used an old photo.

To the logical side of my brain’s abject horror, I sit back down.

“Thank you,” I murmur as I pick up the glass.

If I’m going to do this, I need a little liquid courage.

It burns going down, but in a good way. Whiskey, maybe, or something equally dangerous.

He watches me with those unsettling blue eyes, like he's waiting for something. The silence stretches between us as he studies me. I feel like a bug under a microscope. I should feel uncomfortable, but instead I feel... alive. Electric.

That gaze. Those eyes. It’s like his fingers are dancing over my skin.

"Accounting must be treating you well." I gesture vaguely at his suit, which now that I'm looking closer, I can see it’s designer. It has to be. Tailored especially to his broad shoulders.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "You could say that."

More silence. He's not making this easy, but somehow I find myself leaning forward instead of making excuses to leave. There's something magnetic about him, something that pulls at me in ways I don't understand.

"I closed a big deal today," I hear myself saying. "Real estate.”

"Celebrating, then." It's not a question.

"Trying to." I take another sip of the drink, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. "Though you're not exactly what I expected from your profile."

Another almost-smile. "Disappointed?"

I should be. This man is nothing like the safe, predictable Kevin I thought I was meeting. He's dangerous in a way I can't define, all sharp edges and barely contained power. But disappointed?

"No," I admit, surprising myself. "Not disappointed."

The admission hangs between us like a dare. He leans back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"Tell me about this deal," he says casually.

I find myself talking.

I tell him about the Morrison condo, about the months of negotiations and the client who changed her mind six times before finally signing. I tell him about the view and the marble bathrooms. He listens without interrupting, asking questions that show he's actually paying attention.

I’m rambling. He doesn’t give a shit.

I don’t give a shit.

I just can’t stop talking.

Somewhere during my second drink—when did he order that? He starts asking about me. Not the usual dating questions about favorite movies and weekend hobbies, but real questions. What drives me. What I want. What scares me.

"Control," I find myself saying when he asks what I'm afraid of losing. "I've worked too hard to get where I am to let someone else call the shots."

"And yet you swiped right," he points out.

"Moment of weakness." The alcohol is making me honest in ways I don't usually allow. "I've been on that app for a year. Do you know how many messages I get from guys who want to split appetizers and talk about their crypto portfolios?"

He laughs—is it a laugh? It’s more of a low rumble that does things to my insides I'm not prepared for.

"So what changed your mind about me?" he asks.

I study his profile picture in my mind—professional, clean-cut, safe. Nothing like the man sitting across from me now. "Maybe I was tired of safe," I say.

The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him.

I've built my entire life around safe choices.

Safe job, safe apartment, safe relationships that never last long enough to get complicated.

But sitting here with this stranger who calls me Red like he's known me for years, safe feels overrated.

"Dangerous confession," he murmurs.

"What about you?" I lean forward, emboldened by the whiskey and his attention. "What are you afraid of?"

For a moment, something flickers across his face. Something raw and unguarded. Then it's gone, replaced by that careful control.

"Losing what's mine," he says simply.

It’s not the words that send a shiver down my spine. It’s the way he’s looking at me.

Like I’m his.

The possessiveness in his tone should bother me. Should send me running for the exit with my feminist principles intact. Instead, it sends heat shooting through my veins.

"And what's yours?" I ask, my voice just a little husky.

"That depends," he says.

“On?”

“On how bold you're feeling tonight."

My breath catches. This is it—the moment where I either play it safe or dive headfirst into whatever this is. The old Hannah would make an excuse, thank him for the drinks, and go home to her empty apartment and her sensible life.

But I closed a three-point-seven-million-dollar deal today. I earned that commission through months of hard work and determination. If I can navigate real estate, I can handle a one night stand with a mysterious stranger.

"I'm feeling pretty bold," I hear myself say.

His eyes darken. "How bold?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it over the ambient noise of the bar. This is crazy. This is exactly the kind of impulsive decision I've spent my adult life avoiding.

But God, I want this. Want him. Want to know what it feels like to let someone else take control for once.

"Bold enough to ask if you'd like to get a room," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

His smile is slow and predatory. "You're full of surprises, Red."

I ignore his reference to my hair color. I’ve been called Red a thousand times before. It’s annoying.

But when he says it, fuck me. It sounds like a dirty word.

"Is that a yes?" I ask.

I don’t know what happened to my good sense. Did he spike my drink?

No.

The moment I laid eyes on him, I knew I wanted to fuck him.

He doesn't answer immediately. Just studies me with those deep-blue eyes, like he's weighing something important. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out enough cash to cover our drinks and a generous tip.

"What do you think?" he asks, standing and extending his hand to me.

I look at his hand. There are a few tattoos across his knuckles. The tats don’t track with the designer suit. I should ask questions. Should demand to know his real name, his actual job, why he's playing along with this case of mistaken identity.

Instead, I place my hand in his and let him pull me to my feet.

"I think that this is either the best decision I've ever made or the worst."

"We'll find out," he says, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.

As we walk toward the exit, his hand at the small of my back, I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror behind the bar.

We look like we belong together—him in his perfectly tailored suit, me in my little black dress.

We look like the kind of couple that kicks ass by day and fucks like rabbits all night.

My hair, which is technically auburn, is perfectly styled in thick waves hanging down my back. My pale skin, thanks to a long Chicago winter, contrasts with the black of my dress.

And yeah, the Spanx suck, but damn, I look good in this dress. I look like a woman worthy of being on the arm of the man that looks like he could bend steel without breaking a sweat.

For once in my carefully planned life, I'm going to let go of control and see what happens.

After all, what's the worst that could go wrong?