One Hot Daddy (Hot Brits #13)

Chapter One

Fletcher

Ah, what a lovely, sunny morning this is---until I woke up to the dulcet tones of my daughter Amelia shrieking.

It's not the "someone's dying" sort. No, it's the "don't you dare change the TV channel" variety.

Normally, I rise an hour earlier than the children so I can enjoy a shower and a quiet cup of coffee before I command them to get out of bed.

But I had a long night fixing work problems. My job as general manager of the hotel often requires round-the-clock attention.

Unfortunately, I spent three hours fixing the hotel's Wi-Fi network since our tech expert is away on vacation. I didn't get home until midnight.

I'd been about to jump into the shower when the fracas began. So, I hastily pull on a robe and jog into the living room. "What's the problem, Amelia?"

My fifteen-year-old daughter is sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed, chin lifted. "I was watching my favorite show, but Josh stole the remote from me. I had it first."

My oldest son rolls his eyes disdainfully. "You're such a girl."

I'm about to issue an edict when Henry, my eight-year-old son, shuffles into the room.

He folds his arms over his chest, much like Amelia had done, and frowns at me.

I waste no time on trying to guess what Henry wants.

I've learned that in this house, mornings belong to the swift and the shamelessly loud.

Henry wanders over to sofa, wearing a t-shirt and no socks, then flops down on the sofa.

I try my best to glower at him. "Henry, shoes and socks, please."

"Ugh, Dad, socks make me itchy."

Before I can argue with him about that, my eleven-year-old daughter, Charlotte, emerges from the bedroom she shares with Amelia and ambles past me. Her hair flounces about in wild brown loops, and her shorts barely reach below her hips.

I grasp Charlotte's elbow, halting her. "We've talked about this before, pet. Shorts must cover your thigh down to at least halfway to the knee."

"Come on, Dad," she whines. "I'm not super old like Grandma."

"That's the rule. No exceptions."

My daughter sighs, her shoulders sagging. Then she jogs back to her room, emerging moments later wearing appropriate attire---and holding a soccer ball under one arm.

I kiss her cheek. "Thank you, pet."

She rolls her eyes, then wanders over to the table, balancing that soccer ball on her hip while she pours herself a glass of orange juice. Most of it makes it into the cup. Some, by design, spills onto Henry's bare foot.

"Charlie, you jerk!" he says with all the petulance of an eight-year-old. "I'm telling Dad!"

His sister makes a farting noise with her lips.

"Enough. I am Dad, and I'm right here," I declare, setting a hot frying pan on the stove and pretending I didn't just step on a Lego. Henry loves those blasted things.

"Oh no, you're not Dad yet," Amelia declares, not looking up from her juice. "You haven't had your coffee yet. You're super grumpy until then."

She's not wrong. I'm hovering somewhere in the pre-coffee hour, running on muscle memory and adrenaline as I shuffle through the kitchen in mismatched slippers, cracking eggs into the bowl as Henry and Charlotte escalate their dispute into a full-court press.

Charlotte bounces the soccer ball once. "Boys. They're such annoying little babies."

I'm about to intervene when a family mechanical noise starts up. "Henry! Turn off the electric scooter and put it in the closet."

"Where's the food? I'm starving to death."

"You'll get breakfast if you put your arse in a chair."

Josh's eyes bulge, and his jaw drops in fake shock. "Dad just used a bad word."

Charlotte apes her brother's expression. "Ooh, what word?"

He leans forward to stage whisper, "A-R-S-E."

Oh, bollocks. I never use rude language in front of my children, but I just can't seem to get my head on straight this morning.

I slop eggs into a pan. "Socks, Henry. Now. You're eight years old, for pity's sake. By your age, I was mending sheep fences in the Outback."

None of my children have seen the Outback, and neither have I. Most of my brood hasn't been past Wisconsin. Doesn't matter. I need them to believe I am invincible and all-knowing.

In the living room, cheerful voices emerge from the telly.

Ah, yes, my favorite children's programs are on.

Amelia is already there on the sofa. She's rarely anywhere else before noon.

Wrapped in a blanket, she doomscrolls through her phone with one hand while the other is wrapped around a mug she's definitely not supposed to have.

"Amelia!" I holler. "Is that coffee you're drinking?"

She pulls the mug tighter. "It's milk with a splash of coffee. I'm hydrating."

"Hydrating is water, love, not caffeine."

She snorts. "Hydrating is a state of mind."

"No coffee, Amelia. And please put on your school clothes."

Joshua slouches in the armchair, all elbows and attitude, a hoodie pulled over half of his face. He grabs the milk, chugs from the carton, and ignores the glass two inches from his hand.

"Josh, c'mon, mate," I groan. "Let's not behave like barbarians."

He shrugs, with no apologies, and sets the carton down with a thunk. "Grandma says you're supposed to use a glass, but she's not here."

"Grandma" is Florence Murgatroyd, my mother, the one-woman Queen's Guard of domestic order.

She and Dad are on vacation---their first in years---leaving me alone to parent my brood for a full week.

It's been a test I did not sign up for, but one I intend to survive.

Fortunately, my mother-in-law, Patricia, checks in every day.

Never know, I might have legged it back to England in the middle of the night.

The eggs are ready at last. I scoop them onto plates, tossing two slices of toast onto each, and herd the kids into chairs at the bar. Amelia doesn't move, but the others stampede. Henry still has no socks, but I'll deal with that once everyone has eaten.

I slide plates across the table. "Eat. Fast. The bus comes in fifteen minutes."

Charlotte takes her plate and resumes dribbling the soccer ball under the table. Josh, for a second, looks like he might say the dreaded words "thank you," then decides against it. He devours half his breakfast in a single bite.

Henry pokes his eggs. "Are these free-range?"

"They're free." I lean toward my son. "Eat them, or you'll be foraging for acorns at recess."

He snickers, then shovels in a forkful. "Did you ever have to eat acorns, Dad?"

"Don't speak while eating."

My son gives me his favorite expression---eye roll plus long-suffering sigh. "Well, did you eat acorns?"

"Once. I was lost in the Tasmanian bush for a week. Survived on possum jerky and eucalyptus bark."

Charlotte's eyes get big. "You're making that up."

"Does it matter if I am?" Tall tales keep me grounded, oddly, and the children love them.

The morning rolls on. After breakfast, I order Henry to find a pair of shoes---and put them on.

He drops to his knees behind the bar and emerges again with a pair of well-worn sneakers.

They're semi-flattened and apparently were wedged under the radiator.

Oh yes, they're also crusted with a mystery substance.

I wipe it off it off the best I can. Then I return to the kitchen to find Charlotte and Joshua arguing over who gets the last clean fork, while Amelia barely notices the mayhem.

By the time everyone's fed, dressed, and mostly tooth-brushed, the kitchen looks like a scene from a natural disaster documentary. I step over backpacks, check the clock, and realize the bus is early.

I freeze for a split second. Then: "Shoes! Backpacks! Let's go, let's go, people!"

As I move the herd toward the front door, Henry trips over his own feet but recovers. Charlotte tries to sneak her soccer ball into her backpack. I intercept it, and my daughter seems slightly impressed. "It's not regulation size, pet. Leave it here."

She glares at me for two to three seconds, by my count, then abandons the ball on the stairs as she sprints for the door.

Amelia drags behind. "The bus isn't even here yet."

"Yeah, it is," Josh says, peeking through the curtains. "It's right outside. And the driver looks angry."

The four of them tumble out, colliding into the early morning mist like a time-lapse video of child chaos.

I step onto the stoop, mug in hand, and watch as they clamber aboard.

Backpacks bounce, and hair flounces. Voices are already raised in a new argument about whose backpack is the most embarrassing.

Finally, the bus drives away.

After seventy-two minutes of chatter and clacking silverware, I have peace and quiet at last.

I blow out a breath, close my eyes, and let the breeze carry the faint, sweet aroma of burnt toast and jam. When I open my eyes, the bus is a shrinking speck at the end of the street. I savor this moment, halfway between emptiness and relief.

Then, I trudge back inside. The kitchen is still a mess, but for a glorious six minutes I simply slouch on the sofa.

After that, I pour another coffee---a proper cuppa this time---and enjoy the delicious aroma, not to mention the sweet silence.

The chair on my left is empty. It always is these days.

There's still a groove in the seat beside mine.

I swear the faint trace of citrus shampoo wafts around me, as if Claudia might walk in any second and start lecturing me about cholesterol.

I stare into space, remembering mornings when we'd sat here together, negotiating breakfast treaties and trading knowing looks over the kids' heads. Back when it was us against the world.

Now it's just me. Fletcher and the Four Children of the Apocalypse.

At least Claudia sends cards and small gifts to the children for birthdays and holidays. She always chooses Australian-style gifts. The kids like what she sends them, but my ex-wife has become more of a distant relative to the four beautiful youngsters she left behind.

The coffee tastes like heaven, though it's average at best. I drink slowly, watching the light creep across the kitchen tiles, turning the mess into something almost beautiful.

At precisely 8:12 a.m., I gather my coat and keys.

Then I take a last look at the kitchen---the sock on the table, the puddle of juice by the fridge, the soccer ball waiting on the stairs---and I lock the door behind me.

Outside, the world is cold and quiet. I pull my coat tighter and wonder if Claudia ever misses this mess, or if she's grateful to have gotten away from all of us.

She didn't just run away from me. She left the kids too---for an Australian yoga instructor.

On Millbrook Valley Road, the sun is just starting to carve the frost from the lawns. The school bus is a memory, but the exhaust remains visible. I shuffle down the path in my wrinkled shirt and tie, dodging the puddle under the mailbox.

The street is too quiet after the blast radius of my kitchen. The weight of responsibility bears down on me like a heavy blanket. I like it and hate it in equal measure. But I would never give up my children for any reason. They are my North Star, the glittering white light in my sky.

The car starts up on the second try. A minor victory.

I'm backing down the drive when my phone buzzes. It's a text message from the desk clerk on duty at the hotel this morning.

Emergency. Need you here ASAP. New guest. High priority.

And so, my day begins.