Twins with Daddy's Bestie (The Boss Daddy #6)

1. Olivia

Olivia

I would never admit it in a court of law, but sometimes bribery is the best way.

Maybe not for everything, but trying to get someone to hire you based on your cooking skills requires a little more than words on a page.

That's how I ended up hunched over the stove in my tiny apartment’s kitchen all day.

In culinary school, I learned to always keep the basics on hand: flour, eggs, milk, butter, and sugar. Those few ingredients can make just about anything you can imagine.

We’re obviously not making a surf-and-turf with those, but I can make plenty of my very best muffins and bagels. I figure working for some hoity-toity big shot in L.A., I’ll need to prove I can master the basics.

If I get the job.

“Damn it!” I shout at the steaming tray of muffins I yank from the oven. Smoke rises from the tops, and I can barely see through it, but I can see enough to know they’re burned. If I had been trying to make a weapon, I did an amazing job. Unfortunately, I was trying to make food.

You would think four years in culinary school would prevent something like this from happening, but here we are. I'm not letting one batch of burned butterscotch muffins stand between me and my dream of opening a restaurant.

I have to bring them these muffins. They’re my bread and butter—well, no, my bread and butter are my bread and butter, but that’s not the point.

These muffins are the recipe that sparked my love for food.

I still remember the first time my mom sat me on the counter and mixed the ingredients, detailing each step in the process like cooking for the school bake sale was her own Food Network show.

“Now, Livvie, the secret to perfectly browned light-as-air muffins is to cook them fifty degrees hotter for the first three minutes,” she would say as I licked the batter off the spoon.

I used her tip today, just as I have countless times before, but it let me down big time. I rush to throw together another batch, eyeing the clock nervously as the seconds tick away.

I only have eleven hours before the meeting. To most, that's plenty of time. But to someone who needs three hours to let their bread dough rise, it’s nothing.

“Rita!” I exclaim as an idea pops into my head. I’ve commandeered my neighbor’s kitchen before so I’m sure she won’t mind if I do it again.

After tossing a new tray of muffins into the oven, I slip on my shoes, grab two bagel pans filled with my signature dough, and run outside.

I rush across our lawns and knock on the door, struggling with my arms full.

The door opens a few moments later, and the dough nearly falls to the ground. I was expecting my tall, blonde bombshell neighbor, but what I got was much more to my liking.

“I take it you’re not the pizza guy?” the man says, leaning against the doorframe and smirking.

My eyes are glued to his bare chest, and my ears heat up while they fall to the towel hanging just loose enough around his waist that if the wind blew, he’d get slapped with a public indecency charge.

Not that I’d complain.

In the twenty-three years I've been alive, I've only dated one guy. He was fine, and I was attracted to him, but he was not built like this.

I didn't think people could even be as chiseled as towel-man in real life. He even has the perfect “V” near his navel I thought were only computer-generated on the Magic Mike cast.

“I am so sorry,” I force out, tearing my eyes from his chest to look into his eyes. Every thought in my brain melts like butter in puff pastry dough.

His lips turn up in a smile, and his caramel-colored eyes light up as he takes in how flustered I am.

By the way he runs his fingers through his short, wavy, brown hair, I can tell he’s used to making women feel this way.

“I don't want to bother you. Looks like you're very busy. She’s probably busy, too. Otherwise, why would you be here, like this?”

I point to his almost naked body, and the little voice in the back of my head immediately chastises me for making this the most uncomfortable moment of both of our lives.

He laughs and his face lights up as he flashes me a charming smile. He's ridiculously handsome. Some people really have it all.

“That might not be the case,” he says, raising his eyebrows at me as he leans casually against the doorframe. “I could be a house sitter or a distant cousin coming to steal her family’s fortune.”

“Are you either of those things?” I ask, looking at him with an amused smile.

“No, but you know what they say about people who assume things.” He winks at me and my heart flutters. I hate that I'm melting in front of him just like every girl he probably meets.

He’s clearly here for a romp with Rita, and that makes it much worse.

It's hard to meet men when you only really leave the house to go to the grocery store to restock baking supplies in the middle of the night.

The kinds of guys you run into there aren't exactly the kinds of guys you want to take home to meet the parents. But it's par for the course that after the fiasco that was my last (and only) relationship, the first man who gives me any attention has just finished banging my neighbor.

“Well, it was nice to meet you. Maybe consider throwing on a shirt before you answer the door next time?” I say and start backing away.

I'm already pushing thoughts of him out of my mind as I try to figure out another way to finish baking everything I need to when he steps out of the doorway.

“What did you need?” he asks, watching me as I freeze.

I hesitate, contemplating how desperate I am to get these bagels cooked. In that fraction of a second, I imagine getting the job as a private chef, saving a vast amount of money, shopping for a restaurant space, and achieving my lifelong dream.

“I needed to use the stove,” I say, shoving any semblance of shame to the side. I can afford shame when everything I've worked so hard for isn't on the line.

He nods and turns around. I can see that his back is just as toned as his chest, which annoys me. I force myself to look away as I climb the stairs again and wait patiently.

“Rhea! Someone’s at the door for you!” he shouts, standing to the side.

Rhea? Have I been calling her the wrong name?

I feel guilty and uncomfortable, but when my neighbor storms through the hall, her hands on her hips as she glares at the man, I realize I'm not the one who's wrong.

“Are you kidding me right now?” Rita says with a huff. The man stares at her, confusion plastered on his face. “We’ve been on three dates, and you don’t even know my name?”

Okay, maybe I have some shame. I back away quietly, making myself as small and quiet as possible to avoid being noticed. Whatever this is, it's between them.

“Come on; it's an honest mistake,” he argues, putting a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

“An honest mistake? I'll tell you what was an honest mistake…” Rita says as she pushes him out the door and stands with her arms folded across her chest. “I should have known better than to go out with a guy like you. You're all the same.”

Towel-man is now standing on the porch in front of me, forcing me into the most awkward moment of my life.

I try not to look at either of them, focusing instead on the tray of rapidly deflating bagel dough in my hands.

He tries to argue with her, but Rita is not backing down.

Maybe if I'm quiet enough, they'll ignore me. It wouldn't be the first time I've been able to blend into the background. That was my go-to maneuver for surviving high school.

“The kitchen's free,” Rita says to me, catching my attention. She steps aside, and I stand in place for only a moment, looking at the man one last time.

He shoots me a dirty look, blaming me for the downfall of what I can only imagine was a very exciting tryst. I'm almost about to reject her offer and run back to my apartment when I remember why I'm here.

“Good luck,” I say to the man and rush inside.

If the oven preheats fast enough, there's a chance I can just throw the bagels in and come back when they're done, so I won't have to be here while they argue.

But then the front door slams, and I hear Rita stomping through the hallway toward me.

She takes a seat at the counter on one of the bar stools and shakes her head.

“Men are pigs,” she sighs, taking a sharp breath. “They make you feel like you're special until they get you in bed, and then they don't even know your name.”

“You kicked him out?” I ask, turning my gaze toward the kitchen window to see the man standing on the lawn in only a towel.

“I tossed him his phone and told him to call an Uber,” Rita chuckles. “He doesn’t deserve his clothes after that.”

I offer her some meaningless platitudes, agreeing with her as she calls towel-man every name in the book.

I might be one of the worst people to ask for dating advice.

It's disheartening to think that someone as gorgeous as she is struggles to find love.

If Rita can't do it, there's no hope for the rest of us.

I've never been more thankful to hear the beeping of a preheated oven. I toss the bagels in and say goodbye to Rita, apologizing for everything she's going through, and then run back to my apartment to check on the muffins.

Thankfully, they're not burned when I pull them out and set them on the cooling rack. Even though they look promising, I'm not finished baking.

I spend the rest of the night cooking like my life depends on it because it very much does.