Hot Chocolate Daddy (Seven Nights to Mr. Right #3)

Chapter 1

JENNA

Idid not wake up this morning intending to scream about dicks in a public place.

But here I am—thirty minutes into my work day, ten fun-sized chocolates into my rage spiral, and one narcissistic ex-husband away from completely losing my mind—when an idea hits me like a sugar-fueled lightning bolt.

If Bobby wants to act like a dick, fine. I’ll send him one.

A really big one. Made of chocolate, of course. Maybe he’ll finally choke on something other than my hopes and dreams.

My leg bounces under my desk as I stare blankly at the spreadsheet on my computer monitor. I’m supposed to be reviewing an auto claim, but the words blur into a mushy mess of VIN numbers and policy limits. All I can think about is how this is my first Valentine’s Day alone in ten years.

Ten years of being Mrs. Bobby Jones.

Ten years of “we’re high school sweethearts” smugness.

Ten years of pretending I didn’t notice my husband flirting with any girl who walked and had a pulse.

And then one day, a text pops up on his phone while he’s in the shower, and my world goes sideways.

KATELYN:

Can’t wait to see you again. Last night was soooo good.

Attached was a mirror selfie from a girl who looks like the Forever 21 clearance section threw up on her. But still young, pretty, and very much not me.

I’d like to say I kicked him out that night, that I immediately found my self-worth and my spine and told him to shove it. Instead, I froze. I rationalized. I gave him chances. A whole year of chances.

But the divorce papers are signed now. The ink is dry. The ring is off my finger and hidden in the back of my underwear drawer, behind the granny panties I only wear when I’m bloated and satan’s waterfall is plaguing me.

Which brings me back to the chocolate.

Another wrapper crinkles in my fingers as I rip it open. I shove the piece of candy into my mouth like I’m personally offended by nougat. Then my eyes flick to the tiny digital clock in the corner of my monitor.

11:17 a.m. Close enough to lunchtime.

I grab my purse from the bottom drawer and cram the rest of the chocolate wrappers into the trash. My boss, Marilyn, glances up from her desk as I walk by her office, a question in her eyes.

I point to the door. “Early lunch,” I whisper.

She waves a hand and goes back to arguing with someone on her phone. She’s been weirdly gentle with me since the divorce. A perk of public humiliation in a small town, I guess.

The February air in Maple Ridge is crisp but mild as I emerge from the entrance of the insurance office.

A thin layer of clouds softens the sunlight, and Main Street has that picture-perfect small-town charm that real estate brochures live for.

Brick buildings. Hanging baskets. A florist, a bookshop, a bakery. And the newest addition: Bliss.

The chocolatier’s storefront takes up the corner lot like it owns the whole block.

The windows are polished to a mirror shine, displaying glossy truffles and handcrafted bonbons in neat little rows.

The sign above the door is simple but elegant, ivory script on a dark-brown background, reminiscent of melted chocolate and cream.

I square my shoulders and march toward the door, clutching my purse strap as if it insulted my mother. I am a woman on a mission. A petty, unhinged mission, but still.

I yank on the handle harder than necessary, and the little bell overhead gives a startled jingle.

A wave of rich, dark cocoa and sugar and something warm and buttery hits me like a hug.

I’m instantly salivating and slightly more feral.

And because my brain has been replaced with pure spite, I blurt—at full volume—something I can’t take back:

“Give me the biggest dick you have!”

The entire shop goes silent. Oh no. No, no, no. I blink once, twice, as my words echo off the walls and bounce back at me.

Give me the biggest dick you have? Seriously, Jenna?

A woman gasps in front of me. My face scrunches with regret, already knowing exactly who it is by the smell of her lilac perfume and permanent expression of disapproval.

The older woman stands at the register, a pristine white bakery box in her hands, gray curls pinned perfectly in place, lips parted in scandalized horror. Her watery blue eyes blink up at me like I’ve just kicked a puppy and slapped Jesus.

“Oh! Mrs. Schumacher.” I slap a hand over my mouth, heat rushing up my neck. “I, uh, I didn’t realize you were here. I wasn’t talking about… I mean, I was… but—” I trail off, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. “I was just joking.” A nervous laugh escapes me while my cheeks flame red.

She tsks and shakes her head, clutching the box tighter to her chest. “Young people these days,” she mutters. “No shame at all.”

Fantastic. I’ve traumatized a senior citizen before noon.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumble, stepping aside to hold the door open for her. “Have a great day, Mrs. Schumacher.”

She huffs, sliding past me like I’m contagious. “Your mother would faint if she heard you speaking like that, Jenna Marie Howard.”

She uses my full name, and we both know she’s not wrong.

Once she shuffles out onto the sidewalk, I drop my head back and close my eyes, exhaling through my nose. Smooth. Real smooth. When I right my posture and look ahead, the shop is empty except for me and the man behind the counter.

And speaking of the man behind the counter… Wow. Just wow.

He’s standing with one hand braced on the shiny marble top, watching me with an expression that’s equal parts amused and intrigued.

He’s tall. Broad shoulders. Dark-brown hair that looks like he’s run his fingers through it a few times.

Strong jaw shadowed with stubble. Soulful brown eyes framed by thick lashes that should be illegal.

And that’s just his face.

He’s wearing a crisp white chef’s jacket that fits him like it was tailored—snug across his chest and biceps, and nipped at his trim waist. The words Master Chocolatier are embroidered over his right pec in elegant script.

From the way the fabric strains, I’d guess both pecs are equally muscular, but my brain fixates on the one.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms lightly sprinkled with dark hair and vibrant ink.

Full sleeve tattoos curl up both arms, black and gray lines disappearing under the cuff.

I have a thing for forearms. And tattoos.

And forearms with tattoos. So, naturally, I stand here staring at this man like a lunatic.

He clears his throat, his deep voice rumbling across the room. “Can I help you?”

I jerk, realizing this is probably the second time he’s asked. “Yes. Sorry. I—” I wave a hand vaguely. “Had a moment.”

The corners of his mouth tug up, slow and deliberate. A dimple appears in his left cheek, and something low in my stomach flips over.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning his hip against the counter. “I caught the tail end of that moment.”

My face ignites. “Right. That.”

He watches me for a beat, his eyes warm and curious, like he’s cataloging every detail. It should be unnerving, but instead I feel… admired? Which is dangerous. I’m too freshly divorced to handle being noticed by a man who looks like that.

I straighten my spine and force my shoulders back, channeling the inner confidence I definitely do not currently have.

“I’d like to place an order,” I say, aiming for calm and landing somewhere in the neighborhood of breathless.

His lips quirk. “For…?” He lifts his brows, inviting me to say it.

I narrow my eyes. “You heard me.”

His gaze drops briefly, taking me in from head to toe. My black pencil skirt and pointed-toe heels. A blush-pink sweater that flatters my curvy shape. Mid-length blonde hair that I hastily curled this morning in an attempt to not look like a depressed swamp creature.

When his eyes return to mine, they shine with humor and something else I can’t quite name. “I just want to make sure I’ve got it right,” he replies. “You want…” He pauses, his voice dipping slightly. “The biggest dick I have.”

It’s official. I just died.

“That’s… yes. A chocolate one, to be precise.” I pull myself together and push a hand through my hair, my fingers catching on a knot that I try to ignore. “It’s a gift. For… an acquaintance.”

“Well, I figured it wasn’t for Mrs. Schumacher,” he deadpans.

A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and surprised. “God, no. Pretty sure that old woman hates me.”

He smiles wider at the sound, like he’s pleased he earned it. “Alright, princess. I can work with that.”

Princess. The nickname slides over my skin like fresh caramel. It’s not sleazy. It’s… gentle. Confident. As if he’s used to saying it and being obeyed. Daddy vibes, my brain whispers unhelpfully.

His gaze flicks to the door, making sure we’re alone, then back to me. “Any particular specifications for this, uh, dick?”

I swallow around the lump in my throat and lift my chin. “I want it big. Like, offensively large.” I gesture with my hands before I can stop myself, then cringe. “But not cartoonish. Realistic. Something to bruise his ego.”

His mouth twitches. “You want a spite dick.”

“That’s a terrible phrase,” I say while biting back a grin.

“Is it wrong?” he counters, his eyes gleaming.

I sigh. “Unfortunately, no.”

He nods, all business now. Well, as much as a man can be while designing a vengeful chocolate phallus. “Got it. Big, realistic, ego-ruining. For a man I’m assuming is an ex.”

“Ex-husband.” The word still feels foreign on my tongue. Lighter and heavier at the same time. “Bobby Jones.”

Something shifts in the man’s expression. It’s subtle—a hardening around his eyes, a tension in his jaw—but it’s there.

“Didn’t know you and Bobby were divorced,” he says quietly, staring at the counter between us.

I blink. “You know Bobby?”

“Yeah.” His gaze holds mine. “Never liked him.”

A startled laugh slips out of me. “I realize I shouldn’t have either.”