Second Chance Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

1. Cassie

CASSIE

C edar Falls, Illinois, only has one bar—and one type of client.

Rich little brats home for the summer.

My BFF Tina is shoveling jalapeno poppers like it’s her full-time job.

“I still can’t believe you’re moving back home,” she says, licking cheese off her thumb.

“You would, too, if you were married to Gino for the last five years. Besides, I figured it was time to come back and disappoint everyone who knew me in high school. You know, really complete the circle of shame.”

“He ended up being a real dick to you, huh? Thank God you got out of there.”

“Dick is an understatement. Try a sadistic jackass with a serious anger problem. Let’s just hope he lets me stay here. Thank God his mafia family won’t let him leave Chicago. I’m done with bad men and worse decisions. That’s probably what I said before I married him, too.”

Because apparently, my type is “emotionally unavailable with a side of felony charges.” Gold star for me.

And that’s when it happened…

The door creaks open, and in walks Tina’s older brother.

Holy guacamole.

It’s like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room and replaced it with pure, undiluted sexual tension. The hairs on my arms are standing up, and I’m pretty sure I just forgot how to breathe like a normal human being.

How the hell is one man that goddamn fine?

And when did he get so many tattoos? The tattoos that used to stop at his wrists now crawl up his neck like vines. They disappear under his shirt, and God help me, I want to trace every single line with my tongue.

Get it together, Cassie. You literally just finished telling your best friend you’re done with bad decisions.

His gaze scans the bar as if he’s deciding if it’s worth his time being here. Dark eyes, sharp jawline, and that mouth—Jesus, that mouth should come with a warning label.

Six-two, tatted, and walking like a lion taking command of his kingdom.

The look he gives me could melt steel. Or panties. Definitely panties.

“Tina,” I whisper, “when did your brother turn into sex on legs?”

“Pipe down, bitch. And why is your face red?” She squints at me. “Jesus, Cassie, calm down. You’re blushing like a schoolgirl.”

“It’s hot in here,” I lie, grabbing my drink because my hands need something to do that isn’t ripping his clothes off.

“It’s seventy-three degrees, and we’re sitting under a vent.”

“Well then, I’m having a stroke. Call 911.”

This is what happens when you’ve been celibate for eight months. You see one hot guy and completely lose your mind.

Tina doesn’t know it, but her older brother and I shared a kiss before he left town. I was eighteen; he was twenty-eight. A little older than I should’ve been crushing on, but he was the one rich kid who was always kind to me.

Smug, sure—but grounded. Like, yeah, he had money…but somehow, he still felt humble.

And now?

Now he looks like sin and safety wrapped in one lethal package.

He’s three tables away now. Two. One.

And then he’s right there, sliding into the booth across from us like he belongs, and I swear to God, the man smells like danger and expensive cologne.

“Tina,” he says, his voice deeper than I remember. Rougher. Like whiskey and sin had a baby.

“Dante!” She jumps up to hug him. “When did you get back?”

“This morning.” Those dark eyes flick to me. “Cassie.”

He remembers my name. Of course, he remembers my name. Stop being weird about it.

“Hey,” I manage, proud that I sound almost normal instead of like I’m choking on my tongue.

He slides in next to Tina, directly across from me, and suddenly this booth feels very, very small.

I’m in trouble.

“Heard you moved back to town,” he says, and there’s something in his voice I can’t quite place.

“News travels fast around here.”

“Good news does.” He leans back, and the movement makes his shirt pull tight across his chest. “Bad news travels faster.”

Is he flirting? He’s flirting. No, he’s not. Yes, he is. God, I’m an idiot.

“Which category do I fall into?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

His mouth curves into a smile that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Tina slides another basket of poppers toward me, completely oblivious to the fact that her brother is currently eye-fucking her best friend across the table.

“You heard from Gino about when he’ll sign the papers?” she asks.

“Still waiting,” I manage, downing my drink because I need the liquid courage. “He likes to take his sweet time.”

Dante’s jaw tightens. “Is he giving you trouble?”

The protectiveness in his voice does things to me that should probably be illegal.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I lie.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Oh. OH. He’s serious. Like, really serious.

“Scared he’ll find you here?” Tina pours me another glass, completely missing the tension crackling between her brother and me.

“Hope not. My life’s here now.” What’s left of it, anyway. “I can’t move again.”

Dante leans forward, elbows on the table. “He won’t touch you here.”

The certainty in his voice makes my stomach flip. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I said so.”

And there it is. That Romano confidence that used to make my teenage heart flutter. Except now I’m not a teenager, and it’s not just my heart that’s reacting.

“Yeah. Fuck him. Your life is just starting over,” Tina says, now calling for shots. “And you’ve got me watching your back.”

Except now her big brother is here, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.

She hands me a shot and grabs hers, pouring some salt on the back of her hand.

Dante doesn’t take a shot. He just watches me, and the intensity of his stare is making me squirm.

I never do this. I never hook up with guys in bars. I don’t do one-night stands. I’m the responsible one. The one who thinks things through.

So why am I imagining what those hands would feel like on my skin?

I clink my shot glass against hers. “To never making the same mistake twice.”

Dante raises his beer. “To new mistakes.”

The way he says it, looking directly at me, makes heat pool low in my belly.

The liquor burns, but not as much as his stare.

“What’s new?” I change the topic because if I keep staring at Dante’s mouth, I’m going to do something stupid.

“First, promise me,” Tina says between chews, “no more tall, tattooed Italians with anger issues.”

I glance at Dante, who’s tall, tattooed, and definitely Italian.

“That might be harder than you think,” I mutter.

Dante’s lips twitch. “Something wrong with Italians?”

“In my experience? Everything.”

“Maybe you’ve been meeting the wrong ones.”

Is he seriously doing this? In front of his sister?

“Maybe I have terrible taste in men.”

“Or maybe,” he leans closer, voice dropping low enough that Tina can’t hear, “you just haven’t met the right one yet.”

Oh, fuckity, fuckity, fuck, fuck.

My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it over the bar music.

“I should go,” I say suddenly, standing up so fast I nearly knock over my drink.

Because I know myself. And I know that if I stay here much longer, I’m going to do something really, really stupid.

Like, find out what Dante Romano tastes like.

“It’s early,” Tina protests.

“I know, but I’m...” I trail off because Dante is standing too, and the way he’s looking at me makes my knees weak.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says.

“That’s really not necessary?—”

“I insist.”

This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

But I’m nodding anyway. My brain has completely disconnected from my mouth.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell Tina, grabbing my purse.

“You better,” she calls after me, but she’s already distracted by the bartender bringing another round.

Dante’s hand finds the small of my back as we head toward the exit, and even through my shirt, his touch burns.

I’m in so much trouble.

The night air hits us as we step outside, but it does nothing to cool the fire racing through my veins.

“Where’d you park?” he asks.

“Around back.”

He nods toward the side of the building. “This way.”

We walk in silence, but the tension between us is so thick I could cut it with a knife.

This is where I should say goodnight. Get in my car and drive home. Be responsible.

Instead, I find myself pressed against the side of my car, Dante’s hands on either side of my head, his body caging me in.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice rough.

I should. God, I really should.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

And then his mouth is on mine, and I’m lost.