Unexpected Boss Daddy

Chapter 1

Chapter one

~EMMA~

"No more men. I mean it this time."

I lean against the sticky bar at Tropicana's Beachside Karaoke, waving my margarita for emphasis.

The Miami night hums with salt air and bad decisions.

Neon pink and turquoise lights pulse over the patio at the half-dive, half-daydream bar perched at the edge of South Beach.

Ceiling fans whirl lazily above, doing nothing to combat the heat clinging to my skin—or to the glass of my melting margarita, which I continue waving.

The lime wedge on its edge launches itself at Sasha's face, but she dodges with the ease of someone who's endured seven years of my dramatic hand gestures.

"You said that last month," Riley points out.

Across from Sasha, my other enabling best friend lounges on a barstool in cutoff shorts, her pale freckled shoulders sun-pink from our day at the beach. She picks at the salt rim on her glass.

"Right before you drunk-texted Josh asking if he thought about you,” she announces.

My face burns. "That was a moment of weakness. Tequila-induced temporary insanity. It won't happen again."

"Because you blocked him?" Sasha asks hopefully, her glossy black curls bouncing. Sasha always looks effortlessly glamorous—even at a beach bar.

Tonight she’s in a white linen jumpsuit that hugs her caramel-brown skin like a summer dream.

I roll my eyes. “Because I deleted his number, blocked him on everything, and may have also left a one-star Yelp review for his CrossFit gym calling it “'a breeding ground for ego and mediocre dick.’”

Riley chokes on her drink. "Emma. You didn't."

"I absolutely did. And I'd do it again." I take a defiant sip of my margarita, ignoring the fact that it's mostly slush at this point. "Besides, this weekend is about me. New Emma. Independent Emma. Emma who doesn't need a man to validate her existence."

"Independent Emma who's been checking her phone every five minutes?" Sasha's eyebrow arches in that infuriatingly knowing way.

I flip her off. "I'm checking work emails. My new job starts soon and I want to be—"

"—prepared, we know,” Riley slips in. "Babe, you've read the employee handbook three times. You know more about Titan Industries' strategic development protocols than their actual employees probably do. You're allowed to relax."

The problem is, I don't know how to relax anymore.

Not since I walked into my apartment four months ago to find Josh enthusiastically redefining "Netflix and chill" with She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named.

On my couch.

The couch I'd saved six months to buy.

“Fine.” I drain what’s left of my drink and slap it on the bar. “I’m relaxing. See? This is my relaxed face.”

Sasha tilts her head. “You look constipated.”

Riley squints. “You look like you’re about to murder someone.”

Before I can defend my resting bitch face, the karaoke MC—a sunburned man in a Hawaiian shirt that's committing crimes against eyeballs—announces the next performer.

"Alright, folks! Let's give it up for Brad, singing 'Total Eclipse of the Heart!'"

Brad, it turns out, is a bachelor party attendee who's approximately four beers past coherent.

He stumbles onto the small stage, grabs the microphone like it's personally offended him, and proceeds to assault Bonnie Tyler's legacy with the vocal equivalent of a cat being strangled.

"Turn around," Brad wails, pointing dramatically at his friends. "Bright eyes!"

"Oh my God," I whisper. "He's not even close to the right key."

"I don't think he's even close to the right song," Riley says.

The entire bar seems to collectively wince as Brad hits—or rather, violently misses—the chorus.

And it’s spectacular in the way natural disasters are spectacular.

You can't look away.

"You know what?" I announce, suddenly emboldened by bad singing and Jose Cuervo. "I'm doing it."

"Doing what?" Sasha's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"Karaoke. I'm getting up there."

"Emma, no—"

"Emma, yes." I slide off my stool, the sand-dusted floor crunching under my sandals. My heart thuds with the reckless freedom that only comes after heartbreak and bad margaritas. “Watch and learn, ladies. This is what moving on looks like.”

I march toward the sign-up sheet, weaving through tables and ignoring Riley's whispered plea to "please God, think about what you're doing."

I'm three feet from the DJ booth when someone, trying to avoid my trajectory, shifts over to my right.

His elbow catches the edge of a passing server's tray.

The tray tilts.

My margarita—my third margarita, the one I'd just ordered, the one that's dangerously full—goes airborne.

Time slows.

I watch in horror as the glass tumbles through the air, ice, tequila and lime spinning in a perfect curve of doom. It hits the edge of the bar, ricochets, and explodes across the front of the most expensive-looking white button-down shirt I've ever seen.

The shirt is attached to a man.

And not just any man.

A man who looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread titled "Silver Foxes Gone Hemsworth.”

He's tall—easily over six feet—with dark hair that's silvered at the temples.

Sharp jaw. Straight nose.

With the kind of bone structure that makes you wonder if he's secretly related to every Renaissance statue ever carved.

His eyes, currently fixed on his dripping shirt, are a steel gray that probably looks devastating.

You know, when he's not covered in tequila and lime pulp.

"Oh my God." The words tumble out of my mouth in a horrified rush. “I am so so sorry. I didn't—that wasn't—I swear I didn’t mean to—“

He looks up. Blinks.

Once.

Twice.

"Well," he says, his voice low and as smooth as expensive scotch, "this is a first."

“I’m an idiot.” I grab a stack of cocktail napkins from the bar and start frantically dabbing at his shirt. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning. Or a new shirt. Do you want a new shirt? I can't actually afford a new shirt right now, but I'll figure it out. I'll sell a kidney. Do you need a kidney?"

His hand catches mine.

Warm. Steady.

"Breathe."

I freeze, suddenly aware that I'm touching a stranger's very firm chest and he's touching me back and Brad is still murdering Bonnie Tyler in the background.

"I'm breathing," I say, which is a lie because I'm pretty sure I forgot how lungs work.

"I'm Don," he says, still holding my hand.

"And before you offer me any organs, I should tell you that I have excellent health insurance and a dry cleaner who specializes in crisis management." He glances over at Sasha and Riley. “And I’m guessing by your friend’s hand-waving and mouthing that your name is…Em?”

“I—Yes.” My brain finally comes back online. “And I’m sorry. I swear I'm usually much less... destructive."

"Destructive." He glances down at his shirt then back at me. "I was going to say 'interesting.'"

There's something in the way he says it that makes my stomach flip.

"I’m really sorry," I say, pulling my hand back. "That shirt looks expensive, and I just—"

"It's a shirt." He shrugs, unbuttoning the top button. "I have others."

"Others that cost more than my rent, I'm guessing?"

His mouth curves. “Maybe.”

Behind us, Brad finally finishes his song to a smattering of polite applause and one person yelling "Encore!" with deep sarcasm.

"Friend of yours?" Don nods toward the stage.

"Never seen him before in my life. But I was about to subject this bar to my rendition of 'I Will Survive,' so I can't really judge."

"Gloria Gaynor?" One dark eyebrow lifts. “Bold choice."

"It's thematically appropriate. Fresh start. New job. Swearing off men."

I don't know why I'm telling this to a stranger.

Except that he's still standing here looking at me like I'm not the worst thing that's happened to his evening.

"Ah." He nods, his handsome face stoic. "Fresh starts are always better with a soundtrack."

"Exactly." I gesture at his shirt again. "Although I'm pretty sure I just torpedoed any chance of this being a good fresh start for you. That's definitely not coming out."

"Probably not. But it's given me an excellent excuse to do something I rarely do."

"File an insurance claim?"

"Leave early." He signals the bartender. "I was supposed to be at a dinner party right now. Very boring. Lots of people talking about their stock portfolios and vacation homes."

"And instead you're here, covered in my margarita, listening to this guy Brad murder classic rock."

"Exactly." He pays his tab—and mine, I notice, before I can protest—then turns back to me. "So, ‘Em’ who's starting fresh and swearing off men, what's your plan for the rest of the evening?"

My brain shorts out for a second because this is possibly the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life, and I'm suddenly very aware that my wavy brown hair is twice its normal size because of humidity and I'm wearing cut-off denim shorts and a tank top that says "ROSé ALL DAY" while he's in what's left of a designer shirt.

“I, uh…was going to humiliate myself via karaoke, drink two more margarita’s I can't afford, and then go back to my hotel to stress about my new job."

"Sounds terrible."

"It really does."

He's watching me with those gray eyes, and I swear there's a challenge in them. "I have a better idea."

"Does it involve getting you a new shirt? Because I'm still serious about the kidney thing if necessary."

"My hotel is three blocks away." He gestures. "I could change, and you could help me rinse the tequila smell out of this one before it sets in permanently."

Every rational thought in my head starts screaming.

Oh God. This is how horror movies start.

This is how you end up on a true crime podcast.

This…is absolutely, definitively a batshit crazy idea.

But then I look in his eyes—warm and interested and not even a little bit threatening—and I think about Josh and my old life and the fact that I've been playing it safe for six months and where the hell has that gotten me?

Alone in Miami with my two best friends while they watch me spiral about a job that doesn't even start for a month.

Maybe it's time to do something reckless.

"If you're a serial killer," I hear myself say, "I'm going to be really disappointed. You seem too well-dressed for that."

His laugh is deep and genuine. "Not a serial killer. Just a man who's very particular about his laundry and is absolute shit at avoiding flying drinks."

"To be fair, that was mostly my fault."

"To be fair, I moved my elbow at exactly the wrong moment. We're both guilty."

Brad starts up again on stage, this time attempting something that might be "Don't Stop Believin'" if you've never actually heard the song before and someone's describing it to you incorrectly.

“Jesus.” Don winces. “Definitely our cue to leave."

He offers me his hand, and I stare at it for a moment, thinking about all the reasons this is a bad idea.

Then I think about Josh's face when I caught him, about the way my life has felt like it's been on pause for months, about how this beautiful stranger is looking at me like I still might have an ounce of attractiveness left in my hot-mess bones.

I take his hand.

"Lead the way," I say. "But I'm texting my friends your description and hotel location, just so we're clear."

"Smart." He doesn't let go of my hand as we head toward the door. "For their records…I’m six-two, a hundred and ninety pounds, wearing a ruined white shirt, and you only promised to help with laundry."

"Very thorough. Are you a lawyer?"

"Something like that."

We step out into the humid Miami night, and I glance back to see Sasha and Riley gaping at me from our table.

I mouth "text you soon" and get matching thumbs up in return, along with Sasha's extremely unsubtle gesture that I think is supposed to mean "get it, girl."

"Your friends approve?" Don asks, noticing the exchange.

"They're just happy I'm doing something besides stress-eating takeout and reading employee handbooks."

"The bar was that low?"

"You have no idea."

We walk down the street, the ocean breeze carrying the smell of salt and sunscreen.

My hand is still in his, and I'm trying not to think about how perfectly it fits or how this is absolutely the kind of impulsive decision I swore I wouldn't make this weekend.

But as we turn the corner toward the hotel strip, and Don glances down at me with that half-smile that makes my knees nearly buckle, I can't bring myself to regret it.

Not yet, anyway.

Disaster, I’m sure, can wait until tomorrow.