You Can Count On Me (Christmas Daddies, #2)

by Fae Quin

You think you’ve seen everything by the time you hit thirty-seven. But then a familiar tiny blond eleven-year-old shows up at your house just after dark, wielding a baseball bat in one hand and an inhaler in the other. And he threatens you with it—the bat, not the inhaler—until you agree to take his dad on a date, and you realize you were wrong. You definitely haven’t seen everything. Nope. Not even close.

It had nothing to do with the fact his daddy had the biggest, roundest, most glorious ass I had ever seen. It was so goddamn perfect a picture of it should’ve been under “world’s most fuckable ass” in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Loss leaves wounds that never quite heal, and I wasn’t sure I would ever be prepared to confront those demons.

Everything about Rooster was big. Big hands. Big shoulders. Big feet.

I didn’t know if I wanted to hold him or fuck him—or both. Definitely both.

Jesus. Had I really told him there was no spark? I was such. An. Idiot.

This kid. Jesus. He looked like goddamn Charlie Brown or some shit. Adorable.

Everything about him was cute. Endearing. He made me feel like a kid with a crush, and since I’d never really felt that before, I didn’t know what to do with myself now that I did.

There were dark circles under his eyes—something I clocked immediately because his goddamn eyes had a chokehold on me so tight that just looking at them made it hard to think, even when he wasn’t looking back.

I felt like a goddamn monk, fantasizing about our legs touching like it was the most tantalizing foreplay.

My heart wobbled as I wandered behind them up the steps, my eyes still a little wet as I watched Trent Montgomery steal my son’s heart the same way he’d stolen mine. With that wicked smile. And those kind, steady eyes. And a heart so big he had no choice but to share it with the world.

These two lost boys had me wrapped around their little fingers and they didn’t even know it.

No one touched what was mine and got away with it. No one.

I let him hold me, and I wasn’t quite so scared anymore. There was so much I needed to figure out, but that was okay. It was all okay. Because Trent was sunshine, laughter, and broad shoulders. And he might be strong enough to carry us both.

I’d never been so viscerally affected by someone else’s touch. Never felt sick with need, desperate and grateful—like the innocent brush of his lashes against my skin or his soft as sin lips against my throat was enough to make me burst into flames. No sparks. My. Ass. Goddamn fireworks were going off inside me.

it was nice. To be asked for once, how I was doing. Everyone always just assumed I was okay because I didn’t complain.

Every time I looked at his almost bow-legged swagger my hole twitched and trembled, aching for him to notice how bad I needed him to fuck me. To own me. To dominate me like I was a bitch in heat, and he couldn’t stop himself from taking what was his.

There was more strength in kindness than there was in violence.

Trent was everything we’d been missing, perfectly sized to fit in the gaps in our small family unit.

I’d never felt like this for another person before. I’d never wanted to soak them up like sunshine. To bask in their presence like it soothed the ache of loneliness inside me I’d never felt brave enough to admit was there. Until now.

If he had a weakness, it would be that he hadn’t yet figured out that being vulnerable took strength.

Some people were worth being uncomfortable for.

Wasn’t like I was about to tell Trent’s damn mama that the only books I read were ones that had more sex than plot and a whole lot of dicks. Even monster ones. Especially monster ones. With knots.

If there was one thing Beatrice loved more than cooking, it was her boys. All seven of them.

I was tired of being a mistake. Tired of years and years of letting my life pass me by because I was too damn scared to take a chance. Tired of never meeting someone worth taking a chance for. Tired of forgetting to live.

Lost in Trent’s eyes, the world was a beautiful place. I wasn’t scared when he was around.

“I’m terrified because you’re everything. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. And for the first time in my life, every action I take is wrong, wrong, wrong. I don’t have sweet words. My silver tongue gets tangled. You make my hands sweaty, and my heart race. I feel like I’m in goddamn grade school when you’re around.”

Forgiveness tasted like forty kinds of hot cocoa, felt like borrowed hoodies, and smelled like Trent’s cologne.

I would treasure every mole and freckle on his body, kiss his fingers and toes, count his lashes, and memorize his curls with the twist of my fingers inside that thick, gorgeous hair.

I’d never had someone look at me the way he did. Like I was something worth worshiping.

He made me feel seen. All of me. The good and the bad.

Life was full of wounds even when they healed. That was just the way of it. It was the steps you took forward on the tightrope, bleeding or not, that made the difference.

Could someone die from having a prolonged boner? I hoped not. I’d been hard for what felt like a century.

Needy, greedy, beautiful baby. All mine.

Trent Montgomery was a happy ending if I ever saw one.

How could two people get even more goddamn cute? Cow print. That’s how.

I was listening to the ending of book four in the Werewolf’s Mate series I’d picked up after our gym date,

I couldn’t help but fall in love all over again. Miles was…amazing. Wonderful. Sweet. Serious. Kind. Loyal.

Mistakes are just lessons.”

“Let me carry the weight for you. Let me be in charge. Let me hold you. Let me fuck you. Talk to me when you need to—pick me. Let me in. Let me fight your battles. Let me stand beside you. Let me share your secrets. Let me keep you safe.”

“I’ve never felt the way I do for you, and it’s scary and wonderful—but god. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“C’mon, Pops. Let’s go save Dad.”

He was comfort. He was companionship. He was tranquil lake water and tumbled river stones. He was innocence. First love the way it’s meant to be. He was happy days, butterflies, and the promise of a future all wrapped in a big cow print covered body.

Words were tricky, dangerous things. Use them wrong and you could lose everything.

The difference between the good and the bad parents was whether or not they tried again when they failed.

Being a dad wasn’t about the title. It wasn’t about perfection. Being a dad meant showing up when you were needed. It was as simple as that. Doable. Wonderful.

“You don’t need to earn love, baby. That’s the best part about being human. We make mistakes, sure. But we all deserve to be loved.”

Life was full of scary experiences. Strength came from enduring them, not avoiding them.

Love was vulnerability. It was trusting someone to love you after showing them the parts of yourself you’d never been able to embrace.

Trent Montgomery was my home. He was real. He was strong. And sweet. And capable. Reliable. Trustworthy. Kind.