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 was so goddamn perfect a picture of it should’ve been under “world’s most fuckable ass” in the Guinness Book of World Records.

He swallowed. Even his ears were flushed. Everything about Rooster was big. Big hands. Big shoulders. Big feet.

He was always fuckin’ looking at me, those big fluttery eyes dark, his lips parted and chapped like he was a dying man in a desert and I was a goddamn mirage.

“Oh my lord, are you on a date with Miles Johnson?” Her eyes about bugged out of her head.

This was why I didn’t date. This was why no one ever stayed.

“Ma’am.” A deep voice had rumbled, soft, sweet and almost sultry, laced with a thick Southern accent. Who. Was. That?

I was sick of her meddling. Or I had been. Until I’d heard that fucking voice. And seen the man it belonged to. And now…I got it.

And then…“I messed it up,” Rooster’s voice shook and he folded his massive, bulging arms across his chest, shrinking. My fantasies screeched to a halt all at once. What? Rooster looked…small somehow.

Once again, I was struck with the thought that I was a goddamn asshole.

What was wrong with me? Why had I acted like such a jerk? That wasn’t like me. At least, I hadn’t thought it was— I didn’t want it to be. Dad would—Dad would be so fucking ashamed of me right now.

Did he think his silence meant he deserved to be treated like shit? Jesus.

“Pops says violence is never the answer,” Bubba quoted again, but his eyes were full of mischief this time. “But Theodore Roosevelt said ‘speak softly and carry a big stick.’ And he was the president, so…” He shrugged as if that explained everything.

His hips were swiveling, this slow, sensual grind to the beat that had me hard in an instant, my mouth dry, and my hands clenching into fists. I wanted to grab on to them. Wanted to press my dick up against that round, juicy ass, and grind my cock between his cheeks.

My goddamn jaw on the floor, my cock hard, and my heart sprinting like it wanted to pop right out of my chest.

I was across the room in seconds, barely registering the movement. “What happened? Where are you hurt?”

I’d been wrong when I thought there would be nothing worse than being forced to commit before I was ready. No. Nooope. There was something worse alright, and it had just happened to me while I’d watched Rooster dance and listened to his honeyed voice sing with throaty vowels and an accent sweeter than sugar. My pulse was still racing. My hands shook. My entire body was full of butterflies, fluttering their wings so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. I’d never fallen in love before. Never had a crush. But there was no other explanation for what this feeling was. And I’d already fucking screwed it up.

And then I got irrationally jealous of all the faceless, non-existent men, and I opened my mouth to get my brain to stop brain-ing.

I had to prove to both of them that I was worth a second chance, despite how much of an ass I’d been.

Damn. There was a flicker of hurt still there. Hidden behind his confusion, trembling quietly. I’d done that. I’d hurt him. Jesus.

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

My fingers twitched beneath his, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he offered me a tentative little smile, which I returned full force. I didn’t think I’d ever smiled that hard in my entire life. He was touching me! I wanted to scream hallelujah but figured that would scare him off. Which was the last thing I wanted to do. His eyes said, thank you. They said, they’re perfect. They said, it’s okay.

I’d never topped a guy Rooster’s size before. There was something heady about the thought.

With every passing day it became more and more clear that the Johnsons were…alone. Before I’d come along there had been no one. No one took care of them. Of him.

Maybe they’d realize they need me. No one had ever needed me before. A man could dream.

Give me a tall bottle of big, protective, and soft-hearted and I’d be set.

For someone like me, friendships were precious, rare things.

“Be cool,” Bubba instructed me unhelpfully as he gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, Pops.” I wished it was that easy.

I opened my mouth to speak, and Bubba cut in to save me from myself.

His eyes kept darting to mine, then Bubba’s, like a guilty kid. Like he was just waiting to be kicked out of our party of three because the entire suburb apparently wanted a taste of him.

“Every time a lady opens the door and sees you she gives me way more candy.” He stomped one little booted foot to emphasize his point, then shook his nearly full candy bag in Trent’s direction.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bubba threatened. Trent smiled. It was the biggest, sunniest, sweetest grin I had ever seen. I smiled back, unable to help myself, his happiness was contagious.

Then he headed toward the next house, my little boy’s hand in his. 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.

It was too bad things hadn’t worked out between Trent and I. He sure would’ve made a great dad himself.

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

Quicker than I could blink, I was halfway to the playground, alarm bells ringing in my head, and anger unlike anything I’d ever felt before burning hot and ashy in my chest. I ate up the distance faster than if I’d been flying, my vision going red-hot with rage. No one touched what was mine and got away with it. No one.

Trent was all easy grace, lazy smiles, and casual masculinity. Right now he looked like he was about to murder someone, and I was terrified to find out why.

“Did you just spill milk all over my kid’s fucking backpack?” Trent’s voice was low, dangerous. Calm as a river just waiting to drown you.

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.

No sparks. My. Ass. Goddamn fireworks were going off inside me.

I was a player, a slut, a flirt—all those things. I’d been proud of that too, until recently. Now there was only one bed I wanted to fall into. One body I wanted to sink inside. One mouth I wanted to kiss. One set of arms I wanted to call my home.

I’d never had someone else inside me before, despite how badly I desired it. I wondered if he’d want that. If he’d let me be the way I craved to be.

Bubba’s guard was down for the first time in what felt like months. It hurt for only a moment as I realized, this is what he’d needed. Not me. Trent. But the hurt quickly faded away as relief took its place. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to talk to me. But that was okay. I was just glad he was talking to someone.

I wanted to sing odes to his ass while I worshiped it outside and in.

It was a special kinda heaven, food like this. Delicious. Made with love, and someone’s capable hands. Sitting at the table that I’d longed for. In the seat I’d privately hoped would be mine one day. Funny how I’d been so scared of this. When it could’ve gotten me homemade pizza all this time.

He took everything so seriously. Mr. Doom and Gloom. Just waiting for someone to part the clouds aside and show him how to breathe in the sun.

Trent flashed me a knowing look, his eyes sparkling with mischief as his gaze dragged hot and heavy from my eyes down my throat, to my chest, to my lap. When he glanced back up again his golden irises were dark. “I’ve been busy,” he added, unhelpfully.

One tall, broad-shouldered child stood behind the rest. Jeremy. His eyes were trained on Bubba. On the Arm Becca still slung around his shoulders. And he looked— Sad? But no.

“Who took the sperm whale?” I asked when we’d pulled out of the parking lot and started on our way back down Main Street toward the bakery to drop Becca off. Bubba’s cheeks flushed and he squirmed. “Jeremy.” “Ah.”

His eyes were full of promises and optimism. His hands were capable and kind.