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She’s beautiful—that’s clear right off the bat. Long, tanned legs are heavily visible under the short hem of her tiny black dress, and her breasts are perfectly round and perky. She has a blond bob cut with fashionable bangs, and her makeup is done with the hand of a professional. Her eyes are a pale, icy blue, and they sparkle under the lights of the bar.
If we were going strictly off physical appearance, this woman would be the kind of woman I’d have taken to my bed over the years. Of course, the distinction I should be making is that it wouldn’t have been my bed.
Instead, it would have been a bed at a hotel or her bed. But never mine. It was always important to me—of the utmost importance—to separate Chloe from the fuck buddies of my life entirely.
They didn’t belong in the same compartment as her. Because Chloe—well, it’s safe to say she’s my world.
I think most dads would say the same about their daughters, but I challenge that I mean it more. When you’re in the close heat of the jungle, stalking the lowest of the world’s scum, only to get pulled out, put on a plane, flown to the US, and driven straight to the hospital to have your newborn daughter placed in your arms—her mother having passed away during childbirth—something changes in you.
I was all she had, and suddenly, she was all I had too.
A little tiny human, counting on me to see her through life without a mother. The responsibility was nearly crushing—even for a trained Navy SEAL like myself—but she gave me the strength to find something in myself I can’t describe.
She gave me purpose. She gave me light in the darkness.
And as much as I was a man with physical needs, I was a dad who lived by a concrete code of morals and honor.
The two were never to cross.
I chuckle to myself. I never thought in a million years Chloe would be the one to rewire the whole thing.
So now, it’s about more than that. And Bianca may be beautiful, but I need to know if there’s anything under the top layer. Is she funny? Does she have depth? Is she the kind of human I want to be around for more than an hour and a half?
These are questions I never even bothered to ask before. Now, though, they’re important.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, sticking out a hand for her to shake.
She takes it readily, but her hand goes limp within mine. I hate to be so judgmental, but a limp-fish handshake is not a great sign. I like strong and bold.
“You too,” she answers. “You’re even better-looking than I imagined.”
I laugh. Well, then. What was I just saying about bold? I guess we could work on the handshake.
“Thanks, I think. Though, I have to admit, I didn’t have much to do with it.”
She smiles a little, but I can tell she doesn’t understand, so I elucidate, “You’d have to thank my parents’ genes for the looks. They’re responsible.”
“Their jeans?” she asks.
My eyebrows pull together, but I push on. “Yep. Their genes.”
“Is it a special kind of denim?”
Oh, for the love of intelligence.
I cough behind my hand to conceal the absolute riot act happening in my head and remind myself to be a gentleman.
But the truth is, with one simple comment, I’m as done as they get.
There is no way in hell or heaven I could stand to end up with someone like Bianca. There’s someone out there for her, I’m sure. But I’m not that guy.
And yet, I have to take the polite, gentlemanly road and sit through an entire dinner with her. The only self-preservation will be my ability not to take any of it too seriously.
“Yeah,” I say instead of wasting my time trying to explain how chromosomes work. “It’s, like, a poly-stretch blend, I think.”
She nods like she understands exactly what I mean.
My brain knocks on the inside of my skull, begging to be set free. I do my best to ignore it.
“Anyway,” I say, widening my eyes and taking a deep breath. “I guess we should head for our table.”
She smiles and nods, and I gesture for her to lead the way.
Once her back is to me, I scan the restaurant, looking for Holley. We’re going to have to have a talk about her picking this one for me—for anybody, really. She can’t convince me she couldn’t have searched for another option.
I finally spot her in the far back corner of the restaurant, her head bent to her notebook as she jots something down with a pen.
When we make it to the table, I pull out Bianca’s chair and get her settled and then take the seat across from her—the one with a direct view of Holley Fields over my date’s shoulder.
