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“If I find any underwear in my new apartment, I swear to god.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I cross my heart, then wink at Clem when the others turn away.
It’s good to have my daughter back and happy. Good to get her settled and safe.
And afterward, it’ll be good to get my Clementine home.
* * *
Thanks for reading Dad Bod Dreams! I hope you loved it. :)
Check out the next book in the Dad Bod 2.0 series,Dear Mr. Dad Bodby Nichole Rose.Dear Mr. Dad Bod: Where do I apply to be your baby girl?
You can find the rest of the Dad Bod 2.0 series here:https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BVRQHN7C
And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy ofRide or Die.She’s sweet and innocent—and that’s like catnip in this strip club. It’s okay, though. I won’t let the pretty bartender out of my sight.
Happy reading!
xxx
Teaser: Big Baker
The service corridors are quiet at this time of morning—it’s the lull between the breakfast and lunchtime rushes. The only people I pass are other cleaners, wheeling their own carts between rooms and stifling yawns against their shoulders.
The kitchens are the opposite. Deafening noise and bustling figures; bursts of steam and sparkling steel counters. I poke my head in, wincing at the chaos, before I push my breakfast cart along the side of the wall. I stay far out of the way, clinging to the edge of the room, and I still flinch at every dropped pan. Every shout.
I hate the kitchens. Bringing the breakfast carts down used to be my least favorite job. But I’m not completely selfless, volunteering for the task this morning.
I want to see him. Chef Ballard.
He’s easy to spot—an island of calm in the frantic kitchen. Chef Ballard stands across the room, spinning pizza dough between his hands. His face is serene, like he doesn’t even need to think about what he’s doing, like he can let his mind wander, and I get that. It’s why I like cleaning.
He glances up as I walk through the kitchen, cart wheel squeaking.
Our eyes meet.
My breakfast cart bounces off the wall, my hands suddenly clammy on the handle.
Oh God. I duck my head, cheeks burning, and wish that I never came in here. That I watched where I put my damn feet. But it’s too late for that—he saw me push the cart into the wall—and he probably thinks I’m an idiot. A complete fool.
My throat is tight when I reach the cart station. I swallow hard, then unload the glasses and china cups quickly, emptying their contents into a sink before placing them in their proper sections for the pot-wash to collect. I’m reaching for the plate of ruined pastries when my neck prickles.
I glance behind me.
Chef Ballard stands at my shoulder, watching me work.
He’s… so muchbiggerup close.Tall and broad, with a large chest and curved stomach behind his white chef’s jacket. The sort of man who fills a doorway—who alters the light in a room when he walks in.
His hands and forearms are golden brown and thick, dusted with flour, and he smells like baking bread and the faint scent of soap. His hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, like he smiles more often than not, and his short brown beard is thick and soft-looking.
I get the crazy urge to rub my cheek against it.
Chef Ballard tilts his head, and I don’t miss his resigned expression when he sees his ruined food on the breakfast cart. I grab the plate, scraping it quickly before piling it on the station.
It’s silly, but I don’t want him to see that. He deserves so much better.
“They’re not for everyone, huh?”
