Valentine's with the Single Dad (The Single Dads of Seattle Book 7)

by Whitley Cox

  Something wild and needy flashed behind her eyes. A response that made him no longer need to force his smile. “Goodnight, Mason,” she said, her chest lifting and falling quicker than a moment ago.

  He brought her knuckles to his mouth and planted a kiss before turning her hand around in his and pressing his lips to her life line. “Goodnight, Lowenna.” Then he released her, watching her stumble just slightly out into the dark, her eyes saucer-size, an expression of surprise on her beautiful face before she finally turned around and opened the gate.

  That’s right, baby. You wanted the boyfriend experience? You’re going to get it. No way are you tossing me into the friend zone.

  Then he waited until she was safely in the Uber and it had pulled away before he closed the door, gripped his cock and went to go take a long, cold shower.

  12

  It was one week until the wedding, and Mason was busy at the bar, slinging drinks and managing the rowdies. Not that he ever really let the place get out of control. He ran a tight ship, and not only did his staff keep the patrons from getting belligerent but most of the patrons knew he didn’t tolerate that shit. A simple eyebrow lift from him at the bar had people falling into line.

  “You excited for next weekend?” Scott asked.

  Mason’s fellow Single Dad of Seattle usually spent every other Friday night at the bar. Scott and his ex-wife alternated weeks with their son Freddie. And this week Freddie was with his mother until Monday night when Scott picked him up from school.

  Mason finished filling up Scott’s pint of San Camanez orange wheat ale and slid the glass across the bar. “Kind of. I’m looking forward to Lowenna finally getting to show up her sister. She deserves a win. Woman’s been through hell these last few years.”

  “You going to the rehearsal dinner?” Scott asked, dipping his thick-cut wedge fry into ketchup and taking a bite. Even though Mason was friends with all of the single dads in their little group, besides Mitch, who he’d known for twenty years, he and Scott had bonded more than he and any of the rest of the guys. They had a similar sense of humor, and Scott had quickly become a regular at Mason’s bar. He showed up around eight o’clock, sat at the bar and watched whatever hockey game was on the television, keeping Mason company until he closed. Usually Friday nights were busy, but on the off-chance the place was quiet and Mason sent the servers home, it was nice to have someone to chat with.

  Wiping down the bar in front of him, Mason gave his friend a look. “How do you know there’s a rehearsal dinner? Is Liam going to it?”

  Scott shook his head. “No. Liam hates that fucker. I just assumed there was one. I thought most big-ass weddings had a rehearsal dinner the night before. You know, just another opportunity to spend money, fawn over the happy couple and give stupid speeches. For the groomsmen to scope out the bridesmaids. Figure out which ones will be easier to bang on the wedding night.”

  Gross.

  “So I’m guessing you and your ex didn’t have a rehearsal dinner, then?”

  Scott shoved another fry into his mouth before he took a sip of his beer. “No, we did. It was dumb. Dumb speeches, expensive restaurant, lots of wine. And I think one of my groomsmen gave my ex’s sister crabs.” He lifted his shoulder. “She’s a crab herself, so I don’t care, but it was still a dumb party.”

  Chuckling, Mason watched as a new drink order came up on the screen. He began to mix it. “Well, she invited me to the rehearsal dinner, but I said I had to work.”

  “But you like this chick. You want to date this chick, right? Can’t you get someone else to cover your shift?”

  Yes to all of those things.

  “Yeah.”

  Scott’s brown brows furrowed. “So then wouldn’t the rehearsal dinner be another date?”

  “She offered to pay me extra. And every time she brings up that she’s paying me, it makes me see red. I hate that our relationship is starting off on this foot, with me as her boyfriend for hire. Her gigolo.” He poured the vermouth into the martini shaker, then leaned over the bar, bringing his voice down. “I’ve never told a soul this, so keep it between us.”

  Scott leaned in over the bar, his face pure curiosity and excitement, like the church biddy eager to hear the latest pew gossip. “Okay. It’s in the vault.”

  Mason rolled his eyes. “Five years ago, I was at the Sandpiper Pub, where I overheard a few waitresses talking about a co-worker and her battle with cancer.”

  “Lowenna?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but I didn’t know it at the time. Anyway, they started talking about how her medical bills were through the roof and that she wanted to freeze her eggs too but couldn’t afford it. So I … ”

  “You paid for her medical bills and fertility expenses? Does Lowenna know this?”

  Mason shook his head. “No, and I have no idea how to tell her. When she told me that a cashier’s check from an anonymous donor ended up at the restaurant for her, I was blown away. I never intended for anybody to find out. That wasn’t why I did it.”

  “You have to tell her. It could change everything.”

  That was exactly what he was afraid of.

  “Yeah, but what if it makes her hate me?”

  “She can’t hate the guy who pretty much saved her life.”

  “She’s so independent though. Hates being looked at like Cancer Girl or with pity eyes. She might not hate me, but I bet I could kiss any possibility of going from gigolo to boyfriend goodbye.”

  “Yeah, but you guys have gotten to know each other now. She wouldn’t just pull the pin on everything now, would she?”

  Mason stirred the drink he was mixing before placing the strainer over the top. “I thought I could tell her the other night when she came over for dinner, but I chickened out. We were having such a nice time. I didn’t want to ruin it. And then she went and called me her friend and brought up the fact that she’s paying me, and the whole night kind of just went to rat shit after that.”

  “You have to tell her. If you want a future with her beyond this wedding, you need to tell her. You can’t build your relationship on a lie. Particularly not one this massive.”

  Yeah, he knew that. He just didn’t know how to tell her.

  Scott leaned back over the bar and handed Mason his phone. “You should send her this video. She should make those for the party favors.”

  Mason squinted at the screen. He watched in fascinated horror, listening intently to the man and woman on the screen being interviewed.

  His gaze flew up to Scott, who was now silently dying with laughter. “Can you imagine opening up your guest favor and seeing that? Talk about where fudge is made.” He continued to laugh, which morphed into more of a cackle. “Send it to her.”

  Could he? It was so crass. But also fucking hilarious, and she did say she liked toilet humor. He handed the phone back to Scott, then went about pouring the martinis into their wide-mouth glasses. He grabbed two skewers, shoved three olives on each, then placed the glasses on the bar for the waitress.

  Mason’s phone on the back of the bar made a little chirp.

  “There, I sent it to you. Do with it as you will. But I think it’s hilarious, and if she doesn’t actually do it, she’ll at least get a chuckle out of it. And if she doesn’t, if she gets offended and calls you disgusting, then she’s not the woman for you anyway.” Scott lifted his beer into the air in a solo cheers before slamming back half of it. He wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth and made a satisfying ah sound. “I know that if I opened up a chocolate asshole when I got home from a wedding, I’d be wondering if it was the bride or the groom’s. Just saying.” Then he dug into his fries and let his eyes drift up to the hockey game above their heads on the enormous television.

  One week to go.

  One week until V-day.

  More like D-day.

  Judgment day.

  And of course, Doneen had called and texted Lowenna three times that day, adding on more specifications for the guest favors, the ch
ocolate-covered strawberries and the centerpiece. She wanted gold ribbons for all the boxes. But no glitter on the ribbon because glitter was tacky, and the bows had to be off center, not in the middle, because off center was classier. She wanted two chocolates in each box, but two different chocolates. Because how would it look if guest A and B each received chocolates and guest A got a salted caramel chocolate bonbon and pistachio cream bonbon, while poor little guest B only got two strawberry and basil cream bonbons.

  Oh, the horror.

  The humanity!

  Surely, guest B would be beside themselves and write Doneen and Brody a scathing letter, going into detail about just how slighted they felt, how completely and utterly devastated only one flavor of chocolate made them feel.

  For fuck’s sake.

  She could not wait until all this shit was over. Until she was done with her sister and Brody and their ostentatious, pompous-ass wedding once and for all.

  Busy assembling guest favor boxes, she cracked her neck side to side a few times to relieve the ache from standing in one spot for several hours with her head bent just so. It was after hours, and the shop was closed, but she had so much to do, she couldn’t just head home like her staff.

  Sometimes she listened to podcasts when she was forced to work late, other times music, but tonight she was enjoying the silence. Enjoying the quiet.

  Doing a quick count of how many boxes she had assembled, she was thrown off her counting when her phone on the counter made a little whoop, whoop.

  If it was Doneen with more changes, she was going to rip out her hair. Then she was going to go find her sister and rip out her hair too.

  She peeled off her latex gloves, grabbed the bottle of wine she was using to help her get through the evening and picked up her phone, tipping the bottle up into her mouth at the same time she brought up the text message.

  It was from Mason.

  He’d gone a little weird Sunday night at his place after dinner, first being all flirty and sweet and then cold and withdrawn, only to end the night with a kiss to her knuckles and a smoldering look she’d deposited directly into her spank bank.

  Tuesday and Thursday’s dance lessons had been fine, though. He was his old, charming self, twirling her around the dance floor and only stepping on her toes twice.

  He really was improving while at the same time confusing the crap out of her.

  She brought up his message.

  It was a link to a video along with a message.

  In case you haven’t started preparing the guest favors yet, you might want to check this out.

  She clicked the video link and took a sip from the wine bottle at the same time.

  Bad idea.

  When the image of a chocolate butthole came on to the screen, followed by the sweet little old English man who made the personalized asshole molds, Lowenna spat her wine clear across the kitchen.

  The video went on to interview the man about his process. Then an American woman went to him, and the whole video followed her journey into getting her asshole cast so she could get it bronzed.

  She watched that video three times and finished her bottle of wine before she worked up the courage to text Mason back. Only now she was tipsy and giggly.

  That was quite interesting. Are you offering to be my model?

  He texted back almost immediately.

  I’m ready and willing. Just give me a minute to run home and shower first.

  She snorted and shook her head.

  You’re terrible. I needed that though. Bridezilla has been terrorizing Tokyo again today. The bows on the boxes of chocolates must be off center, otherwise the world will implode.

  She leaned against the stainless-steel counter that ran the whole length of the back kitchen, staring at her phone, waiting for his reply.

  Well, duh. Of course it would. I thought you were smarter than that, Lowenna. Centered bows are for philistines. Get with the program.

  She giggled. Another text message popped up.

  I’m heading home to go and clean my butthole. See you in 10?

  She tossed her head back and laughed.

  Sounds good. I’m still at the chocolate shop. Bring your butthole, and we’ll make magic.

  Best offer I’ve ever received from a woman.

  Now her sides and face hurt from laughing so much.

  I’m actually at work, but if you want me and my butthole to come by, we can.

  She knew he was joking, but a little part of her was also disappointed that she wasn’t going to get to see him. It was probably for the best; she still had a lot of work to do. And Mason was a distraction—in the best way possible, of course. But she’d have to stay even later tomorrow night if he came by and they spent the rest of the evening goofing off. Casting his asshole or not.

  She texted back.

  It’s probably for the best. I still have a shit-ton of work to do. No rest for the wicked sister.

  She tipped the already empty wine bottle up and shook it over her mouth, hoping there were a few more drops clinging to the sides.

  No such luck.

  He texted her back.

  Don’t work too hard.

  She set the wine bottle down and glanced at her assembly line of chocolates and gift boxes. She still had a long way to go.

  I’ll try not to. I can’t wait until this nightmare is over.

  Sweet dreams, Lowenna.

  That last text was accompanied by a photo of his smiling face and his bare chest, nipple piercings and all, and his rocking eight-pack of abs.

  Her gasp echoed around the empty shop.

  Zoom! Slam! Boy, did that ever get tossed into the spank bank fast. She nearly lost a finger, the vault door shut so hard and quick.

  Another text message dinged.

  Just a little something to tide you over. ;) Sleep tight.

  She swallowed and fanned herself, still staring at his picture.

  Yeah, she wasn’t going to be getting much sleep tonight. Not after that picture.

  Nope.

  She scrolled up in her messages to the video link again and clicked it. The man who made the asshole molds had an email address.

  Hmmm.

  Well, if she wasn’t going to be getting much sleep tonight, she might as well work.

  Work and plot.

  She brought up a blank compose page in her emails and pasted the man’s email address into it.

  Then, giddily, with shaky fingers and laughter bubbling in her chest, she began to compile her query.

  Revenge came in all forms.

  Even in the shape of a butthole.

  13

  It was the last day of dance lessons and two days to the wedding. Lowenna had been a frazzled, beautiful, wild-haired mess when she burst through the dance studio doors ten minutes late.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, kicking off her boots as she made her way across the dance studio floor toward Mason, Violet and Adam. “I know I’m late. I just had to finish the centerpiece, and much like the bride, it was being a pain in the neck.”

  She ripped her off socks, tossed them into the corner with her haphazardly discarded coat and boots and then sidled up next to Mason, her chest heaving and her hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks. But her eyes were bright and her cheeks a sexy pink.

  Despite the chaos that seemed to spiral in with her, she was gorgeous.

  “Did you run here?” Mason asked with a chuckle, bouncing a whimpering Willow in the carrier on his front. His daughter had been miserable all night and all day, most likely because she was working on popping a couple of teeth and they were giving her—and him—some serious grief.

  Lowenna nodded and pushed the damp hair off her face. “It only started to downpour for the last half a block.” Her pretty gray eyes lifted to him, and she batted her damp, spiked lashes. “I was hoping I could flirt my way into a ride home if the weather doesn’t let up.”

  Adam snorted.

  Violet giggled.

 
Mason grinned down at her. “I think something can probably be arranged, though you’re going to have to flirt pretty damn hard. I live in the opposite direction, so I’ll really be going out of my way.” Out of his way four blocks, but whatever.

  Heat flickered in her eyes, and her smile went a mile wide. Then she leaned in and pecked Willow on the cheek. “Hey, sweet girl. I’ve missed you something fierce. How’s my baby?”

  “Teething up a storm,” Mason said, fighting back a yawn, but also loving that Lowenna called Willow my baby. He’d taken the whole day off work to be with his daughter—and also get some sleep. The poor thing had been up most of the night crying, only content when she was on him. So that’s how they went through the darkest, loneliest hours of the day—the wee hours of the morning. He sat up with Willow on his chest, reclining in his La-Z-Boy making soft shushing sounds as she sucked furiously on her thumb.

  He’d tried a few times to put her down in a crib, but he never even made it past the rocking horse in her room before she started to wail. And he just couldn’t handle the sound of her crying. Particularly when he knew it was because she was in pain.

  He’d even gone so far as to call Emmett, who not only was a single dad to a little girl as well but was also a doctor.

  Unfortunately, Mason hadn’t looked at the time when he called his friend, and poor Emmett was roused out of a deep sleep thinking that the city was on fire or there was a rocket headed for the Space Needle.

  “Give her some Tylenol. The amount for her age and weight should be on the bottle. See if she’ll suck on a cold, wet washcloth, and then just give her what she needs otherwise: comfort and patience. This is a hard time for parents,” Emmett had said, exhaustion clear in his voice.

  Mason paced up and down his dark hallway, bouncing a mewling Willow against his chest. “Should I take her to the hospital?”

  “Why? All babies teethe. Besides, the hospital is no place for an infant unless they’re seriously ill. That place is a cesspool of germs. She’s likely to catch something if you take her there.”