Babydaddy To Go: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Adams, S. C.

  Babydaddy To Go

  An Enemies to Lovers Romance

  S.C. Adams

  Copyright © 2019 by S.C. Adams

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Subscribe Now

  Sign up for my newsletter and get a free book!

  For my Readers

  Also by S.C. Adams

  The To Go Series

  Daddy to Go

  Husband To Go

  3 Daddies To Go

  Babydaddy To Go

  * * *

  Size Matters

  Size King

  * * *

  Irresistible Daddies

  Mister Daddy

  About This Book

  The gorgeous chef is possessive and utterly male, with broad, sculpted shoulders, perfect lips, and an enormous rolling pin at his disposal.

  Nate Glover is a celebrity chef with magic hands and a charming smile that makes his female audience swoon. Not only that but the handsome alpha male has chiseled abs; muscles carved from wood; and a heavy, meaty rolling pin.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  But the problem is that I’m his student. I’m little more than a servant, come to think of it. Chop this up, he commands. Dice that, he asserts. Massage this dough, he growls.

  Massage?

  On it, sir.

  Unfortunately, the gorgeous Chef Nate hates my guts. I mean, hates with a passion. He would rather serve up rotten food to his customers than teach me the finer points of cooking ...

  …. except one day when he catches me alone in the kitchen.

  Soon, we’re looking for dark, private spaces together when we should be whipping up meals.

  Instead of making food, we’re making magic.

  But what happens when this chef puts a bun in my oven?

  Will he stay, or will he become a babydaddy to go?

  It’s getting hot in heeeere! If you love masterful, gorgeous men who POSSESS their women, then you’re in luck! Chef Nate is a huge, growly hunk who handles the feisty Alyssa with the touch of an alpha male. Always an HEA, with no cheating and no cliffhangers.

  .

  Contents

  1. Alyssa

  2. Alyssa

  3. Nathaniel

  4. Alyssa

  5. Alyssa

  6. Nathaniel

  7. Alyssa

  8. Nathaniel

  9. Alyssa

  10. Nathaniel

  11. Alyssa

  12. Alyssa

  13. Nathaniel

  14. Nathaniel

  15. Alyssa

  16. Nathaniel

  17. Nathaniel

  18. Alyssa

  19. Nathaniel

  20. Alyssa

  21. Nathaniel

  22. Nathaniel

  23. Alyssa

  24. Nathaniel

  25. Alyssa

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek: 3 Daddies To Go

  Sneak Peek: Mister Daddy

  About the Author

  1

  Alyssa

  I place another folded t-shirt into my already-too-full suitcase. Luckily, it’s the last article of clothing I need to pack. I don’t think I could even fit another sock inside, and it takes all my strength to zip up the dark maroon suitcase. But finally, I get it shut.

  Wiping the sweat from my brow, I collapse on the bed beside my suitcase. A sheet of paper scratches against my cheek and almost absentmindedly, I pick it up and read it over again, my eyes scanning left and right.

  “Dear Ms. Hall,” the letter reads. “We are pleased to admit you to the New York Academy of Culinary Arts for the fall semester. You will be an asset to our student body and we hope you’ll join us at NYACA on the first step of your culinary journey.”

  Happy bliss passes over me in a warm wave because my dreams are coming true. When I applied to NYACA, I thought it was a long shot. After all, I have no formal training and most people who get into NYACA went to culinary-based high schools or culinary prep schools. Somehow, I managed to be accepted despite my lack of experience, and I can’t wait to start.

  But oh no. My first day is less than a week away now and my nerves are shot. I’m so excited that jitters shake my frame at night as adrenaline races through my system.

  My eyes scan the letter again, eating each word up hungrily. The words tell me that this year, classes will be taught by a celebrity instructor. It doesn’t say who it is, but I have some ideas of who I want it to be. One in particular.

  After all, I’ve loved cooking my whole life, but there’s one chef who piqued my interest from the very beginning. Nathaniel Glover started from the bottom, just like me. He paid for culinary school with tips from his job as a server, waiting tables at night while feverishly working the stove as a line cook during the day. Once he graduated, he took out a small business loan and opened his first restaurant, and when that took off, he opened a second, and then a third, and then a fourth. Now he’s the most famous chef in the country. On top of that, he’s hot. Ridiculously hot.

  I pull up a photo of Nate Glover on my phone. His sharp jaw line practically jumps off the screen. I love that he keeps his face clean-shaven to show it off. Then there are his eyes, a striking blue that are both charming and devilish at once. If I were ever under his gaze, I would shrink. I wish I could say I’d become a sassy, charming conversationalist, but who are we kidding? I’d probably become as stiff as a board and as red as a fire hydrant, stammering like a dunce. But this is all fantasy, so I shush the little voice inside my mind. Who says you can’t be irresistible in your dreams?

  My eyes go back to Chef Glover. Even in photos, he oozes strength and confidence, and there’s no doubt he’s a commanding alpha male in all ways. His jet-black hair and broad shoulders only make him look more intimidating.

  Plus, this is a fantasy, so I start imagining things. Chef Glover may look domineering, but I can tell he has a tender side, too. It’s in the way he cuts vegetables on his reality show. He cradles the knife in his hand as he forces the blade through willing carrots and onions. I know, crazy, right? I’m imputing things from the way a man treats his vegetables.

  But I can’t help it. I imagine that same hand holding mine as we walk down the street in New York City. We would walk slowly to take in the sights. He’d stop to show me the site of his first restaurant, which is now a laundromat with a plaque dedicated to Nathanial in the window.

  “This is where it all began,” he would say, those bright blue eyes staring down into mine. I’d swoon, looking into the cerulean depths.

  From there, he’d take me to the new location of that same restaurant. It’s a bigger space to keep up with the number of guests and unending demand. They serve hundreds of people every day, and the restaurant has gotten rave reviews from the most important critics in the industry.

  We’d immediately go to the back, since Nathanial is the chef, and he’d give me an impromptu lesson of sorts, with his staff watching politely, yet not watching at the same time. He’d let me help him prep the food. When he noticed my cutting technique was a little off, he’d come up behind me and show me the right way of doing things. I would turn my head towards his to thank him, but he wouldn’t give me a chance. Instead, his lips would meet mine in a passionate kiss before we got back to making our food.

  Of course, once we were done, Nathanial would hold my hand tenderly the whole night. He would be so romantic and sw
eet and pure bliss sweeps through my frame at the fantasy. But therein lies the trouble. Unfortunately, this is all fantasy, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that real guys aren’t the type to hold your hand like a treasured Cinderella. Instead, they want a roll in the haystack, and it’s then out the door. Real life can be such a downer.

  Suddenly, a knock on my door pulls me out of my daydream, and I sit up with a jolt.

  “Are you decent?” my grandmother cackles from the other side.

  “Come on in, Grams,” I say with a sigh. She saunters into the room, swinging her hips as she walks. My grandma isn’t your average octogenarian. She’s in incredible shape for eighty-eight years old, and she walks five miles a day and lifts weights. Plus, I get my wide hips and large chest from my grandmother. Even at her age, she still has an hourglass figure. Incredible.

  “Your face is pink. Are you feeling okay?” Grams looks at me curiously. She places a wrinkly hand on my forehead, but even though I’m flushed, I know there’s nothing’s physically wrong. It’s just my imagination going to faraway places.

  “I’m fine, Grams,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just tired from forcing my suitcase closed, hardy har-har.”

  My grandma grins, but her voice is tinged with sadness.

  “All packed?” she says.

  “Just finished,” I say brightly. “I hope I’m not forgetting anything.”

  She sits down beside me on the bed, moving pillows out of the way to make room.

  “Good, good. Are you ready? Excited?”

  I nod.

  “I’m really excited. It’s a dream come true, you know?”

  “I know, sweetheart, I do. You know, your mother loved to cook, too,” Grams says wistfully.

  This is the first I’ve heard of it. My parents died in a car accident when I was young and so Grams and Pops took me in, raising me on their Maine ranch. Sometimes, they tell me about their daughter, but many times Grams’s voice chokes up and she can’t go on.

  “Mom loved to cook?” I ask in a small voice. Any mention of Nancy always makes me feel sad. It shouldn’t because I don’t remember that much of her, but at the same time, I can feel my chest constricting on its own.

  Grams smiles.

  “She didn’t always. She used to hate the kitchen, and then one Mother’s Day when she was thirteen or fourteen, I came down and found her cooking a three-course breakfast. She made pancakes, waffles, French toast, eggs… you name it, she cooked it. After that day, I couldn’t get her out of the kitchen.”

  “I didn’t know that. I guess I did get something from her.”

  “Oh, honey, you got a lot from her. Your smile, your kindness, and your sense of humor, for example.”

  “Thanks, Grams,” I smile tremulously. I barely got a chance to know my parents before they were taken from me, so it’s nice hearing that I have parts of them in me. I know I don’t look much like my dead mother, but at least we had our love of food in common. That makes my acceptance into NYACA even more special.

  “You know, thinking about your Mom reminds me of a time when she was about your age,” Grams tells me nostalgically. “She had just broken up with her high school boyfriend. They tried to make it work while she was away at college, but Nancy and that boy didn’t have much in common. She came home for Spring Break and found out he’d found other ways to entertain himself while she was away. Ways with a skirt, mind you.”

  I gasp.

  “Seriously? Some jerk cheated on Mom? Oh my god!”

  Grams pats my hand.

  “Language, honey. But yes, he was awful. I never liked that boy, but your mom was smitten. She thought he’d be hers forever, the whole shebang. Of course, you know how that turned out. There are no forevers in this world.”

  Grams’s words make me sad again even though they shouldn’t. After all, my parents are only a memory now. They met during lab their junior year in college, when Mom was twenty-one and Dad was twenty-two. They had me soon after the wedding, and then boom, the car accident. Life kind of came to a standstill after that.

  “Anyways!” Grams says quickly. “One Mother’s Day, your mom walked into the house upset holding three heaping grocery bags. She set out to make the ultimate chocolate cake. Baking was your mom’s specialty, you know.”

  I love to bake, too, but it’s not my strongest area in the kitchen. I’m much better with the stovetop. But Grams is lost in memory and continues.

  “Nancy made a dozen different chocolate cakes that night, tweaking the recipe as she went. Around four in the morning, she woke up your grandfather and me to inform us she had officially made the ‘Best Chocolate Cake In The World.’ I’m a little biased, but I think she was right,” my grandmother chortles.

  “Do you still have the recipe?” I ask eagerly, swiping at the tears in my eyes. I was too young to really know my parents when they died, but I still miss them.

  Grams nods.

  “I make it for you every year on your birthday.”

  My eyes go wide.

  “I had no idea that was Mom’s recipe!”

  Grams nods knowingly.

  “I don’t know why I never told you, come to think about it. It’s hard talking about Nancy sometimes, even after all these years.”

  I wipe away another tear, sniffling discreetly.

  “Thank you for telling me now. It means a lot to me.”

  Maggie nods, her blue gaze catching mine.

  “She’d be so proud of you, Alyssa. You’ve grown up to be an incredible woman, and you’re going to kick butt at that culinary school. And maybe you’ll find a nice man while you’re there,” she winks.

  I throw on a smile, but I know my grandmother’s not joking. She’s a hopeless romantic who’s been trying to set me up with the perfect man since I turned sixteen. Clearly, it hasn’t worked yet because I’ve been on more dates with frogs than I can count.

  “Oh wait a moment,” Grams exclaims, reaching beside her. “I almost forgot. I came up here because I found this photo.”

  She hands me a polaroid of a woman around my height, but with a smaller behind. I know immediately it’s my mother. I’ve seen enough photos of Nancy as an adult to recognize her in her early twenties. But this is a picture I’ve never seen before. In it, my mom is covered in cocoa powder and frosting. There’s a speck of white in her hair – probably flour. Her red and white checkered apron gives her a vintage look.

  “I wanted you to have this,” says Grams in a quiet voice. “Maybe it’ll bring you luck down in New York.”

  I hold the photo in my hands like it might crumble under my touch. “Thank you,” I say softly. “This means the world to me.”

  She kisses the top of my head. “I love you, sweetheart. Now are you coming down for dinner?”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I say, not taking my eyes from the still.

  Nodding, Grams leaves quietly, leaving me with just my thoughts and my mother’s memory.

  Sighing, I stare at the photo. What would Nancy tell me right now? To follow my dreams? To reach for the stars? Those are such hackneyed phrases, and yet there’s something true about them. And I know in my heart that my mom would want the best for me. She’d want me to explore and see the world, and to become the most amazing person that I could be.

  I take a deep breath. I’m not sure what NYACA’s going to bring but attending cooking school is definitely a step in the right direction. Reaching for my diary, I grab a pen. Maybe it’s weird for a twenty-year-old to keep a diary instead of being on social media non-stop, but my journal’s my life-line and my best friend. It knows everything about me. I open to the first empty page about halfway through the tattered book and begin to scribble.

  Dear Mom,

  Grams told me you liked to bake. Did you know I love being in the kitchen, too? I’m even going to school for it. I got accepted to a premier cooking school in New York and I’m going to study under a famous chef. It’s a dream come true, Mom, but I’m scared. W
hat if I fail? What if I can’t hack it next to the other students? I don’t know what I’ll do. I love you and miss you. Wish you were here.

  Love,

  Alyssa

  A single tear drips onto the page, smudging some of the ink. I’ve been writing to my mom for a while now because it helps me feel closer to her. Sometimes, I imagine that my mom’s looking over my shoulder as I write, reading the words and clucking with sympathy.

  Breaking off a piece of tape, I affix the photo into my journal before looking at it once last time. She looks so happy with her brown hair sleek, holding a dirty spoon and a bowl full of chocolate batter. This must have been taken when she was unawares because she has a big goofy grin and is staring off to the right while gesturing with a spatula. If this photo tells me anything, it’s that my mom would want me to persevere no matter the hardship. She’d want me to do my best in cooking school, and live a life of adventure. Sighing, I shut the journal and make myself go downstairs. Suddenly, I’m not so ready to leave.

  Downstairs, my grandparents are already seated at the four-person table in our small dining room. I suppose, starting tomorrow, it’ll be their small dining room. I’ll be living in a one-bedroom apartment in New York City while they carry on with their lives here in Maine.