Flirting with the Single Dad (The Single Dads of Seattle Book 9)

by Whitley Cox

  Flirting with the Single Dad

  Single Dads of Seattle, Book 9

  Whitley Cox

  Copyright © 2020 by Whitley Cox

  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

  ISBN: 978-1-989081-32-7

  Contents

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Falling with the Single Dad - Sneak Peek

  If You’ve Enjoyed This Book

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Whitley Cox

  About the Author

  You can also find me here

  Join My Street Team

  Don’t forget to Subscribe to my Newsletter

  For Crystal Onions who has loved Atlas since book one.

  For Nicki Holt who has made my life so much easier by helping with my review team.

  For Andi Babcock a fan turned beta-reader turned friend.

  Without fans, readers and friends like you I wouldn’t be where I am today.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  About the Book

  When first impressions happen twice.

  Welcome to Seattle, the Emerald City and home to The Single Dads of Seattle. Ten sexy single fathers who play poker every Saturday night, have each other's backs, love their children without quarter, and hope to one day find love again.

  This is Atlas’s story …

  Single Dad of Seattle, Atlas Stark is in over his head. A widower, he’s been left to raise his daughter, and his infant cousin alone, while also trying to make partner at his law firm. If things at work weren’t stressful enough, his home life is getting hairy too. His daughter’s acting out, eager for her father’s attention, and she’s taking it out on the baby. Already stretched too thin, he’s one frayed strand away from snapping. Desperate for help, he takes her to see a therapist. What he doesn’t count on is her being a tall, blonde knock-out with sapphire eyes and penchant for motorcycles. Too bad she annoys the crap out of him.

  Tessa Copeland’s life has never been easy. With a chronically ill mother, she was forced to grow up quicker than most. A successful art therapist, she’s determined not to let her baggage set her back. Until her fiancé cheats on her and takes her dog. She’s never brought her personal life to work, but she can’t stop thinking about the father of one of her clients, or the fact that he’s an assuming jerk with a smolder that gets her engine running. But things grow blurry when she finds herself seeking legal counsel from the broody Atlas, and even though the two continue to butt heads, their chemistry is undeniable.

  Will flirting with the single dad lead Tessa down a dangerous road riddled with potholes and blind turns? Or will it be exactly what they both needed to finally feel whole again?

  1

  Thump!

  “What the fuck?”

  Atlas Stark rubbed his forehead and then his hip as he opened his eyes and found himself lying on his daughter’s bedroom floor.

  He must have fallen asleep again in Aria’s tiny twin bed while reading her a bedtime story. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Usually woke up with a horrible crick in his neck, one of his hands asleep and more exhausted than when he nodded off.

  He wasn’t a young man anymore either. He needed the comfort of his own bed and his therapeutic cool gel pillow. But Aria—like most nights—had complained when he tucked her in, so he gave in to her demands, crawled in next to her and read her the twelfth book of the night. He wasn’t sure who fell asleep first.

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stood up to his full height, his back cracking and knees grinding as he hinged over to kiss his daughter on the cheek.

  Fuck, he hoped he hadn’t slept the entire night away in her room—wouldn’t be the first time. If luck was finally on his side, it’d be like ten or eleven and he could still pass out in his own bed. That was if Cecily down the hall didn’t freak the fuck out and require him to hold her while she chugged back a bottle for twenty minutes.

  Yawning, he reached for his phone off the dresser. Oh thank God, it was only ten thirty. He brought up his messages as he wandered out of Aria’s room, making sure to leave it open just a crack, otherwise his three-and-a-half-year-old would give him shit in the morning.

  There were only a handful of messages—most of them work-related—and they could wait until tomorrow. But there was one that had been sent two minutes ago from a number he didn’t recognize.

  He scratched the back of his neck, wandered into the kitchen and poured himself two fingers of bourbon, a nightly ritual. The bottle nearly slipped through his fingers as he read the slew of messages from this strange number.

  Did you know that Carlyle was engaged? Well, you do now. And if you DID know that he was engaged, shame on you for sleeping with an attached man.

  Please tell Carlyle when you see him that he can find his belongings on the front lawn of MY apartment, though he might want to get there soon, as the weather report is calling for thundershowers.

  I’m keeping the ring. That asshole took five years of my life.

  The text messages began rather polite, almost rational, and slowly meandered into more and more profanity, caps lock and exclamation marks.

  And another thing! WHO THE FUCK NAMES THEIR KID CARLYLE? You can have him! WHO GOES BY CARLYLE and not CARL?! Pretentious fuckers, that’s who!

  Carlyle isn’t returning my calls or messages. I’m assuming he’s with you, so please relay these messages to my lowlife fucking EX-fiancé.

  I want my dog back! Who the hell steals a dog? I want him back or I WILL call the cops, get a lawyer and sue his fucking ass.

  The apartment is in MY NAME! So if he tries to get in, I’ll call the cops! The two of you can go FUCK YOURSELVES. Have a nice life!

  At this point, Atlas was wide awake, sitting on his black leather couch and sipping his bourbon.

  Did you text back a wrong number? Particularly one this enraged?

  But the person on the other end deserved to know that their message was not received by the intended recipient, right?

  Did he want to engage with this person? They sounded kind of psycho.

  But whoever they were, they deserved their dog back, didn’t they? A dog was a family member. Who the fuck kidnapped a family member?

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he finished his bourbon, then tapped out a quick message to the furious texter.

  You have the wrong number. I’m a man.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and allowed the silence of the evening to wrap around him. He himself was a quiet person, preferring to have the television down low, the same for the music in the car. He liked things quiet. Or at least he used to.

  It had been over a year and half since his wife, his best friend, the other half of his beating hea
rt had died, creating not only a void in his heart but deafening silence in his home. Now, he hated the quiet.

  Samantha had been the light of his life. She had been the light. Always bubbly and chatty. The house was never truly quiet when she was home—and he’d been completely okay with that. Whether it be her busy baking in the kitchen, playing the piano downstairs or humming softly to their daughter, the sound of his wife filled their home in a way that he knew could never be replicated.

  From the moment they met their sophomore year of high school, he had been in love with her. Kind and courageous. Fearless and positive. No matter who or what, his wife was always willing to go out of her way to show somebody, usually a total stranger, just a small act of kindness. She had been the absolute best mother to their daughter, even if it was for only two years.

  But the universe and its fucked-up ways robbed Atlas of his wife. Had robbed the world of a light brighter than the sun itself. And now that she was gone and the kids were in bed, he was alone in the unforgiving silence. In the all-consuming dark.

  Anger had engulfed him after Samantha passed. He hated himself for not trying hard enough to save her. He hated Samantha for making peace with her death and refusing any more treatment. And he hated the doctor that ignored her symptoms and the nurses and doctors for honoring her wishes to no longer continue with treatment, even after he begged her not to.

  He hated a lot.

  The only bright spot left in his life was Aria. His sweet, angelic, beautiful little girl. The spitting image of her mother in both looks and feistiness. He’d known within an hour of her birth that he was going to have a wild, fearless princess on his hands. Always ripping off the tiara and glass slippers to go run barefoot in the mud. Her mother had been the exact same.

  And now he had Cecily as well. She wasn’t his, but she was. She needed someone, and unlike the rest of Atlas and Cecily’s family, Atlas was able to provide for her.

  It’d been touch and go at first with the baby. Born to two meth dealer parents—Atlas’s cousin, Tamsin, and her skeezy boyfriend, Ty—Cecily had been raised the first three months of her life in a house that also served as a meth lab. And when that meth lab blew up, killing her father and burning eighty percent of her mother’s body, Cecily was found under a bed, barely alive.

  His mother in Portland had called him the moment they got the call about Tamsin and Cecily. Atlas and Aria were on the next flight out. His parents had raised Tamsin since she was thirteen, after her mother—Atlas’s aunt—died in a car accident. Atlas’s parents became her guardian, and Atlas became more of a big brother to Tamsin than a cousin she saw twice a year on Christmas.

  But Tamsin turned wild after her mother died, and she put Atlas’s parents through the wringer. More times than he could count, in his final year of high school and then while attending college in Portland, he got a call late at night to go and pick up his cousin from some filthy party he wouldn’t step foot in without a hazmat suit.

  His parents did their best, but Tamsin’s wild streak was more than they could manage. He knew he had to do better by her daughter though.

  And even though it was Cecily who had come from the meth-lab home with the negligent parents, it was Atlas’s daughter Aria who was giving him the endless grief these days. Her acting out and constant outbursts for attention were wearing him thin. What was worse, she was starting to take her frustration and aggression out on Cecily. A few times now, Atlas’s nanny, the very grandmotherly Jenny, had called him at work because Aria had hit, scratched or screamed in Cecily’s face.

  He was at his wits’ end. He loved his daughter more than life itself and knew she was struggling with not only not having her mother anymore, but also having a new baby in her life and her father constantly working. It was a lot for a three-and-a-half-year-old to absorb and accept. Hell, at thirty-nine, Atlas was still having difficulty absorbing and accepting it all. Was life supposed to be this hard?

  Which was why, against his better judgment and his lack of confidence in the artsy-fartsy types, he made an appointment for Aria with an art therapist that his buddy and fellow single dad, Zak, recommended. Aria went for her first session on Monday.

  He was so deep in his thoughts, with his eyes closed once again, caught up in the whirlpool of his never-ending problems, that when his phone buzzed in his hand, he actually jumped in his chair.

  His eyes opened, and he glanced at the screen. It was that unknown number again.

  I’m sorry. You must think I’m crazy. I’m really not. Just hurt. And angry. And I miss my dog.

  So much.

  A bizarre sensation filled his chest.

  His fingers were flying across the touchscreen keyboard before he knew better.

  It’s okay. I’m really sorry that your fiancé cheated on you and stole your dog. I hope it starts raining before he manages to get his things off your front lawn.

  He chuckled to himself at the thought of some philandering asshole scrabbling around the grass in the pouring rain gathering all his worldly possessions. In a weird kind of way, that made him smile, and warmth fill his extremities.

  Did that make him a psycho?

  Well, even if it doesn’t rain, I took the extra bit of care and threw all of his clothes in the shower first. Just in case.

  He tossed his head back and laughed, startling himself with how good, but also foreign, it felt to smile that big and laugh.

  He could tell by her area code that this person was somewhere in the Seattle area. He texted back. That was really smart. Incredibly devious, but very clever. Have you heard of the Rage Room? It’s a great place to destroy things and let out the anger without becoming a wanted felon.

  He’d been prepared to head to bed after his nightcap, but decided to wander back into the kitchen where he poured himself another drink and then sat back in his chair, waiting—and hoping—for this person to reply.

  His phone buzzed.

  I have heard of the Rage Room. I haven’t gone yet, but I might need to after all of this. I certainly want to smash Carlyle’s face in with a baseball bat.

  Oh, Luna at the Rage Room could definitely help her with that.

  Take a picture of him to the Rage Room and Luna will put it in a tacky frame for you and then you can demolish the frame… and his face. I know people do that and they say it helps a lot.

  Then it hit him: He didn’t even know if the person he was chatting with was male or female.

  Not that it mattered, because they weren’t flirting or anything, but he’d just assumed it was a woman. But it could just as easily be a man who had been engaged to another man.

  Men exchanged rings sometimes, didn’t they?

  Love was love and all that rainbow equality stuff. He took Aria to the last Seattle Pride parade with all the other single dads. He just wanted nothing to do with dick personally.

  Not that he was interested in women either. That ship had sailed, crashed into the rocks and then spontaneously caught fire when Samantha died. He would never love another—he knew that the moment she took her final breath in his arms.

  Could he ask if the person was a man or woman?

  Did he care?

  And if so, why?

  Taking a long, healthy sip of his bourbon, he held the liquor on his tongue as he typed out his message. What’s your favorite brand of aftershave?

  The moment he hit send, he smacked himself on the forehead with the heel of his other hand. What the fuck was that?

  Did he really just ask a complete stranger what their favorite brand of aftershave was?

  He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, hoping to fucking God that when he blinked them open, that lame-ass response would not be staring at him, mocking him.

  His phone buzzed in his hand before he got to ten.

  I love Old Spice on men.

  Shit, that didn’t help at all. Was it a man or a woman? He still didn’t know.

  Another text came in. Do you want to know if I’m male or female?<
br />
  Fuck. Sheepishly, he texted back a yes, please.

  I’m a woman, but I’m not sending you any pics to prove my sex. And that wasn’t an invitation for unsolicited dick pics either. I believed you when you told me that you’re a man. Just believe me when I say I’m a woman.

  He stared at the message.

  Was she teasing him or pissed off?

  He needed to test the waters.

  No dick pics from me. I promise. I bet you have enough pics of that dick of a fiancé lying around and clogging up your phone that you don’t need one more added to the burn pile.

  He held his breath.

  His phone vibrated seconds later.

  That burn pile is MASSIVE! And thank you for respecting my preference to not be sent pictures of random men’s junk.

  He let out a sigh in his head and took another drink of his bourbon.

  I’m nothing if not respectful. And random.

  This was fucking weird.

  He’d never done anything like this before in his life, and yet, he was actually enjoying himself. Maybe it was the fact that this “woman” knew jack shit about him—unlike everyone else in his life—and he could just relax. Not that they were really diving in deep with the personal information or anything—because that was the last fucking thing he wanted to do—but it was just nice having a “conversation” with someone who didn’t know he had a dead wife, a wild three-year-old and a meth dealer’s baby. As much as he’d tried to hide it all, his baggage was just too damn big and kept tumbling out of the crawl space he repeatedly shoved it into.