New Year's with the Single Dad, page 1
New Years with the Single Dad
The Single Dads of Seattle
Book 6
Whitley Cox
Copyright © 2019 by Whitley Cox
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-989081-26-6
Cover Design: EmCat Designs
Editing: SkyDiary Productions
Contents
Dedication
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Epilogue
For Danielle and Jillian,
my critique partners and two seriously awesome bitches.
Thank you for everything.
Chapter 1
Coffee!
He needed coffee.
He needed to hook himself up to an espresso IV or at the very least put his large black coffee into a camel pack on his back.
How in the world was he going to get through this day? This night?
Stomping off the snow from his black dress shoes and loosening the collar of his coat, Dr. Emmett Strong stepped toward the front counter of the downtown Seattle coffee shop. What were the odds he’d managed to arrive at just the right moment and miss standing in line for twenty minutes?
Were things finally looking up?
It was about time.
He walked up to one of the two baristas standing there, waiting to take orders.
“What can I getcha?” the barista with the goatee asked him, his red tie just slightly crooked.
“Large coffee with two shots of espresso, please. And an everything bagel toasted with cream cheese, lox and cucumber slices.” His brow instantly furrowed as he heard his order come out of his mouth and realized it was somehow said in stereo.
The two baristas behind the counter at the side-by-side cash registers gave him and the person next to him an equally surprised, almost spooked look. They had apparently ordered the exact same thing at the exact same time.
What were the odds?
He turned to see who shared his taste in breakfasts to find a very attractive woman laughing. Her light brown hair was cut in a sleek bob that fell just beneath her chin, and her sky-blue eyes sparkled.
“Good choice,” she said, continuing to laugh. “Just know that if they only have one bagel left, it’s got my name on it. I’m running late for work, and I’m freaking starved.”
“You two don’t know each other?” the male barista asked.
Emmett shook his head. So did the striking woman beside him.
“Just kindred breakfast spirits,” she said lightly.
“We have enough bagels for both,” the female barista said, her chipper tone indicating she’d probably had a shot or two—or three—of espresso herself that morning. “Though we’ve never had the exact same order at the exact same time like that. It was spooky.”
The two baristas continued to ring up Emmett and this mystery woman’s breakfast. They both pulled out credit cards and paid, then moved to the side like well-trained cattle so the next hungry Seattle caffeine addict could pump ethically traded Arabica into their bloodstream and make it through the day—and what was inevitably going to be a long night for everyone.
Even though it was now New Year’s Eve day, Christmas decorations still hung from the ceiling and painted the coffee shop windows, and the radio station over the speakers continued to blast out tunes like Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas.” He would be glad when they could get back to the regular scheduled programming of tasteful classic rock and no sparkly shit hitting his head as he waited for his breakfast.
Until Valentine’s season hit them like that fat winged-baby’s arrow, that is. Then it’d be all red and pink hearts and more glitter—AKA the herpes of craft supplies. His almost six-year-old daughter, JoJo, loved anything and everything sparkly. He was always finding glitter in the laundry, his shoes—his food.
She needed to keep that crap at her mother’s.
He glanced at the woman beside him. She was tall. Not super tall, not taller than his six-three frame, but taller than his ex. Taller than most women.
She held her chin up with a confidence he admired, her eyes laser-focused forward, her full lips resting in a kind line. She had a great profile, and an air of ease and sureness surrounded her like a soft glow.
He must have been staring too intensely because her eyes slid to the side and she turned to face him. “Think they’ll put the orders up at the same time, or are we going to have to duke it out for the first one?”
Emmett’s lip twitched into a small smile. “You can have it.”
Her light blue eyes squinted just slightly, and she made a fist with her hand and flexed her coat-covered arm. “You sure you don’t want to arm-wrestle for it?”
Emmett chuckled and scanned the coffee shop. “Afraid there are no empty tables.” He snapped his fingers. “Shucks. And I was so looking forward to kicking your butt.”
He’d been in a crappy mood this morning—too much beer at poker night last night—combined with the fact this past year had been complete shit. But this woman’s smile pulled him from the dark place he’d woken up in. In fact, her wide smile made his stomach do a somersault and caused heat to pool in various places in his body—various intimate places.
“Oh, that’s some ego you got there,” she said, her carefree attitude causing his own shoulders to shake off some of their tension.
“I prefer to simply call it confidence,” he stated, matching her smile.
She stuck her hand out. “Zara Olsen.”
He took her hand. It was soft, but the shake held strength. “Emmett Strong.”
She tossed her head back and laughed. She had a great laugh. “Your last name is Strong?”
He knew his grin was goofy, but he didn’t care. He liked how he felt around this woman. He liked her. “Yep. Told ya, I’d whoop you at an arm-wrestle. My name doesn’t lie.”
“Well, if that’s what we’re doing here, my last name isn’t Olsen, it’s Brilliant. Zara Brilliant.” She thrust her hand forward once again. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Oh, yeah, he definitely liked her. Pretty and witty—a winning combo if ever there was one.
Twenty years ago, when he was an undergrad on the prowl in a hopping night club, he would have been a drunk idiot and thrown out a line like “Your last name should be Gorgeous.” But he was too smart for that shit now. He shook his head at the memory of how much of a pussy-obsessed beast he’d been. He’d do his best to keep JoJo away from guys like him. His ego back then could have eclipsed the sun.
He fought the urge to shudder at the embarrassing memories.
He wasn’t that guy now.
He’d grown up. He’d matured. He’d become a father to a beautiful little girl who he wanted to wrap in bubble wrap and shield from any and all heartache.
Zara lifted a dark eyebrow at him. “You okay there, Mr. Strongman?” Her very full lips wiggled at one corner as she tried not to smile.
Emmett’s chest shook, and he grinned back at her. “Yep, just telling the twenty-year-old in me to not say the line I would have said two decades ago.” Oh, why did he reveal that? Now she’d want to know what he was thinking.
Curiosity stole across her features, and she opened her mouth, but they were saved by the barista. “Extra-large black coffee, double espresso shot and an everything bagel with cream cheese, lox and cucumber,” the male barista said, interrupting their banter.
Oh, thank God.
Emmett inclined his head forward to offer Zara the coffee and bagel first and was about to say something like “After you” when the barista plunked the duplicates down and said, “Times two.”
They each reached for their coffees and breakfasts. Emmett’s knuckles brushed hers just as they wrapped their fingers around their enormous to-go coffee cups, and a surge of something he could only define as electric attraction sprinted from his hand straight down between his legs.
“Enjoy your breakfast, Mr. Strong,” Zara said, once again tossing her head back and laughing as she made to leave. She shot him a smile over her shoulder and shook her head, chuckling as she heaved the door open and headed down the sidewalk.
Why hadn’t he asked her to sit and have breakfast with him? Why hadn’t he asked for her number? Why had he just stood there like an idiot and smiled like an idiot and flirted like an idiot, allowing the most beautiful and interesting woman he’d met in a long while walk right out the door?
Because you’re scared. You thought Tiff was the love of your life, your soul mate, and she fucking ripped your heart out and stomped on it. You don’t want that to happen again.
Fuck you. I’m not scared.
Well, you’re talking to yourself … so you’re at the very least a little crazy.
Grumbling, he brought his coffee cup to his lips and took a sip, allowing the caffeine to flood his veins and wake him up. He made his way through the throng of people to the front door. The wind was strong, but thankfully it was only a hop, skip and a five-minute walk to the hospital. Hopefully, he wouldn’t get blown away on
And what are you going to do if you do see her? Challenge her to an arm-wrestle?
Maybe. Was that such a bad idea? At least he’d get to touch her again.
Emmett groaned. Now he was behaving like a lovesick preteen. He wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than the horny twenty-year-old.
He zipped his winter coat all the way up to his neck, put his head down and took off in the direction of work. Maybe sewing people up and treating broken limbs for the next nine hours would put him in a better mood, keep him from thinking about his lonely life and his ex-wife off with Huntley the Moron.
It was New Year’s Eve, and the ER was going to be crazy.
It was New Year’s Eve, and Emmett had no one.
It was New Year’s Eve—next year had to be better.
Tomorrow had to be better.
Zara ran through the automatic doors of the hospital, her hand wrapped in a paper towel pressed tightly to her chest. It had started to sleet, and her hair stuck to the sides of her face and neck. She hadn’t had time—or been able—to throw her coat on, so she shivered as she approached the front desk. “I’ve cut my hand really badly, and I need some help, please,” she said to the tired-looking woman in her late fifties.
The woman’s fingers continued to tippity-tap on the computer. She also didn’t bother to look up from her computer screen. “Go sit down, and someone will be with you shortly.”
Zara’s eyes went wide. The hospital waiting room was packed to the rafters. People sneezed and sniffled, coughed and wheezed in every corner. She fought the urge to lift the collar of her shirt over her nose and mouth out of fear of catching something.
But that was the least of her concerns at the moment. Her concern was her hand and the fact it hadn’t stopped bleeding. She knew she had to hold it above her heart, and she was doing the best she could, but trying to finish up bouquet orders before the flower shop closed for the night—for the year—was a bit tough with one hand.
“I really need to see a doctor,” she pleaded, a trickle of blood escaping the paper towel and meandering its way down her wrist.
The woman behind the desk finally lifted her sullen gray eyes away from the computer screen and fixed them on Zara. “You and everybody else behind you. Now either go to the ER down the corridor or take a seat. There are only so many doctors in the clinic today and they see people in order of arrival, not based on priority.” She held Zara’s gaze for a half second longer, her mouth dipped into a frown, and then she pretended that Zara was no longer there and went back to her computer.
Zara’s eyes flicked up to the sign above the desk. Free Clinic.
She needed the emergency room. This was an emergency, after all. God, why did they design hospitals like freaking labyrinths? How was anybody supposed to get where they needed to go before they bled out? Or worse, got so lost they died of old age simply trying to find the giftshop.
With both arms up in the air now, the injured one and the other one holding the paper towel in place, she walked at a brisk pace down the hall toward the big yellow and red sign that said Emergency Room.
She was nearly there when a door opened in front of her, hitting her in the face—and the hand.
She fell backward onto her butt, the paper towel flying behind her and blood droplets coating the wall.
“Whoa!” came a gentle voice. “You okay?”
Zara blinked and blinked before she levered herself up onto her elbows and lifted her head to find none other than Mr. Strong from the coffee shop staring down at her.
Recognition immediately dawned on him. He smiled, that is until his eyes took in her bloody and bleeding hand and the fresh spray of blood on the walls. His smile faded.
A look of concern flooded his face. “You’re hurt,” he said, worry in his tone. He helped her up with a gentle hand under her arm and grabbed the paper towel, quickly placing it back over her sliced hand to stanch the blood flow.
With one hand at the small of her back and another holding her injured hand, he led her down the hall from where she’d come, but before they got back to the desk where Nurse Crankypants sat, he took a hard right into an empty exam room.
“Hop up on the table there and let’s take a look,” he said, closing the door, then wandering over to the small corner counter sink and washing his hands. “What happened?
“I cut my hand on a vase,” she said, watching him move around the small exam room. He dried his hands and pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves before he made his way back over to her and picked up her hand. She winced as he peeled away the paper towel and turned her hand around in his.
He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “You certainly did cut your hand. Yikes!”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m such an idiot.”
“I highly doubt that,” he said, pulling a drawer open next to him and beginning to rummage around. “Even geniuses get hurt from time to time. I highly doubt Einstein never skinned his knee or bumped his funny bone.”
A smile turned up at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe not. But I should know better. I was trying to do too many things at once.”
He was preparing a syringe. He handed her a piece of fresh gauze. “Hold this on the cut, please.”
She did as she was told, mesmerized by the way he moved so confidently, his hands sure and capable.
Then it hit her. Not only was his last name Strong, he was a freaking doctor to boot.
Zara snorted.
He lifted his head. “Something funny?”
She snorted again. “I just realized you’re Dr. Strong.”
“The one and only … in this hospital anyway.”
“Do you moonlight as an astronaut? Are you Astronaut Dr. Strong? Because I honestly don’t know what else you could do or be to make yourself any more … ”
He lifted one dark eyebrow, which seemed to also pull at the same corner of his mouth. “Any more … ”
She lifted then flopped her free hand down to the exam table. “I dunno … appealing? Handsome? A catch?”
Was she coming on too strong?
Too freaking bad.
Zara had never been shy a day in her life, nor was she the type to beat around the bush and not say what she was thinking.
She found the man attractive. There was no reason why she couldn’t say that. Right?
The other corner of his mouth lifted as well. “I like your candor … but I can attest that not every woman thinks I’m appealing or a catch.”
Then those women are crazy.
She kept that thought to herself. There was speaking your mind and then there was coming on too strong. She was known for doing both.
“I don’t moonlight as an astronaut,” he said, pushing the bottom of the syringe up just a touch and making a small amount of liquid squirt out. He brought it over to her and removed the gauze. “This might hurt a little. But I’m going to numb the area before I apply the sutures.”
Zara swallowed and nodded. “Okay. I’ve been through childbirth. A little sting is nothing compared to that.”
His chuckle was deep and throaty. “That’s the spirit.” He gripped her hand. “Hold still.”
She did as she was told.
“I do, however, moonlight as a cop,” he joked, gently sliding the tip of the syringe into her hand. “Have to pay those med school student loans somehow.” He pulled the syringe free and then placed the gauze back over the cut that was still bleeding.
“So you’re Officer Dr. Strong?” she asked.
He nodded. “Well, actually Captain Dr. Strong. But you can just call me Officer. Captain just seems so formal.”
She rolled her eyes at his teasing tone and smirk.
“Ah, what the heck. You can call me Emmett.” He removed the gauze and pressed around the area. “How does that feel? Numb yet?”
She didn’t feel a damn thing. “Yup.”
He smiled. “Good.” He plunked his butt down on a round rolling stool and opened up a drawer beneath the exam table, pulling out a suture kit. “So you have kids?”
Zara held her hand still on her lap, watching the top of his head as he prepared the suture like he’d done it a million times before—which he probably had.
