Baby Daddy Wanted (Crescent Cove 5)

Not tonight. I’d do something I regretted.

I set my glass down. Like follow the rabbit hole of that green light next to her name that meant she was online right now.

That kind of regret.

My finger hovered over my track pad. Who needed to formulate a reply when there was a chat window available as part of this email client?

And she was right there.

Cabin Fortress: Is it too forward to break into your evening with a chat window? Or would you prefer the man with manners?

My cursor slowly blinked at me without a response.

I sat back in my chair, resting my glass on my stomach as I stared a hole into the middle screen of my trio of screens. A line of code was still working on the left screen and the right was a series of different projects I was monitoring.

The center was all for her.

If she’d speak to me.

Goodtothelastdrop: If that’s your segue into a dick pic, pass. I can assure you it doesn’t “put me in the mood” for anything but homicide.

I laughed and sat forward to set my wine on my desk. God, this woman.

Cabin Fortress: I’d never be so crass. That’s at least fourth chat behavior.

Goodtothelastdrop: So you’re not a 72-year-old? I wasn’t sure with the super sweetness of your emails.

Sweet Jesus. No wonder it took a few emails to get her talk to me. She probably thought I was an old man looking to pat her on her head.

My thoughts were far more carnal than that.

Cabin Fortress: Definitely not. I’m the youngest male in my family. Just turned thirty to be exact. My mama taught me to treat ladies with respect.

Goodtothelastdrop: I appreciate it. Manners are hard to come by these days. What are you doing up so late?

Cabin Fortress: This is my usual time to work. It’s quiet. Just me and the night sounds. Unless I turn on the sound system. Nice thing about no neighbors. I can do what I want.

Goodtothelastdrop: None? Just what kind of fortress are we talking about, buddy? Do you have an unusual number of shovels and tarps in your shed? Stones making little markers?

Cabin Fortress: Let me guess? MFM fan? True Crime?

Goodtothelastdrop: Are you a Murderino?

Cabin Fortress: God, no. I live in the freaking woods. I don’t need that kind of stuff in my head! Don’t worry, I’m no Ted Bundy.

Goodtothelastdrop: There’s many other kinds of serial killers. Just like sprinkles and ice cream flavors—lots of different combinations. People thought Ted Bundy was super nice, remember? And hot. Do you fall in any of those categories? Not that it’s a deal breaker. Well, except for the serial killer thing. That’s definitely a no-fly zone for me. Not that you’d probably tell me. Haha.

I sat back in my chair. I didn’t know how to answer that. Of the Masterson boys, I definitely wasn’t top of the pile. My brothers, Penn and Christian, were the ones who attracted all the attention from the female contingency. From football quarterback to second in command in our sheriff’s department, Christian had literally been the golden boy since he was born.

Penn, who split from Crescent Cove as soon as was humanly possible, was the dark horse of the family. A graphic novelist, he split his time in New York City and Los Angeles. But he came in to see our mom once every other month. Every time he did, the town went a little crazy in reaction. He was rich, worked with Hollyweird, and looked like he should be a leading man in the stories he wrote.

Yeah, I couldn’t compete with them.

But I did have the guy-next-door look she seemed to prefer, at least based on her post. Chris Pratt and I could be brothers. He was a bit more jacked than me thanks to his action star status.

I smoothed my hand down my torso. The rowing kept the cookies from showing too much though. I did love Vee’s cookies.

Goodtothelastdrop: Still there? Did I scare you away with the serial killer talk?