Flirting with the Single Dad

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 a penchant for motorcycles. Too bad she annoys the crap out of him.

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.