Mister Baby Daddy (Bad Boys In Love #3) - Cassie-Ann L. Miller

1

Penny

I'm gonna get laid tonight.

My charcoal-lined eyes connect with the Jason Momoa look-alike seated at the far end of the dark bar. The sexy stranger gives me an Aquaman-style smolder then licks his lips and sends a slow, flirty grin my way.

A little bit cheesy but I can work with that, I guess.

I smirk back. Push up my boobs. Emphasize the sultry pout I practiced a million times in my bathroom mirror before leaving the house.

His grin widens. His eyes heat further. The man’s reaction to my flirtation seems promising.

Okay, Penny. Good work. This is good.

Every note of the bar's too-loud country music tangles with the raw nerves dancing in my belly. I’m working on my third drink and trying my darnedest to enjoy the feel of this stranger’s lusty attention on me. And from the fascination in his expression, I just know—my upcoming night of hot, sweaty sex with Mr. Mysterious is pretty much guaranteed.

God, I need this.

After the long dry-spell my poor vajayjay has weathered, a regular old orgasm won't do. I deserve an industrial-strength orgasm. And this man looks like he might know how to give me one.

It’s my only night off from work this week and my sole focus is of the male variety. I’m at a random bar in a town that's just far enough from home that no one I know will witness my moment of hoochie-liciousness.

I made a deal with myself. Tonight, I'm here to find a bed buddy. And if, by some miracle, I end up walking out with Mr. Right—the guy I can fall in love with and build the white-picket-fence life I've always dreamed of—then, great. But if that doesn't work out, then it's onto ‘The Dreaded Plan B’.

I shudder just thinking about that.

“Can I get you a refill, hun?” I nearly jump out of my skin at the chirpy bartender’s interruption. The happy-go-lucky brunette juts her chin at the near-empty tumbler dangling from my fingertips.

“Um, yeah. Definitely.” I gulp down the last of my drink and slide the glass toward her. “Don’t be shy with the whiskey,” I tell her. The girl has been mixing these up so weak, I’ve been downing them like Kool-Aid. I'm half-tempted to climb over the counter and show her just how to mix up my Manhattan. “I need the alcohol to hit me. So I can do something a little…out-of-character tonight,” I explain. Feeling self-conscious, I tuck a lock of red hair behind my ear.

I’m in desperate need of a buzz because I’m about to go home with a stranger and I’m not sure I could pull this off sober.

She glances at my hunky admirer across the distance. A knowing grin curls her mouth. Her tone goes low and conspiratorial like she’s in on my dirty, little secret. “I’ve got your back, hun.” She winks, no judgment in her expression. Then she grabs my glass and struts off toward the whiskey shelf.

My confidence is a little wobbly right now so I appreciate the bartender's dose of female support. I left my girlfriends at home. I didn't tell them I was going out by myself because I can just imagine what Iris, Lexi and Jessa would say.

Penny, you're an independent woman. You are not defined by your relationship status.

Penny, just be your bomb-ass self and enjoy being single until your Prince Charming shows up.

Penny, you're perfect just the way you are. You don't need a man to complete you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. All that may be true. But here's the thing—I’m in a rut. A deep, well-grooved rut.

For the longest time, my life has been stalled in every flipping aspect. I'm paying student loans for a degree I've never used. I'm tending bar at a drinking hole I outgrew five years ago. And the worst part? I'm now 33 and every night when I lie alone between my cold sheets, craving the feel of one man's big, calloused, perfect hands on my body, I can almost hear my biological clock ticking down.

I'm feelin' the pressure, y'all.

People make all kinds of assumptions about me. I suppose that’s my fault. I’ve built up this sexy, confident redhead bombshell image for so long, and I just let everyone think what they want. I’m the one other girls hate. The one who gets dirty looks because every woman thinks I’m after her man. The one that everyone assumes is hopping onto all the dicks in town just because I work at a bar and I like to get all dolled