Page 40 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Seventeen
OREN
My phone buzzes just before dinner.
Keane: Gotta work late tonight.
My stomach sinks. It shouldn’t hit me that hard—we’ve only had a weekend and a couple of nights—but it does. I was already picturing curling up on the couch with him, pestering him for another story while I half-dozed against his shoulder.
I toss my phone on the couch and flop down beside it, staring at the ceiling as if it owes me an explanation.
Another ping comes through. Not a text. A recording.
I sit up fast, pressing play. Keane’s rich voice fills my tiny living room.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy who was brave enough to go camping with his Daddy, even though he was nervous. And this Daddy—” His voice dips, heat curling through the words. “—thought the boy was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.”
God, I’m so tempted to keep listening, but I pause the recording and save it for bedtime, when I need to hear his voice most.
I make my way through dinner and a shower, check in with the guys, and when I finally climb into bed, I reach for my phone and pull up his recording. The story weaves from silly to sweet to… warmer. Not filthy, but there’s a current in it, a weight in the pauses, like heknowsI’m lying here blushing so hard my ears are on fire. I bury my face in Quackers’s soft belly while it plays, biting my lip.
By the time it ends, my smile is out of control. My Daddy’s imagination is growing in a direction I like. A lot.
Before I fall asleep, I listen to his story six more times, drifting off with Keane’s voice in my ear.
The next day,though? No chance of focusing on anything. The group chat is lit up from the moment I wake.
Theo: Soooo. Daddy report. Spill.
Lane: Did he tuck you in?
TinyTim: Omfg guys look look [attached: a very shirtless photo of Counselor Hottie, mid-workout]
I choke on my cereal.
Theo: Timmy you stalker
Lane: Ok but damn. If I’d had that in my tent…
TinyTim: Don’t be jealous
The notifications keep coming, a nonstop chorus of needling questions, demands for “Daddy stats,” more pics of counselor hottie’s Instagram exploits, and way too many heart and eggplant emojis. I type half a reply, delete it, then end up muting the thread before my head explodes.
All I can think about is Keane’s voice from last night, still lingering in my chest. By lunch, I can’t stand it anymore. The chat’s been going nonstop every few minutes with another question, another meme or thirst trap, another not-so-subtle attempt to pry me open like a clam.
I unmute the thread and type fast before I lose my nerve.
Fine. One detail. He drinks his coffee black. No sugar, no cream.
I hit send and immediately regret it.
The typing bubbles explode.
Theo: OHHH COFFEE DADDY
Lane: Black like his soul. Fitting.
