Corey rolled his eyes at Tamara, swaying back and forth as Amelie’s eyes fluttered open and closed. She was fighting so hard to stay awake. He was okay if she fell asleep in his arms. He enjoyed holding her while she slept. She was so peaceful. He might’ve panicked the first week or two after she landed in his lap, but as time went on, things got easier. He now panicked when she wasn’t in his arms. He never knew he could love someone as much as he loved his daughter.

“It’s not a big deal.”

Tamara put a hand to her hip. “You can’t keep bringing her in every day. Pretty soon, she’s not going to fit in that handy strap you have around your chest.”

It was called a baby carrier, and a damn expensive one, too. But hell, if he was going to do this fatherhood thing, he was going to do it right. His daughter would have everything she ever dreamed of. The best products, the best clothes, the best care in the world.

Something he didn’t have.

Oh, he knew his mother tried to make everything seem like they weren’t dirt poor, but it was impossible to hide. The clothes that didn’t always fit right. The shaggy hair because they couldn’t afford haircuts. The used school supplies that told every kid he didn’t get anything new for the upcoming year. He got teased so much that it hurt to remember growing up. So he didn’t think about it. He pushed it to the back of his mind, pretending it didn’t exist. That the hurt and pain didn’t exist.

No way in hell that would happen to his daughter.

Of course, he wasn’t going to point out the correct term to Tamara. She didn’t have kids, nor did she care. Since he started working in the bar again after three years of not speaking to his brother, she hadn’t been very welcoming. Like he had done something wrong. He was the one slighted by his family. But whatever. No point in hashing old news, especially with her. It wasn’t any of her damn business. She could choose to hate him all she wanted. It wasn’t like they were friendly three years ago when he had been around. She’d always had a problem with him since the moment they met and he wasn’t sure why. Didn’t care either. It wasn’t his problem if someone didn’t like him, not when he had never done anything to her to emit such hostility.

When Corey didn’t respond, she cocked a brow. “And it is a bar. It’s weird bringing your daughter to work. Some customers don’t like it. One of these days, someone is going to complain to the wrong person.”

“Thanks for your unwanted advice, Tamara. Now go do your job.”

She huffed and walked away without arguing. Because, well, she couldn’t. He was the boss around here, whether she liked it or not.

He, for one, liked it. He had missed the bar—his brother, Rick. Or Brick, as his friends like to call him these days. Corey hadn’t warmed to the nickname yet, and he didn’t foresee himself ever calling his brother that. Ever since he could remember, he’d called his brother Ricky. It gave them something in common. That ‘y’ sound at the end of their names. It made him feel like he was a part of the family, when most of his life, he had felt like an outsider. His dad’s name was Richard. Of course, Ricky was named after the old man. His mother’s name was Marge. He was stuck with a name that didn’t fit with them. Which made sense when he had been the unwanted child. At least, to his father. His mother tried to make up for it, giving him all the love she could, but his father never made it easy. His life had been difficult from the moment he was born.

His asshole of a father had made sure of that.

Amelia made a small whimper. He released the pent-up breath he had been holding and frowned, soothing her with small circles to her back, hoping to dispel the hurt he might’ve caused. Thinking thoughts of his father never brought anything good. Look what it had just done. He had squeezed his daughter harder than he intended.

“Sorry, sweet pea. Daddy didn’t mean it.” He kissed the top of her head, smiling when her eyes fluttered close once again. “That’s right. Nappy time.”

He continued to sway back and forth as he continued his task, marking the inventory up front and what he’d need to grab from the back. Once in the storage room, he’d have to mark what he’d need to order. Of course, in between all of that, he had to help customers as they walked in. Yeah, Tamara was working as well, but he liked chatting with people and giving them a warm welcome.

The bar wasn’t only a place to drink; it was home. A home he hadn’t been a part of in the last three years.

Three long, tortuous years.

Also something he shouldn’t think about, especially while holding Amelie. Although he had made amends with Ricky, it didn’t magically make the hurt disappear. He had scars that would take a long time to heal. If they ever would.

He shot a glance behind him when he heard the click-clack of heels. They always had a distinct sound. Being a lover of women, Corey had learned early on the best way into a woman’s—well, he wouldn’t say heart. But he knew how to please a woman. He knew the best flowers, the best chocolates. Hell, he even knew his shoes. It always impressed women when he knew the brand they were wearing. Anything to get in her pants, that was his motto.

Used to be his motto. He was a single dad now, and his sole focus was his daughter. The only woman who mattered anymore.

The woman heading his way was off-limits. That didn’t mean he wasn’t friendly, considering she was family.

“Afternoon, Jezebelle. You look lovely today.”

His brother’s wife smiled, then licked her bottom lip, telling him she was nervous about something. Her hair was pulled back into a beautiful chignon, her lips a light shade of pink, not even smudged from her quick lip-licking. She never wore lipstick, but she liked adding a small color of lipgloss. She didn’t need anything more. Her beauty was natural, and his brother was one damn lucky man. She wore her nice tan winter jacket, and based on the sound of the heels he heard, she was wearing the red pair. It was useful to retain information and use it to his advantage, especially when it came to women.

Not that he had a thing for his brother’s wife. They lived above the bar, and she always walked through this way to leave for the theater. He had gotten to know her well—and the shoes she wore. Each pair had a distinct sound. It was usually easy to decipher what shoe she wore and the significance behind her choice. Red shoes today meant something important was happening. Her nervousness was a big clue, too.

“Thank you, Corey.” She swiped a tender hand over the side of her head. Not quite touching but as if she were smoothing an unruly strand away. Not that there was a strand out of place.

“What’s going on? You okay?”

“Lunch with my mother.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

Things made a lot more sense. Corey had met the woman when Ricky and Jezebelle got together two months ago. She tried to break up their relationship. She tried to steal the bar right out of their hands. She acted like he was an imbecile and would fall for her tricks. Nobody messed with his big brother—except for him. Corey was not a fan of the woman. She was only out for one thing: herself. While she was slowly warming to Ricky, she still made Jezebelle feel like she wasn’t good enough to live her life the way she wanted. A person could pretend to change and then revert right back to the way they were.

He’d done it too many times to count. Decided now was the time to quit drugs, made that hard choice, and then a few days later, he was getting high once again. It took substantial work to change. Sometimes, it could be done, and sometimes nothing but failure glared in the mirror.

But he had changed. He stuck to it and had been clean for more than a year. He had no plans to regress into his old life ever again.

“You don’t need to dress to impress. You’re gorgeous and wonderful the way you are.”

Jezebelle let out a timid laugh. “You sound so much like Brick. I can’t help it. Seeing her always gives me anxiety, especially when it’s the two of us.”

“I got this covered. Ricky can go with you.”

“I wish. She requested I come alone.” Jezebelle rolled her eyes. Then she leaned closer and reached across the bar to rub Amelie’s back. “How’s my darling niece?”

“Teething, I think. I can’t see anything popping up yet, but she had a rough night last night.”

Corey would say he managed about three hours of sleep. Amelie kept waking up every hour or so crying as if the world were ending. No doubt she’d sleep the day away in his arms, especially rocking her back and forth as he was. It was the only thing that helped calm her last night—constant rocking. Every time he tried to lay her back down, she would wake up as if the devil himself had touched her shoulder.

“Oh, poor baby.” Jezebelle made a pouty face as she touched Amelie one more time. “I guess it’s about time for that to happen. I can’t wait to see her cute little teeth popping up.”

Not only had he been devouring every baby book on the planet so he did this fatherhood thing correctly, so had Ricky and Jezebelle. The moment Amelie walked into his life, not only had he stepped up to the challenge, his brother and sister-in-law had been by his side every step of the way. Support he desperately needed because at times he felt like he was drowning in the chaos of his so-called life.

“Yeah, I guess it is. I have to swing by the pharmacy and buy some of that teething gel to help with the pain.”

He hoped it helped because he didn’t want to go through another terrible night like he had last night. He was running on fumes right now.

Jezebelle frowned. “Well, keep me updated. Hopefully, the gel works.”

Hopefully? Why wouldn’t it? It had to be her teething. She was close to that age.

Well, that he knew of. He didn’t know how old she was. Or when her birthday was.

Or hell, even who her mother was.

Two months ago she had landed in his bar with a simple note that her mother couldn’t handle raising her and that he’d do a much better job. So far, he’d say he wasn’t failing at it, but he also wasn’t excelling at it. He’d yet to bring her to the doctor for a checkup, which he knew he should be doing. But how could he without a birth certificate? Without knowing her exact age. Without knowing where she was born and if there were complications.

He was so in over his head and he didn’t know how to climb out of the hole he’d fallen through. All he wanted to do was what was best for his daughter, and as much as he wanted to think he was doing right by her, he wasn’t.

After putting their heads together, they guessed her to be about three months old, which put her at about five months old now. That’s when teething generally started, at least, according to the book he bought.

“Will do. Good luck with your mother. You got this.”

Jezebelle said good-bye and left. He went back to his task, worried Amelie’s behavior last night wasn’t just teething. He had taken her temperature. No fever. Besides being unable to sleep and crying, she was acting normal. Took her bottles like a champ. It had to be teething.

He looked toward the door when the small bell above dinged a person had entered.

He froze, his breath hitching in his throat. Because the woman walking through the door had the face of an angel. Long dark-brown hair, beautiful hazel eyes. Pink kissable lips.

Okay, maybe not an angel, but a devil in disguise. Because those plump, pretty lips were begging to be kissed.

It’d been a long time—too long—since he’d been with a woman. Even longer since a woman made him pause to take a longer look. He’d stopped looking when he got clean a year ago. Because drugs and sex had been his thing to calm the chaos running rampant inside. When he decided to knock the drugs off, he told himself the sex had to go, too. It’d been a hard, long year. As each day went by, the not looking, taking a second glance at women got harder and harder, but he resisted and didn’t falter.

Until now.

The scowl on her face said she wasn’t as infatuated by him as he was by her.

“Welcome to The Corner Bar. What can I get ya?”

Her eyes pinned to Amelie hanging on his chest.

“Amelie, for starters.”

His hand darted to the small of his daughter’s back, putting a light amount of pressure but not enough to wake her up.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’re not her mother.”

Based on the roundabout age of his daughter, he knew he slept with Amelie’s mother during his drug days. Toward the end of it, but that didn’t mean it had been a tame time. He’d been high as a kite until he stopped cold turkey. Despite being high and under the influence, he’d never forget being with a woman.

And not this gorgeous—irate—creature before him. He never forgot a face.

Her eyes narrowed. She slapped her hand to the counter, pinning a piece of paper to it.

“Please hand her over. Don’t make this hard for both of us.”

This time he narrowed his eyes.

No way in hell. He couldn’t have been that high to not remember sleeping with this woman. Names weren’t always good for him, but faces never failed him. He knew he wouldn’t forget having sex with her. Even now, annoyed with her demands, he wanted to reach across the bar and take one taste of her sweet, luscious lips. Maybe it would even spark a memory, confirming what she insisted was true.

He grabbed for the paper, but she wouldn’t budge.

“Let me see this.”

“Hand her over first.”

They stared at one another for the longest time, neither moving their hands from the document.

“Well?”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I hand my daughter over to you.”

A muscle in her cheek twitched, yet she didn’t cave.

They continued to stare at each other. Not moving. Not speaking. Not even blinking.

“Hey, Corey, I need you,” Tamara hollered from the other end of the bar.

He didn’t turn around. “You gotta wait.”

“Make this easy on yourself. You only have one choice.” Her voice quivered.

He wasn’t sure whether she was ready to cry or jump the counter and pry Amelie from his chest, but the emotions crawling everywhere said she was struggling to hold it together.

“Just because you walk into my bar, claiming shit, doesn’t mean I’m going to take your word for it. Do I look like an idiot? I know the women I’ve slept with before, and you sure in the hell weren’t one of them. I don’t forget a pretty face.”

She flinched. He regretted revealing that.

He’d been with a lot of women in his life. Too many that it was embarrassing to even think about. But not once—nor would he ever—forget sleeping with a woman. Despite the evil glare she was still laser beaming his way, he knew he’d never forget a woman as beautiful as her. High cheekbones. Soft-looking skin. Those damn pink kissable lips that were still straight and rigid, the anger seething like she was ready to take a sharp bite out of him. He didn’t mind some kinky sex now and again. Yet, the vulnerability simmering in her depths. The slight watery look like she was holding back a dam of tears. So angry she wanted to cry?

“The hazards of being high, I guess.” Then she lifted her hand from the paper with a haughty sneer.

Ouch. Although he could argue that fact with her, he wouldn’t. He’d done some crazy shit on drugs, but erasing the memory of sleeping with a woman wasn’t one of them.

He picked up the paper, one hand still strong against his sleeping daughter, and looked at the words spread across the sheet.

Amelie’s birth certificate.

Finally, in his hands.

He wanted to jump with joy that his estimate of her age was pretty damn close. She was a little over five months old. Her birthday was August seventh. No reaction burst free when he saw his name written as the father. He wasn’t sure why that surprised him when he had already accepted Amelie as his daughter, but it did. He now had undeniable proof she was his daughter. And he wasn’t handing this piece of paper back over.

Or giving Amelie away for any reason.

Then his eyes glided to the mother’s name listed.

Melanie Ramseth.

Shit. Not a good time to be horrible with names. He didn’t recognize it.

But he was damn good with faces and he was sticking with his original conclusion.

He did not sleep with this woman.

“Now hand her over.”

Copyright © 2022 Amanda Siegrist.

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