Cutie and the Beast: A Roommates to Lovers Single Dad Romance (Cipher Office Book 3) Read online

  Cutie and the Beast

  Cipher Office Book #3

  M.E. Carter

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2020 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Made in the United States of America

  eBook Edition

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the Smartypants Romance authors of Launch #2. I can’t wait to get our tattoos! Karla goes first!!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Beef Cake, Book #4 in the Donner Bakery Series

  Also by M.E. Carter

  Other Books by Smartypants Romance

  Chapter One

  ABEL

  “Good mornings, sweets.” I snuggle into her long dark curls to kiss her forehead when THWACK! “Son of a…” I stop myself before cussing in front of my kid, but damn. She got me right in the nose and that shit stings.

  “Sorry, Daddy,” my sweet baby girl says groggily, while I rub my schnoz and make sure it’s not bleeding. “I dreamed you were Mommy.”

  “And in this dream, you were practicing your kickboxing on her?”

  Her eyes close while she innocently says, “You told me to take out my aggression appropriately.”

  She’s not wrong. I’d said it in response to Mabel’s therapist deciding the best way to take her anger out about her mother leaving us was to be more Zen. Those weren’t her exact words. It was closer to, “Mabel needs to learn how to channel her anger into more appropriate activities. Journaling or painting, for example.” I resisted rolling my eyes until we got home, and we never went back. Not only could we not find a time that worked with my schedule, I decided to implement my own form of calm.

  When Mabel starts getting agitated or angry about May’s abandonment, I let her take some swings on the punching bags at the gym where I work while we talk it out. It seems to work. She gets out some negativity and hyper-kid energy, then moves on with her day. But apparently, she’s been listening to me a little too carefully if it’s bleeding over into her dreams.

  “Maybe cut back on the kickboxing dreams there, killer. You socked me right in the honker.”

  Mabel giggles and reaches up to grab my nose. Squeezing it twice, she makes a honking sound each time. Then her arm flops back down on her blue polka dot bedspread and she tries to snuggle back in bed.

  I don’t blame her. Mornings have been brutal since May left to go live with her agent boyfriend in New York; he was going to help her become a successful model. Never mind that she was already thirty and had zero experience. “The modeling world is changing, Abel,” she’d told me. “Doors are opening as we speak, and I’m going to walk right through them.”

  As far as I know, the only door she’d walked through was the front door of our small, three-bedroom townhome on her way to the airport. That was close to six months ago and, with the exception of being served divorce papers, we’ve only heard from her sparingly. Mostly through online chats that are centered around her life, and very little about her child’s.

  It was a rough transition at first. Mabel didn’t understand how her mother could just up and leave, coupled with a lot of justified anger about it. I couldn’t understand how I’d missed all the signs it was coming, coupled with my justified anger.

  To make matters worse, there was the huge fire at Weight Expectations, the gym where I work, which closed the facility for several months. Sure, we all got farmed out to different locations, which was better than the alternative—a pink slip. But when part of your income depends on commission and the clients you’ve built up over the years end up scattered around the city, you find yourself dipping into savings more heavily than anticipated.

  Fortunately, that season is over, and I have a brand-spanking-new building to call my home away from home. But mornings haven’t quite smoothed over yet.

  “Come on, baby. We’ve got to get a move on.” I scoop Mabel up, wrap the heavy blanket around her, and carry her to the living room where I proceed to maneuver myself into an assortment of yoga poses until I have her, my gym bag, her school bag, and her clothing bag dangling safely from my arms. Well, Mabel isn’t dangling, though at one point when my gym bag fell from the couch to the floor, it was a close call. Thank goodness I make a living working out, or there is no way I’d be able to hold it all at once.

  Finally situated with all our daily supplies, I head out the door and step into the blustering winter weather, hence the reason why the child is dressed as a giant burrito in my arms. I lock the door as quickly as possible behind me, and race us to the waiting car.

  “Mornin’, Abel.” A steaming cup of black coffee is handed to me between the dark blue bucket seats of the 2008 Ford Escort as soon as the passenger side door closes behind me. Actually, steaming might be a stretch. It’s thirty-nine degrees outside, not factoring in the wind chill. And it’s been sitting in a car for a while. Lukewarm is more accurate. But it’s a cup of joe. No matter the temperature, it still hits the spot. Especially since old Betsy refused to work again this morning. No matter how sweet I talk to her, or how many times I bang on her, my favorite coffee maker refuses to brew anything. I really should spring for a new one, but I’m sentimental about the old gal. Besides, when she does work, her coffee making skills are the best I’ve ever had. But when she doesn’t? Let’s just say, thank God for Marv’s sweet wife and her bleeding heart.

  “Ah, Marv. You’re an angel.”

  He scoffs at my praise, but I truly couldn’t get to work safely and on time without him. Weight Expectations is only three city blocks away from our home, so it’s not hard to walk to work. That’s what I used to do when I was co-parenting: take off for a quick morning jog to warm up my body before putting it through the grind with my clients.

  Now that I’m a single dad, though, there is no way Mabel can run with me. Actually, she probably would. My girl is very much an athlete like her father. But four forty-five a.m. is too early for her. Hell, it’s too early for me, but I’ve discov
ered the most dedicated clients (and by dedicated, I mean most consistent with their payments) are early risers who need to be at work on time. Plus, it’s late fall. In Chicago. When the wind blows, it goes straight through to your bones. If it was only me, I’d suffer through it to save the daily five-dollar fee, plus tip. But it’s not.

  Besides, I enjoy Marv. Our conversations are short and to the point due to our time constraints, but over the weeks, we’ve learned a lot about each other. He’s privy to the reasons I’m now raising a little girl on my own, and I’ve learned he is really bored in his retirement. When his wife threatened to divorce him if he didn’t find something to do with this time, he started his ride-share business. It’s a win/win for both of us. He has taken it upon himself to be here every day with his wife’s freshly brewed coffee in hand, and I don’t have to carry Mabel in the freezing cold.

  “Got Christmas ready for the little one?” Marv keeps his eyes on the road, hands at ten and two, his thinning gray hair combed all the way back, not a single strand out of place.

  “Working on it. She wants a puppy.” Marv chuckles at her request. I, on the other hand, don’t find it amusing. “It’s a shame Santa can’t bring a puppy on a sleigh because he might fall out.”

  “Oh yeah. Shame,” Marv says, still clearly amused.

  “Your grandbabies coming in town for the holidays this year?” I don’t know their names or how many there are. But Marv keeps a few snapshots taped to his dash, which is how they came up in conversation in the first place. I know they live down south somewhere with their mom, his daughter. And I know they don’t visit as often as he would like. That’s as far as we’ve gotten. Considering we’ve spoken for all of sixty minutes, all in three-minute spurts, I feel pretty informed.

  “Get here on the twenty-third,” he answers with a smile. Pulling to a stop in front of the gym, Marv ends this conversation the same way he does every day. “We’re here. Need help getting out?”

  I guzzle the remaining liquid and I respond the same way I do every day. “I’m good. Thank you, Marv. Let the missus know the coffee was great.” He takes the now-empty cup from me and I recommence with my balancing act to get Mabel and me inside. Gina from the front desk sees us coming and lets us in quickly.

  “Morning, Gina.”

  She harrumphs her response, eyes still barely open. Gina is not a morning person. Not many people are, but she is so far from being able to function before nine, I still can’t figure out why she works this shift. Every morning, she gets here at four thirty, turns on all the lights and air or heat depending on the time of year, and brews coffee for the employees. She’s supposed to make sure the locker rooms are all stocked with things like toilet paper and soap in the shower, but I’m 95 percent positive she skips that part to get the coffee done as soon as possible. Getting stuck on the toilet until someone can rescue me by throwing a roll over the stall wall isn’t fun, but it’s still preferable to Gina biting my head off because she’s not caffeinated.

  I wind around treadmills and free weights and make my way to the shared desk all the personal trainers use. Morgan has beaten me here like always, and she immediately jumps up to move the chair and unroll a yoga mat on the floor under the desk.

  “Thanks,” I say while she helps me maneuver the bags and the kid-sized burrito onto the floor. “Man, it’s cold in here.”

  “That’s because it’s practically nighttime still. The heaters haven’t kicked on yet.” She hands me the small pillow we keep in a tote next to the desk, and I gently lift Mabel’s head to put it under her. “Why don’t you change your shift so you can come in after she’s at school? Wouldn’t it be easier?”

  “Ah, Morgan. How quickly you’ve forgotten what the early years were like with your kids.”

  In her early fifties, she is our newest trainer. A former client of mine, she’s been coming here for years, but when her kids went off to college, she decided a career change was in order. Now, instead of being my client, she’s my shadow, at least until she gets a few hours under her belt.

  Standing up and stretching my back, I drop the bags on the chair to clock in.

  “I didn’t forget,” Morgan argues. “I blocked them out. I’m pretty sure those were the years my boys thought bodily functions were funny.”

  “They are funny,” I retort. “We just stop admitting it in front of women once we hit puberty.”

  “Thank goodness.” Morgan drops down on another chair and begins swiveling back and forth. “I don’t know how many more times I could have broken up a fight when one of them farted over the other one’s cereal.”

  “Oh yeah. Total guy thing. My cousins got in a fistfight at Thanksgiving dinner one year over that.” I start chuckling at the memory I haven’t thought of in years. “My parents didn’t know what had happened until they looked over and one of them had the other by the throat.” The visual images make me laugh so hard, I suddenly have tears in my eyes and I’m trying to catch my breath. “I was sitting right there”—I laugh again—“and Andrew literally launched himself over the table”—another laugh—“and wrapped his hands around Timothy’s neck.” I wipe a stray tear. “My sister was around six years old, and she was munching on a drumstick, looking back and forth at them as Timothy’s face turned bright red.”

  I find this trip down memory lane to be incredibly entertaining. Judging by the look on Morgan’s face, she does not. Sure enough, she quirks an eyebrow at me. “It’s all fun and games when you’re the cousin watching WWE go down in front of you. But you just wait. Someday you’ll have two kids, and when they throw down at the church crawfish boil and knock over the picnic table, it won’t be so amusing.”

  “First of all, there won’t be two kids, so I’m not worried,” I respond, still pulling myself together. “Second, it was your kids at the crawfish boil, wasn’t it?”

  “Do you know how hard red juice is to get out of clothes?” I burst out laughing again at the pent-up anger she’s held on to for fifteen years or so. Even she can’t stop from smiling as she bitches. “I washed those damn clothes at least a dozen times, and they never made it back to white. I finally said screw it. They can wear orange until they grow out of them.”

  “I’ll remember that next time we go to a crawfish boil, which will probably be never, since it’s not a Chicago thing.”

  “Not anymore,” she retorts. “We ruined it for everyone.”

  I don’t realize how loud we’re being until a small voice interrupts us.

  “What’s so funny, Daddy?”

  My giant burrito looks up at me from under the desk, her brown eyes wide with interest.

  “Nothing, baby.” I bend down and brush her hair back, tucking her back in. “Go back to sleep. You have school, and you don’t want to be too tired.”

  Mabel lets out a deep sigh and snuggles back into her blanket. It’s the biggest, fluffiest one we own. Not only does it help insulate her from the wind, it usually muffles most of the noise around her.

  “Again, why don’t you change your shift so you don’t have to bring her here this early in the morning?” This time, Morgan whispers.

  “Because it’s easier on both of us if she can sleep here for a couple of hours before school than it is to try and find someone to watch her after school for more hours.”

  “Can’t she stay in the childcare center here when it opens?”

  I shrug and put my bags in my designated locker behind the desk. “Dinah said she could, but only for a few hours in the afternoon. They don’t want to turn it into a daycare center for employees, and there is something about how they aren’t licensed to keep kids much longer than that. I don’t want to take advantage of it. I need to be able to use it if I get in a bind.”

  She nods and pushes off the armrests to stand and stretch. “Makes sense. But if you ever need anything, you have my number.”

  “And it’s much appreciated. If Mabel gets sick and I need someone to cover my classes, you’ll be the first one I call.” />
  “Okay, well I’m gonna hit the treadmill to warm up a bit.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Morgan steps around me and, not for the first time, I’m grateful for her. Between Morgan, the two other early morning trainers, and me, someone is always sitting at the desk for the hour and a half Mabel is sleeping underneath. Is it ideal to do things this way? No. But it has stayed under the radar and clients aren’t aware anything is amiss, so the bosses haven’t said anything. I’ve been very lucky in that aspect.

  I grab my notes for today’s clients and begin to prep. Not every trainer has one, but I prefer keeping a binder with profiles for each client. It helps me keep track of their goals, where their starting point is, and what their progress looks like. When they get discouraged, it’s nice to have the numbers right in front of me so I can remind them of how far they’ve come. It’s a good motivator for them and me.

  First up today is Trevor Mendola. He’s a monster of a man and one of the most jovial clients I have. He’s not a huge talker, but man does he push his body to extremes. At first, he was trying to get back in shape after letting himself go post-college. It’s the same struggle a lot of former football players deal with. For years, they work out for hours every day and eat an exorbitant number of calories. Then suddenly, their college ball career is over and they aren’t burning off all that food anymore, but still eating the same amount. It’s not always pretty.