Dirty Daddies 2023 Spring Anthology is here!

 And my contribution - Demolition Daddy - is in it!

Click here to grab your very own copy!

Read on for a sneak peek of Demolition Daddy

He's going to break down the walls of her emotions and renovate her heart.

“Oooh, he’s nice.” I meant to whisper that under my breath, but sometimes, words have a habit of coming out when we least expect them to.

“Who?” Kate, my coffee-making colleague, asks, grinning as I blush at being caught ogling the demolition crew across the road. One of the crew, anyway. None of the others have caught my eye… yet, but if they’re half as fine as the delicious specimen in my sight, my work day might actually be enjoyable.

“I think he’s the foreman.” I point to the man at the edge of the site, holding a clipboard in front of him, a cellphone to his ear, his body language screaming I’m in charge. It’s hard to tell from here, but he doesn’t look very old, early thirties, probably. Tattoos. Muscles. Wavy brown hair peeking out from beneath his yellow plastic hat to curl at his collar. A neon yellow Hi-Viz vest covering up his shirt. Jeans that hug his butt, cling to his long legs and hang from his hips.

“Yeah, he is,” she agrees. “But I thought you’d sworn off men?”

“I can look, can’t I? There’s no harm in looking.”

Kate shrugs. “If you say so.”

“He’s nice, though. You have to admit that.”

“Yeah, he’s nice to look at,” Kate agrees. “Pity about the church, though. I liked that church. So many memories.”

She’s right. I was quite fond of that church, too. It was part of the town’s history and had been there forever. We used to play there as kids—hide and seek behind the pews, running up and down the aisle paying tag. My grandparents got married in that church, and my mother was christened there, but it hasn’t been used for services for as long as I can remember. Although it’s always been rundown and has been locked up completely in recent years, it’s an iconic landmark of the town. It just belongs.

“Such a shame,” I agree. “I wonder what’s going up in its place?”

Kate bangs the portafilter against the bin to empty the used coffee grounds before rinsing it under hot water and screwing it back into place in the espresso machine.

“Office blocks, I think,” she murmurs, shuddering at the thought. “Just what we need. More offices in this shitty town, replacing gorgeous historic buildings.”

I stack the last of the hot cups, fresh out of the dishwasher, in a precarious pile on top of the espresso machine, holding my breath and willing them to stay put. Balancing the cups there is an art, but we really don’t have anywhere else to put them. Plus, the heat from the espresso machine keeps them hot, which in turn keeps the coffee hot. Fresh coffee always tastes better piping hot, and we’ve got a reputation for the best coffee in town. If learning the art of stacking cups, so the whole pile doesn’t tip over, is what we have to do to keep our reputation, then that’s what I’ll do.

Kate unwraps a fresh pack of napkins, filling up the holder on the counter.

“Here he comes,” she stage-whispers, nudging me with a grin. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Ask him what?” I whisper back, mild panic rising. I’m not ready to meet him, not yet. My hair’s probably askew. Do I have anything on my face or shirt? Is my apron straight? Is….

“What’s going up in place of the church?” Kate interrupts my panicked train of thought. Then she grins, grabs a tray, and walks into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the front of the cafe with the customers, the coffee machine, the till, and him.

“What can I get you?” I ask, all businesses-like, trying to get a decent look at him. He’s even nicer up close. The ink decorating his arms curls down both forearms in a traditional Māori pattern. A black leather cord disappears inside the collar of his shirt, no doubt a greenstone [SE1] pendant, nestling between his pecs. I sigh, imagining how those pecs would feel beneath my fingers. He’s taken off his Hi-Viz vest and plastic hat, and the muscles of his hard body are evident beneath his t-shirt. It’s stretched tight across the plane of his broad chest, wrapped firmly around his huge biceps. His hair is flat at the top, squashed from the bright-yellow helmet, but his black curls are gorgeous. I long to reach out and touch them, to rub my hands through them. I’m a sucker for curls on a man.

My eyes slowly roam up his body to meet his steely gaze. He’s obviously just given his order, and I didn’t hear a word of it. My face heats up in embarrassment, and I want to sink through the floor.

We both stand there for a moment, our eyes locked. Much to my disappointment, the floor doesn’t open up and swallow me whole, and I’m forced to actually talk to the hunky man and admit I have no idea what he just asked for.

“Uh, could you repeat that? Please,” I amend quickly.

He smirks.

“Do you make a habit of not listening to your customers?” he asks in a deep voice that sounds a bit growly and not at all amused. As if he has better things to do than be standing here at the cafe, and I’ve just wasted his time.