Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 17

[Selene’s POV]

The Seattle Sirens Annual Charity Gala is corporate hell: forced networking, donor schmoozing, and uncomfortable formal wear everywhere.

I'm working the room in my therapist capacity when a woman in sequins grabs my elbow. "Dr. Marlowe! All those damaged young men—do you ever get emotionally attached?"

I take a long sip of champagne. "I maintain professional boundaries with all my clients, Mrs. Whitmore."

"But surely some of them must develop feelings for you?"

"If you'll excuse me." I'm lying, but self-preservation trumps politeness.

I spot Axel and Mateo across the ballroom, both looking like they're attending their own funerals. Axel's in a navy suit that fits him like a threat, all sharp lines and Nordic intensity. Mateo's wearing charcoal gray, his curls tamed into something almost professional, and he's tugging at his collar like it's personally wronged him.

Mateo catches my eye and grins—that full-wattage smile that could power a small city. He starts making his way toward me, weaving through clusters of donors with the determination of a man escaping a natural disaster.

Then a woman in her sixties intercepts him, grabbing his arm with the grip of someone who donates six figures annually.

I watch him try to extract himself. It's not going well.

"You look like you need rescuing." Axel appears at my elbow with two champagne flutes, offering one like a peace treaty. "Or at least alcohol."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Your smile has the structural integrity of wet cardboard." He nods toward the balcony doors. "Want to escape?"

"God, yes."

We slip through the crowd, and the October air hits like blessed relief. The balcony overlooks downtown Seattle, lights glittering.

"Your suit doesn't fit right," I observe.

Axel looks down. "The shoulders are too tight. Mateo said I looked 'very respectable,' which I'm pretty sure is an insult."

"It's definitely an insult. But you do look respectable. In a 'terrifying Norse god forced into business casual' kind of way."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all night."

"The bar is very low."

He almost-smiles—that microscopic shift. "How's your night been?"

"I've had practice deflecting inappropriate questions." I study his profile. "Actually, I had a breakthrough with Marcus this week. Performance anxiety. We worked through visualization techniques and he had his best game of the season."

"That's good work." Axel turns to look at me, something in his expression making my chest tight. "You're good at making people feel less alone."

The space between us has shrunk without me noticing.

"Where's Mateo?" I ask, breaking the charged moment.

"Probably still trapped. He'll survive." There's fondness in Axel's voice, something warm. "He's better at networking. People like his smile."

"You have a smile. Technically."

"I have three facial expressions and none qualify as 'charming.'"

The balcony door crashes open and Mateo bursts through like he's escaping a burning building. "We need to leave. Now. Immediately. Before that woman makes me pledge money to build a basketball court on the moon."

I laugh so hard I snort. "The moon?"

"She was very passionate about lunar athletics." He's breathless, tie loosened, curls escaping whatever product was holding them hostage. "I tried to explain gravity, but she was not interested in physics. Just my checkbook."

"How much did you pledge?" Axel asks, sounding amused.

"Nothing yet, but she's persistent. We should go before she finds me again." Mateo looks between us. "Unless you're having a moment? Am I interrupting a moment?"

"We're complaining about uncomfortable formal wear," I tell him. "Very romantic."

"Could be romantic. Depends on the execution." He grins. "But seriously, can we please leave? I'm starving and this place only serves food that requires explanation."

Axel considers this. "What did you have in mind?"

"Food that doesn't need a glossary. Pancakes. Eggs. Things that make sense."

I shouldn't say yes. I should make my excuses, go home, maintain the boundaries I've been carefully rebuilding. But the champagne is warm in my system and Mateo's looking at me with those hopeful hazel eyes and Axel is almost-smiling, and suddenly leaving sounds like the best idea anyone's ever had.

"Let's go," I say.

We sneak out like teenagers, giggling in the elevator. Twenty minutes later we're in cracked vinyl booths at Rosie's, an all-night diner that smells like coffee and possibility.

The waitress doesn't blink at three overdressed idiots. "What'll it be, hon?"

We order everything. Pancakes, hash browns, eggs, bacon. When it arrives, chaos erupts.

Mateo steals bacon off my plate. "You weren't going to eat that."

"I was absolutely going to eat that."

Axel dumps syrup on Mateo's bacon. Mateo stares in horror. "That's a war crime."

"You started it." Axel eats his eggs innocently.

I steal the syrup-covered bacon. "Sweet and salty. It works."

"You're both monsters." But Mateo's grinning, reaching for my hash browns.

We argue about everything. Best basketball movie—Space Jam versus Hoosiers. Worst road trip snack—gas station sushi makes us all horrified. Mateo's tried it. Pancakes versus waffles.

"Waffles have structural integrity," Axel argues seriously. "The pockets hold syrup efficiently."

"But pancakes are fluffier," I counter. "Clouds of carbohydrates."

"No backbone. Waffles have standards."

Mateo's laughing too hard to breathe. "Breakfast architecture?"

"Yes," Axel and I say simultaneously.

It's easy. Too easy. Axel's dry humor lands perfectly against Mateo's animated storytelling. Mateo's hand on Axel's shoulder, casual. Axel stealing Mateo's coffee without asking.

They communicate in glances. Entire conversations without words. And I'm pulled into their orbit, feeling like maybe I belong here too.

The check arrives and we immediately start arguing.

"I've got it," Mateo says, reaching for his wallet.

"No way. I invited you guys." Axel's already pulling out his card.

I grab the check before either of them can. "Therapist's privilege. I make more than both of you."

"That's absolutely not true," Axel starts.

"Doesn't matter. My treat. Non-negotiable."

Mateo grins. "She's using her doctor voice. We lost."

"I am not using my—"

"You totally are. Very authoritative. Kind of hot, actually."

Axel kicks him under the table. Mateo kicks back. I pay the bill while they have a silent foot war that Doreen watches with the patience of someone who's seen weirder.

Outside, the parking lot is empty. It's two in the morning and Seattle is quiet in that specific way cities get when normal people are sleeping and only the interesting ones are still awake.

Mateo's telling some story about the moon donor—something about her husband's cryptocurrency fortune and their plans to colonize Mars—and Axel's shaking his head but smiling, really smiling, and I'm walking between them feeling lighter than I have in months.

This is dangerous.

How right this feels. How easy it would be to let this become my normal. To stop fighting the pull and just fall.

We reach my car and Mateo's mid-sentence about Martian basketball courts when he stops, looks at both of us, and grins.

"Same time next week?"

"If there's another charity event, I'm faking my own death," I tell him.

"Deal. We'll help you stage it. Very dramatic. Vikings funeral vibes."

Axel shakes his head. "Does it count as racism?"

"You’re whiter than snow, have some moral integrity." He turns to me, that grin softening into something genuine. "Thanks for tonight. For coming out. For—everything."

"Thank you for the breakfast crimes and waffle discourse."

"Anytime, Doc. Anytime."

I drive home with the windows down, still smiling, wondering when exactly I stopped being scared and started being hopeful.

Wondering if maybe that's the most dangerous thing of all.