Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
After tragedy strikes and the toddler with half my DNA inside her loses her beloved mommy, I get the bright idea to hire my daughter’s remaining lifeline, her “Auntie Aubbey,” as my live-in nanny. Also, embarrassingly, as my sobriety coach, so I can fulfill the terms of mandatory rehab.
Going into my forced living arrangement with Aubrey in her small town, I’m determined not to give in to my growing, thumping, white-hot attraction to her. There’s only a month before the custody hearing that will decide my fate as a father, and I’ll need Aubrey to testify on my behalf. Well, you know what they say about best laid plans, right? Yeah. My bad.
I expected Aubrey and me to scorch the walls of my bedroom, once I got her into my bed. What I didn’t expect, though, was that Aubrey would become the center of my universe, along with my small daughter. My family. My home. Which is why, when danger threatens, I don’t hesitate to protect what’s mine.
Finding Home is a standalone, small town, single dad rockstar romance with suspense, deep feels, spice, no cheating, no third act breakup, and a happily ever after. No prior reading required.
Please check content warnings on Lauren Rowe’s website
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Caleb
About a year and a half ago
Santa Monica, California
Iturn onto my side and exhale in the quiet darkness of my bedroom. When the change of position doesn’t quell my racing thoughts, I turn over and check the time on my nightstand.
4:37.
In less than three hours, my sister will be here, so we can take our mother to her first chemo appointment. It’s going to be a long, sleep-deprived day. A whole lot longer for Mom, though, so I shouldn’t complain. Not even in my own head.
I turn onto my back this time and try to let the distant sounds of the ocean lull me to sleep; but I can’t keep my thoughts from spiraling the same way they did last night. And the night before. Although tonight, I’m back to thinking about my kid—the six-month-old who’s out there somewhere, probably in Seattle, but maybe not. Is my kid a boy or girl? What’s their name? Do they look like me? I know it’s early days yet, but are they showing signs of musicality?
I roll over onto my side again.
I hate feeling like the second coming of my deadbeat father—someone I swore as a teen twenty years ago I’d never become. Granted, I’ve been sending massive sums of money to my child on a monthly basis, and at a level that’s far more generous than anything my baby momma could have hoped to squeeze out of me, if I’d forced her to take me to court. Which I didn’t. But the fact remains, I’m not in the kid’s life. Never have been. And worst of all, thanks to my own stupid insistence during negotiations, my kid will never know their father is C-Bomb, the drummer from Red Card Riot.
When I insisted on complete anonymity and confidentiality a year ago through my lawyer, I was certain that’s what I wanted: zero obligations to my future child, other than sending money. But once the baby was born, and especially after my good friends, Colin and Amy, had a baby only a week after my kid’s birth, doubt started creeping in. After my mother’s diagnosis, my doubt solidified into regret. And now, after watching a video of Colin and Amy’s six-month-old, Rocco, trying apple sauce for the first time today, my regret morphed, once again. This time, into full-blown guilt and shame.
Did my baby recently try apple sauce, like Rocco? If so, were my baby’s facial expressions as funny as Rocco’s? Colin and Amy belly-laughed behind the camera in that video today. If I’d been there to witness my own baby making silly faces in a highchair, would I have belly-laughed like they did? It feels like forever since I’ve done that. Have I ever?
I sit up in bed and rub my face. I never imagined myself having these kinds of thoughts when I signed that agreement with Claudia Beaumont. When I first learned of her pregnancy, I didn’t even remember her—not until my lawyer showed me a photo of the pretty blonde groupie from Seattle to jog my drunken memories. Plus, Claudia said she didn’t want me involved, other than sending child support payments, so why wouldn’t I agree to oblige her?
Claudia only asked for fifteen grand per month, which my lawyer said was fair, since she’d probably get more in court. But I offered Claudia twice that amount—thirty grand—on two conditions:
One, confidentiality.
Claudia couldn’t talk about our agreement or her night with me, and she also had to keep my identity a secret, not only from the kid, but from the world at large. As the “bad boy” drummer for Red Card Riot, I wasn’t afraid of the world’s condemnation. I knew the world would shrug their collective shoulders to find out C-Bomb had accidentally knocked up a groupie during a casual hook-up.
No, when I demanded confidentiality in exchange for more money than Claudia could win in court, I was actually concerned about my mother and sister finding out my dirty little secret. God help me, I knew if those two ever found out I’d not only fathered a kid without telling them—but worse, I’d also decided not to step up, other than financially—they’d never forgive me. Also, they’d want to forge a meaningful relationship with the kid, which would force me to do the same, and I selfishly didn’t want to do that. Or so I thought at the time.
My second condition to Claudia Beaumont was one my attorney, Paula, initially balked at: Claudia could never bring the baby to her hometown of Prairie Springs, Montana. At least, not during summers. Once Paula showed me a photo of Claudia, I vaguely remembered smoking a blunt with her, either before or after sex, and figuring out the pretty blonde from our show in Seattle had coincidentally grown up in the same small town as my mother. The same place where my grandfather—my mother’s father, who was still alive at the time—owned a cabin on Lake Lucille.