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Read Online Books/Novels:

Single Dad’s Waitress

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Amelia Wilde

Book Information:

He’ll give her more than just the tip.


I’m not looking for love at the Short Stack diner. Just pancakes.

I’ve been screwed over before, and it was the mother of all disasters. The only silver lining? My cute-as-hell daughter, Minnie.

Until I meet Valentine, the hot waitress serving us eggs and bacon.

She’s over-the-top gorgeous, with a body that makes me want to have her for breakfast. And when she sprays me in the face with whipped cream, her pink cheeks start to melt my frigid heart.

I can’t let her get to me. A scorching summer fling, sure…but that’s all my life can handle.

Once fall comes, we’re over.


Waitressing is my job of last resort. So here I am, right at rock bottom.

Dumped by my ex? Check. Back in my hometown? Double check. Making a fool of myself in front of the sexiest stranger I’ve ever seen? Nailed it.

Ryder is the kind of guy I can never have. He’s sinfully sexy…and a single dad. There’s no room for me in a life like his.

He came in for pancakes, but now I’m stuck wanting his sausage.

The tension between us has to stop. Neither of us needs this…but he’s too hot not to touch.

If only someone could remind me to stay out of the kitchen…

Single Dad’s Waitress is a steamy, sweet single dad romance with adult language, no cheating, laugh-out-loud scenes, and an HEA that will melt your heart.

Books by Author:

Amelia Wilde Books



I grin into the gleaming reflection of the glass lid perched on the stainless steel stockpot. I’ve got to force it this morning, and boy, is that a look. It’s lucky that I can’t actually see myself very clearly, what with the quartered potatoes bubbling under the lid, almost ready for the breakfast service.

I look terrible.

“What’s the point?” I mutter the words at my roiling reflection.

“Tell me you’re not talking to the potatoes.” Gerald’s gruff voice cuts through the low-level hum of the kitchen, and I try my best not to look like I’ve been caught red-handed talking to a starch when I straighten up. He steps in from the kitchen’s side door, paper-wrapped packages filling his arms, and crosses to me, opening the walk-in fridge with his foot and disappearing inside.

“Not really.”

When Gerald reemerges a few moments later, he has a plastic tray in his hands that’s filled with sliced bacon. “It looked like you were talking to the potatoes.”

“I was just trying to see if I look as shitty as I feel.”

He shoots me a look. For a wizened chef, Gerald does not appreciate salty language, but it’s true. I feel like shit. I’d blame Conrad Ford, my recently new ex-boyfriend, but he’s only partly to blame. I was the idiot who thought he loved me.

What a ridiculous assumption.

At any rate, I’m still the idiot who’s feeling sorry for herself over having to move back home, over losing something I probably never had in the first place. I have to knock it off. I have to stop spending so much time watching sappy movies alone at the cottage.

Gerald puts the tray on the counter next to the griddle and starts laying out strips of bacon. He does it the same way every single morning. He’s been doing it that way since I first got a job here in high school. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I came back two weeks ago to find everything just how I left it. The only difference is that Gerald is eight years older. Not that you can tell by looking.

He flicks his eyes across the kitchen to me and lays out another row of bacon. “Is Sharon in yet?”

I open my mouth to answer him at the same time the front door to the restaurant opens, the bell chiming merrily against the glass. Sharon sweeps into the kitchen with an early morning summer smell clinging to her clothes, her dark hair piled high on top of her head. “Good morning, loves,” she sings, breezing by to toss her purse into the tiny back office where she writes out our paychecks every Friday. “Everything good to go?” Her smile is so ungodly bright that I can’t help but smile back, but the expression fades a little from her face when she finally gets a good look at me. “Looks like it’s not good to go.” She crosses her arms, cocking one hip to the side. “Spill it.”

“Don’t,” says Gerald.

“It’s nothing,” I insist, pulling my apron off the hook on the wall next to Sharon’s office. “Allergies.”

She narrows her eyes. “You don’t have allergies.”

“Seasonal allergies.”

“Valentine Carr, don’t bullshit me.”

Gerald sighs heavily, not looking at either of us, and Sharon rolls her eyes. They’re not married, but they bicker like a couple that’s been together for years—mostly through eye rolls and sighs.

I take my sweet time tying the apron around my waist. I can feel how puffy my eyes are every time I blink. Clearly, the concealer I applied so damn carefully this morning isn’t doing a thing.

It’s not that I don’t want to tell Sharon what happened. It’s just that the whole thing is so…stupid, so mortifying, that I’m not sure I can make my mouth form the words.

“Was it that asshole Conrad?”

The look on her face makes me burst out laughing. When I showed up here two weeks ago, fresh off a failed start to my would-be career in marketing and recently kicked to the curb by my boyfriend, Sharon gave me my old waitressing job back, no questions asked. Those came later, during the slow hours, when we wrapped silverware into napkins and wiped down the plastic menus with cleaning solution meant to kill the germs. She never said a word against Conrad then, but she didn’t have to. She didn’t even have to meet him. All she had to do was purse her lips and say hmm in that same old Sharon way.

“No,” I finally manage to say. “Well, yes. But that was my fault. I should have seen it coming.”

She waves her hands in the air like she’s dispelling a bad cloud. “He wasn’t worth your time. And he’s not worth your tears.”

Maybe not, but that doesn’t make me feel better now. And tomorrow morning, when I wake up with that same pit in my stomach, it still won’t help.

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