Page 101 of The Single Dad

He smiles back at me. Ever since the night he found me in the closet, things have been much better between us. The coolness that I felt from him the week after the silent auction has faded.

He’s still busy with work, of course—I don’t expect that will ever end—but he’s been coming to my room after he returns every night.

“I’m heading over to Noah’s,” I say, waving my phone. “He invited me this morning.”

“That’s great,” Cole replies. “Have fun.”

“You guys, too.”

“We’re going to the park today!” Archie announces brightly.

Cole raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s the first I’m hearing of this,” he says. “The park, huh?”

“Sounds like you guys have some plans to figure out,” I say with a laugh. “Good luck.”

On my way out of the door, my phone chimes again. I glance down at it, expecting to see a text from Noah. Instead, it’s Olivia—and there’s a picture attached.

As I walk over to Noah’s house, I open the photo. I’m startled when I realize that it’s a picture of me, standing next to Cole and Archie at the silent auction. It’s accompanied by Olivia’s caption.

OLIVIA: Did you see this??? It was in my news feed this morning! So cool!

ME: Oh wow. What’s this for?

OLIVIA: Just an article about the auction, I think. They just happened to use a picture of you guys!

OLIVIA: Probably because of how good that dress looked, lol.

She’s right. I can’t believe how good the dress Cole got me looks in that picture. I look like a million bucks—literally.

When I reach Noah’s front door, there’s a delicious smell wafting in through the open window. He must be cooking again. Figures.

I knock, and hear a clatter from the kitchen, followed by Noah’s voice. “It’s open!”

The second I step inside, I’m hit with a wave of that warm, earthy scent. Are those mushrooms, or something?

Noah is, of course, at the stove. I take a seat at the counter in front of him, a look of mock disapproval on my face.

“You didn’t want to come greet me at the door?”

He gestures to the hot skillet on the stove in front of him, which is filled with a mixture of vegetables—diced tomatoes, sliced mushrooms, and a leafy green vegetable that looks like spinach. “This is on a high heat,” he says indignantly. “I couldn’t step away from it. This isn’t Buckingham Palace—you can let yourself in.”

I roll my eyes. “So welcoming.”

He grins at me, good-natured. “You want a glass of wine, or something? This stuff’s going in omelets with hollandaise sauce, too, if you want to stick around for a bite.”

“That’s tempting,” I admit. “There’s nothing like a Noah Hayes omelet.”

“And how long has it been since you’ve had one?” He turns the medley of vegetables over in the pan, and the oil sizzles. “Gotta refresh your memory, right?”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “A million years couldn’t make me forget what a great cook you are.”

“And a million years couldn’t make me forget that you could ruin a bowl of cereal,” Noah replies.

I click my tongue, looking around for something to throw at him before I think better of it—there’s a gas flame right in front of him, and I don’t want to burn down his new house.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says, oblivious to how close he came to disaster. “Wine?”

“Isn’t it a little early?”

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