Page 9 of The Single Dad

The sound of Archie crying tugs at my heart. I crouch down to face him, trying to brush away his tears.

“Come on, bud. You don’t have to cry. It’s okay. It’s gone now.”

But nothing I say seems to get through to him. I don’t even know if this bout of crying is about the dog, or about the way that woman snapped at him in my office. Either way, I can’t seem to get him to stop.

Chapter 3

Riley

“It was just bad luck,” Noah says, following me up the basement steps. “Nothing but cheap, dirty tricks and bad luck.”

I smile smugly, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Spoken like a sore loser.”

“Just you wait—next time, it’s gonna be all me.”

I take my coat off the coat rack, and Noah follows me to the door to see me out. I turn to hug him as I leave, and say, “If you want that to be true, you’d better get some practice in, because let me tell you—you’re never gonna beat me playing like that.”

Noah releases me, scoffing, and I stick my tongue out at him as I head down the front steps.

“See you later!”

He waves. “I’ll shoot you a text next time I have some free time.”

“You better,” I reply.

Noah returns to his house, closing the door behind himself, and I make my way through his charming front garden to the sidewalk.

I start to head back to the nearest subway station, but before I can get far, I pause. There’s a little boy crying on the sidewalk ahead of me.

The guy standing next to this little boy is, well, gorgeous. He’s tall, over six feet, with harsh, sharp features. His hair is jet black and carefully styled, and he’s well-built, all of his clothes tailored to perfection. There’s something imposing about him, even as he tries to comfort the crying child.

The kid couldn’t be more than five years old. He has a mop of adorable brown curls and cute round cheeks, which are red from the stinging tears as he howls.

I can’t tell what upset him, but boy, is he upset.

And the stunningly attractive guy standing next to him is having a hard time calming him down. As I approach, he murmurs something to the boy that seems to have no effect at all on the child’s tantrum.

I’m about to pass by them when the man looks up at me, and our gazes meet. It’s only a fleeting, passing glance. He goes straight back to trying to comfort the child, who is now sobbing hysterically.

But in that second, I saw something in his gaze—something that makes me freeze on the sidewalk. I’m not even sure what it was, but it stops me in my tracks.

I turn to face the two of them, kneeling down to get on the child’s level. I start to rummage in my purse for my secret weapon, and feel it next to my apartment keys: the plastic head and neck of a little dinosaur.

A customer left it at one of my tables a few days ago. It’s one of the ones with long necks and tails, diminutive, only about the size of my palm. I hold it out to face the little boy, who pauses in his crying—out of sheer confusion, if nothing else.

“Do you know this guy?” I ask him.

The little boy blinks at me, his eyes red, tears still lingering behind his lashes.

“He says that you’re his friend,” I explain. “What’s your name?”

The little boy sniffles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Archie,” he says in a small voice.

“Archie?” I turn the dinosaur toward myself, staring into its plastic face. “Is that right?”

The dinosaur and I both look back at Archie, and I shake my hand so that the dinosaur wiggles. I put on a deep, fake-gruff voice and say, “‘That’s right. That’s my friend Archie.’”

The little boy smiles, his tears temporarily forgotten. That’s all the encouragement I need.

---