Page 49 of The Single Dad

He leans across the arm of the couch as if drawn toward me by a magnetic force, and I, under the same spell, close the distance between us further. He touches my hair, running a lock between his fingers.

“You deserve a lot better,” he repeats, his voice low. I can’t reply; my mind is completely blank, my breath bated. The tension between us is supercharged, like the air before a storm, and I’m lost in the depths of his sea-blue eyes.

Storms are dangerous, I think wildly, my thoughts spiraling. Especially at sea.

Cole leans in until we’re inches apart. I can smell his cologne; it makes me feel empty with longing. My breath catches. Our lips are so close together that I can feel his own sudden, uncertain inhale.

He freezes, almost shaking as he withdraws. I do the same, vibrations running through my entire body, impossible to ignore. Slowly, as if it’s painful for each of us, we retreat.

The tension is still there, the storm still raging in his eyes.

“I want you,” he admits. His voice is clear, and rings through the room like it could shatter ice.

Finally, he said it out loud.

“But I can’t have you.”

Those words are more like funeral bells. He says them heavily, and I feel as though something between us has been stifled, like a blanket or a bucket of cold water thrown over an open flame.

“It would be a horrible idea,” he says, shaking his head reluctantly. “You know it would. It can’t happen.”

He’s right. I’ve thought the exact same thing. I’ve been telling myself, over and over, exactly what he just told me: it can’t happen.

“I know,” I say, the words falling from numb lips—lips that should, in a perfect world, be locked with his.

I get to my feet, trying my best not to trip on the couch on my way out of the room. I can feel his gaze on me every step of the way, hot enough to sear, and I want, so badly, to stay.

I have the distinct impression that, if I did stay, he would ignore his own insistence. He would have finally touched me, the way I’ve been wanting him to. The way I’ve literally been dreaming about.

But at the same time, he’s right. It would be a horrible idea. It can’t happen.

I say nothing as I leave the room, ignoring his burning stare, and go straight upstairs to lock myself into my room.

Chapter 16

Riley

I have a hard time falling asleep. My dreams, when I slip into them, are filled with Cole, my imagination running wild to decide what his hands would feel like against the curves of my body.

When I wake up, breathless, I keep hoping that he’ll come into my room the way he did the night I dreamed of him fucking me. I keep hoping that he’ll tell me that he changed his mind—that it’s not as impossible as he thought it was. That it’s worth the risks and challenges.

No such luck, of course. The next morning, I sit in bed for a while, exhausted, watching the sun rise behind the gauzy curtains. I only managed to get a few hours of sleep, and according to the clock next to my bed, I have to be downstairs in twenty minutes to get Archie ready for his day.

With a groan, I pull myself out of bed and force myself to get dressed. As I trudge down the stairs, I can already tell that Cole is in the kitchen. The air smells like coffee and frying bacon.

I walk in, giving him a smile of greeting. He returns the gesture with a polite nod, and my heart sinks. Already, he’s putting on that professional face, creating a safe distance between us.

I can hardly believe I saw him smile yesterday.

“Good morning, Riley,” he says, his voice full of the same careful, neutral courtesy as his expression. “Can I get you something for breakfast?”

“Whatever you’re cooking up smells delicious,” I say.

He points at the stove with his spatula. “Bacon strips, fried eggs, and toast. Thought I’d keep things simple today. Coffee?”

“Sounds good.” I take a seat at the counter as Cole moves to the gleaming, stainless steel coffee machines. His kitchen is better outfitted than most coffee shops.

He messes with one of the many contraptions, grinding coffee beans. When he finishes, he pours the grounds into a French Press and sets the kettle to boil, then returns his attention to the stove.

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