Page 2 of Rescued by the Single Dad

So, while his brothers kissed their wives goodbye, Clint got a harsh glare from Jacqueline as she climbed into Sheila’s car.

That was the last time he ever saw his wife.

Their car got side-swiped on the way to SeaTac airport, and all four women passed away. Jacqueline was declared dead on the scene, as was Remy. Sheila and Carla were taken to the hospital in critical condition. Neither woman survived long enough for Clint and his brothers to get to the hospital and say goodbye.

Four men became widowers that day.

Six children lost their mothers.

So, given the guilt he felt about his daughter not having a mother anymore—piled on the fact that he and Jacqueline were at odds and probably on the road to divorce—Clint still struggled with things.

He muddled through the days somehow. Because he had to.

For Talia.

But the guilt still gnawed away at him.

He took another pull off the bottle and stared up at the glowing moon.

At least he still had his daughter.

Precocious, cheeky, brilliant, beautiful and so much like her mother, Talia was his sunshine. His glowing moon, his stars and the reason he hadn’t sunk into a deeper pit of despair and nauseating, debilitating guilt. Because he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He needed to do right by his little girl, and being both mom and dad for her was how he did it.

Heaving a big sigh, he set the bottle on the marble-like pebbles at his feet and shoved his fingers into his short, dark hair, then dragged his hand down his face, pulling at the stubble on his jaw.

His eyes drifted out to the ocean. The water was calm, and the tide must have been slack because there wasn’t the normal whoosh of the surf breaking against the rocks.

Once in a while, a seal, sea lions or otters would splash about, drawing the attention of the brewpub patrons. They’d even been graced with a few orca or humpback sightings. That was always good for business. Jagger—who handled all of their social media—would post like crazy that there were whales in front of the brewery, then people would flock to their establishment.

Keeping his eyes out on the water, he scanned for signs of life.

It was closing in on midnight. Even the seals were probably sleeping.

Where did seals sleep? On land? Or floating around the ocean like a dolphin? That didn’t seem safe. They had far more predators than dolphins.

No little heads popped up out of the water, and when he concentrated, he heard no sudden gusts of breath from a blowhole or pinniped’s nostrils.

He took another sip. He still had about a quarter of the bottle left, and it hadn’t been full when he started.

But he had a high tolerance for alcohol and could—if he wanted to—finish a two-six himself and live to tell the story. After a three-day hangover, of course. Because he wasn’t twenty-two anymore, and his body no longer found joy in self-destruct mode. It didn’t bounce back as quickly and liked to punish him for a few days afterward to remind him he was a forty-four-year-old man and needed to behave like one.

He continued to scan the beach, glancing down one side, then the other. He looked to the right again and paused.

What the fuck was that?

From where he sat, the shadows and his drunk brain playing tricks on him, he couldn’t tell what it was.

Probably a seal.

But maybe something else?

He stood up, left his bottle where it was, but then paused.

Maybe he needed a weapon?

But glass on the beach was a terrible idea. There were rocks. He could always defend himself with a big rock.

He left the bottle on the rocks and started walking down the beach beneath the trees. The rocks were probably slippery, meaning the path of least resistance and ultimate safety was not a straight line. He wasn’t so drunk that he would do something stupid like traipse along the slippery rocks in the dark. That would probably cause him to break his neck. Then Talia would be an orphan. He was always in his right mind when it came to her.

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