Page 38 of Smitten with the Single Dad

“Sorry,” he murmured, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just talking about dead wives, and parents, and …” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay. Really. I think we both needed that hug.”

His smile was small, boyish, and so unbelievably sexy. And to top it off, he bent his head and scratched the back of his neck as his cheeks grew pinker and pinker.

“I would like to go for a walk today,” she said, almost as if asking permission. “I am feeling very caged. I do not like being caged. My weekends are almost always spent hiking, and I feel theitchiesto get out for a walk.”

“The ‘itchies’?’

“Is that not a thing? To feel an itch to go somewhere or do something? I could have sworn it was an American, or English, idiom.”

He nodded. “To get an itch to do something, yes. But to feel the ‘itchies’? Not so much.” He chuckled, the awkwardness from a moment ago disappearing. “I like the way you said it though.”

Heat filled her cheeks. “I think it is safe for me to walk, yes?”

“The island is incredibly safe. However, don’t you think someone should gowith you?”

She nibbled on her lip. “I like to walk alone. It helps me clear my head. I also don’t want to out put … put out?”

“Put out.”

She nodded. “I don’t want to put out anybody more than I already have. It is Monday. It is a workday. I have the hairdresser coming at ten o’clock. I will just go for an hour.”

They both knew that she was a grown woman and not his prisoner. So she really didn’t need to ask for permission from him to do anything. However, his family had been so generous to her, she felt the need to at least sort of ask.

Finally, he nodded. “I think it will be okay. Maybe wear a hat though, so you’re not so noticeable?”

Nodding, she grinned at him. “I can do that.”

His smile made every single butterfly in her belly go frantic and fly without thought or flightpath.

Yeah, Vica was smitten with the single dad and the timing could not be anymore inconvenient.

A walk was exactly what Vica needed.

Wyatt’s house was the furthest thing from a prison. Yet, she still felt a little trapped. She was used to her own space, her privacy, and being able to come and go as she pleased without having to answer to anybody. A creature of habit, Vica rose early in the morning, hopped on her stationary spin bike, did an hour on the bike, then had a shower and walked to work. After work, she went to the grocery store and bought what she needed for dinner. Growing up in Italy, shewas used to buying fresh produce daily, so it was just something that she still did now that she lived in the states. After dinner, she read a book or visited with Mrs. Jovan and Nibbles, then retired to bed early. Her weekends were where she went on adventures. She loved to hike, rock climb, surf, and ski. Her weekends were where she got her adrenaline rushes and looked fear in the eye and laughed.

Even though she appreciated the gesture, when Track planned their excursion to the island on a Saturday, Vica was a little more than bummed. She planned to do one last big hike—Mount St. Helens, the Monitor Ridge Route in the South Cascades.

Would she ever get to hike it?

So even though this gentle walk on the flat, paved road wasn’t like her normal strenuous, challenging hikes, she still welcomed the quiet and the fresh air.

It really was a peaceful little island. Nothing but the chirp of birds in the trees and the distant sound of water lapping at the shore.

And she didn’t have to wear a bear bell to let the grizzlies know they needed to stick to the berries and fish, and not chase after an Italian snack.

A few cars passed her now and then, but for the most part, the road was empty.

Caught up in her thoughts, mostly about what transpired between her and Wyatt in the kitchen earlier, Vica barely had time to jump out of the way when a nondescript, gray sedan with tinted windows came barrelling around the corner. She leaped onto the shoulder, but that didn’t seem to be enough as the car swerved toward her, not away. Vica was forced to fall into the grass ditch and watch as the vehicle peeled away.

Breathless and terrified, she repeated the license plate, over and over again, in her head until the car was out of sight.

8T9-R5J

Over and over again, she said the numbers and letters until she was certain she’d never forget them.

She was about a mile away from the pub, and although she planned to begone an hour, she no longer felt safe out there; and even though the bra she wore was not suitable for running, she held onto her breasts and ran anyway, keeping an eye out, and her ears tuned into her surroundings in case whoever tried to run her off the road came back.

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