Page 5 of Dad Bod's Daring December

“Should we be thinking about this now?” The words tumble out, but they lack conviction. Because truth be told, in this moment of vulnerability and raw connection, I realize I want him to kiss me. And I think I might just let him.

He steps back, creating a chasm of cold air between us that instantly makes me long for his warmth again. A faint pang of disappointment follows, but I push it aside.

“We need to plan,” Edward states, his voice firm, slicing through the intimate haze like a blade.

“Sure,” I answer, trying to lighten the mood. “Like what? Setting up paint cans to swing at their heads?”

I mimic a swing with my arms, recalling a childhood filled with Saturday morning cartoons. But the humor falls flat. Edward doesn’t crack a smile. Instead, he fixes me with a look so intense it sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with fear. That stare—it’s like he sees right through me, reading every thought I’m scrambling to hide.

“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling suddenly foolish. I brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear in an awkward attempt to regain composure.

“Coffee?” I offer, hoping to break the tension rapidly turning the air heavy.

“Sounds good,” he replies, his tone softening a fraction.

I lead the way to my kitchen, a space still echoing with emptiness that I plan to fill. I open the jar I keep the coffee in, noting that I need to get more soon. I’ve been to the grocery store a few times, but I’m running low on the essentials. The coffee maker is one of the few appliances I’ve set up, a small beacon of normalcy in this chaos.

As I reach for two mugs, Edward’s presence fills the room behind me. He’s a big man, solid and steady, the kind who could make anyone feel safe just by being near. He’s the sort of man who takes charge, a natural protector, and part of me revels in that strength, secretly loving the way his broad frame seems to envelop the space around us. Another part of me, the part that insists I can make it on my own, recoils—but there’s no denying how his quiet power draws me in.

I pour the steaming liquid, acutely aware of the silence stretching between us. Handing him a mug, I note the rugged lines of his face, softened by the amber glow of my under-cabinet lighting. His wheat-blond hair touches his collar, and his beard is thick and full. My fingers itch to discover if it’s as soft as it looks.

It’s too easy to imagine life here with him, laughter mingling with the scent of morning coffee. But no, that’s not why I moved here. Romance with the neighbor? That’s asking for complications I don’t need.

“Thanks,” he says, accepting the cup. His fingers brush mine, sending an involuntary jolt through me.

“Welcome,” I manage, finding my seat at the table. It’s a simple pine table, secondhand and sturdy, much like the life I envision here, uncomplicated and honest.

“Ember,” Edward starts, and I brace myself for whatever comes next. But then he pauses, holding the mug close as if drawing strength from its warmth. He looks around, taking in the sparseness of my home. “You’ll make this place yours. In time.”

His words, meant to be reassuring, somehow underscore how hollow the house feels. I smile in return, thinking that, with him here, the void seems less daunting, the shadows less deep.

“Time,” I echo.

We sip our coffee, the bitter taste grounding us back to reality. I watch Edward as he perches on the edge of my thrift-store dining chair opposite me. It wobbles slightly beneath him, and for a moment, I’m distracted by the flex of his muscles as he steadies himself. The air between us feels charged, thick with questions I’m unsure I want answers to. But I need to know.

“Edward,” I begin hesitantly, “tell me about the motorcycle club. Why are they doing this?”

He sets his mug down, his gaze meeting mine. His eyes are like steel, hard with resolve but gleaming with something unspoken.

“The Demons,” he starts, the name rolling off his tongue with a bitter tang, “they’re not just a gang. They’re maniacs. My ex-wife wants me out of town. She cheated on me with the leader. Left me for him. I think she can still manage to feel something like shame. Or, at least, enough of it to want me gone. She’s convinced the guy that getting me out of town will be easier if they control your property.”

My heart clenches at the thought as fear and indignation swell within me. “So, they’re using me to get to you?”

“Seems so,” he admits, a shadow crossing his face. “They’re right, though. I wouldn’t stick around if they turned this place into their playground. Not that I’d ever admit that to them.”

It’s a stark confession, one that reveals the weight of the situation we’re in. I watch him, noting that his voice holds no self-pity, only a thread of annoyance as if he’s dealing with a particularly stubborn weed in his otherwise pristine garden.

A smile tugs at my lips despite the gravity of our conversation. “Want another cup of coffee?” I ask, more out of a desire to do something with my hands than anything else.

He shakes his head, standing and glancing toward the windows veiled in darkness. “No, thanks. You should lock up. Everything. They probably won’t come back tonight, but it’s best to be safe.”

“Will you?” I find myself asking before I can stop the words. “Come back, I mean?”

His lips quirk into a half-smile, and the promise in his eyes stirs something deep within me.

“I’ll keep an ear out,” he assures me. “Just... take care, okay?”

As he heads for the door, I follow him, my fingers trailing along the cool surface of the kitchen table. Lock the doors and windows, he said. He’s probably right about that. But as I hear the soft click of the latch falling into place after he leaves, I realize that I’m not simply securing my home against the threat outside. I’m also trying to guard my heart, which seems foolishly inclined to trust this man who’s a stranger and a savior rolled into one.

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