Page 1 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

Chapter One: Poppy

“Those sunglasses make you look like a bug, Poppy Minton!”

“It’s nice to see you, too, rockstar,” I reply, sidling up to Aiden’s surprisingly understated, midsize SUV idling on the curb outside the Arrivals gate. He’s leaning against the hood, arms crossed, wearing a black leather jacket despite the warm spring day.

“Are you actually pushing your own suitcase?” he continues to mock me, albeit playfully, as I approach.

Despite the fact that I am, indeed, wearing massive sunglasses that block half my face from view, I roll my eyes at my old friend.

In an attempt to get even at him for his teasing, I nod my chin toward his car. “What even is that? A Nissan?”

“Did you expect me to pick you up in a Maserati?”

“It would’ve been nice.”

Aiden snorts. “Get in the car, princess.”

Without prompting, he reaches for my suitcase and hauls it into the trunk. Grinning, I slide into the passenger seat of his endearingly modest vehicle. Aiden Marx has changed a lot sinceI last saw him. When we were neighbors in Malibu, he usually drove a sleek red Porsche, but he also had a G-Wagon and a vintage Corvette at his disposal.

Now, my rockstar friend lives in a small town on the coast of Massachusetts with his adorable wife. He used to shred his guitars on stage in front of hundreds of thousands of people all over the world, but his most recent release was a stripped-back acoustic album recorded in the basement of his little cottage. He’s completely changed his life from one of glamour and fame to peace and simplicity.

Suffice to say, he’s an inspiration to me. The blueprint. He’s never been happier, and I wish I could have a taste of that, too. I knew I certainly wasn’t going to find it in LA, wheresimplicityis a four-letter word. Nor was I going to find it in London, where my father’s side of the family would smother me half to death with all their well-meaning concern.

So, when a cottage close to Aiden’s house went on the market this past winter, Aiden gave me a call, and, within days, I made an offer. Then, when the sale was final, I sold my Malibu beach house, hired someone to pack up my things, and informed the manager of my rental properties in West Hollywood that I was relocating.

It all happened very quickly. So quickly that most of my friends assumed I’d completely lost my mind.

Those people are hardly my friends, though. They were more concerned with who might inherit my Birkin bag since I was downsizing.

And, for the record, you’d have to tear my Birkin bag from my cold, dead hands. I don’t mess around when it comes to Hermès.

“How was the flight?” Aiden asks as he pulls into the steady stream of traffic heading out of Boston’s Logan Airport.

“Divine. Flying commercial is hardly the plebeian horror that everyone in Los Angeles makes it out to be. I’ve been doing it for years and I’ve never had a bad experience.”

“That’s because you always fly First Class, Pop.”

“Whatever.”

Aiden simply chuckles. That’s why I like him so much. He knows the real reason why I don’t get on private jets anymore—not since I was thirteen—but he’s nice enough to let me pretend that it’s simply a matter of personal taste.

“So,” Aiden hums, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “are you hungry? Thirsty? It’s a couple hours down to the Cape. We can do a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through.”

“Dunkin’what?”

He smirks. “It’s an East Coast rite of passage. You need to have a watery iced coffee from Dunkin’ immediately, or the ghosts of our founding fathers will haunt you.”

“Ew, Aiden. No, thanks.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“I’ll call your wife and tell her you’re threatening me with bad coffee and dead white men.”

“My wife is also from here. She’ll agree with me.”

“Ugh,” I pretend to groan, sinking lower in the seat. Still, I’m so giddy with excitement over this big, bold, dramatic direction that I’ve decided to take my life in that I can’t pretend to stay bummed for long. I perk right back up a moment later. “How is Sabrina, anyway? Still a wildly successful author and cute as a button?”

Aiden grins—the smile of a man who is truly, deeply, incurably in love. It makes me sick with yearning. I want to know what that feels like.

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