Page 46 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

At the gala, clear as day.

I stare at the cover, my stomach dropping.

Vaguely, I remember the brief stretch of carpeting outside the gala, where various guests were posing to have their pictures taken in front of the St. Cecilia’s logo backdrop. Me and Poppy had breezed right past that, neither of us interested in flash photography at the time.

Or so we thought.

In the photograph, Poppy is grinning up at me, her silvery dress draped around her like she was born to wear it. Beside her, smiling in a way I didn’t even know Icouldsmile anymore, I look like a love-struck fool. The angle is a little awkward, meaning that whoever snapped the photo must have done it in a brief opportune moment when we were mostly facing their direction.

“Poppy Minton’s New Beau? Rock ’n’ Roll Heiress Seen Cozy with Mystery Man at Boston Gala!”

I freeze, barely able to breathe, as I take in the rest of the cover. There’s a close-up of Poppy’s hand on my arm… and another tinier shot of us dancing. I hadn’t even noticed any cameras aimed in our direction while we waltzed.

I feel the blood rush to my face, a sick combination of embarrassment and fear twisting my gut. It didn’t even cross my mind that someone might’ve taken photos of us that night, let alone sold them to some trashy tabloid. I don’t want any part of this world—the one that would drag someone’s private life into the open like this. I don’t want my life, or my boys’ lives, up for public display.

“Dad?” Eli tugs at my sleeve, looking concerned. “What’s wrong?”

I clear my throat, forcing a smile. “Nothing, buddy. Let’s just get this stuff paid for and head home, alright?”

I reach for the tabloid, stuffing it behind a couple other magazines so the boys won’t see it. But I can’t help glancing backat it, a knot forming in my chest. Cody tilts his head, looking at me quizzically, but thankfully doesn’t ask about it. I pay quickly, guiding the boys to the truck, and try to think of a solution.

Can I sue the tabloid? Surely, it isn’t legal to just publish photos of people without their consent, right?

I should’ve purchased it. Should’ve purchased all of them, actually, so that at least nobody else moving through the store could see it. I shouldn’t have left it behind, not with the tacky, bold-face promise the tabloid made aboutmore details about Poppy’s mysterious blue-collar heartthrob inside!

I grip the steering wheel tightly. Blue-collar heartthrob. How do they even know that much about me? Did they talk to someone at the party?

The boys chatter away in the backseat as I drive, oblivious to the turmoil churning inside me.

Like an idiot—and despite the conversation we shared last night—I’d almost forgotten that Poppy is famous. Now, I’m painfully reminded of the world she’s a part of. The kind of world where any moment of her life can be snatched up and turned into a headline. The one where strangers can take our picture and splash it across magazine covers. The one where I’m aselling point, a marketable tool that helps to sell a tabloid.

My stomach clenches at the thought. What if they find out who I am? What if they find out where I live, or where my boys go to school?

I can’t have that kind of attention. It’s not safe.

When Poppy suggested posting that harmless photo of our entwined hands on Instagram, I didn’t think anything of it. My face wasn’t in it, and there was no way to identify who I was from just my hand and my forearm alone.

This is different, though. A stranger has bought and sold my likeness. It may be something that Poppy is used to, but Isuddenly feel like I need to pull over on the side of the road and empty the contents of my stomach.

I take a deep breath, doing my best to keep my face calm, but every fiber of me wants to drive back to the store, rip that magazine to shreds, and pretend none of it happened.

When we pull into the driveway, I manage to keep up the act as I usher the boys inside. I set them up with an afternoon snack, my mind racing as they dig into their food, chatting and oblivious to my distraction. It’s not until they’re occupied with their usual Sunday routine—Eli with his soccer drills outside, Cody lost in his latest book—that I let myself exhale.

I head to the kitchen, trying to figure out my next move.

I grab my phone and scroll to Poppy’s number, my finger hovering over the call button. Part of me wants to yell at her, to ask why she didn’t warn me that being with her that night might lead to this kind of exposure.

But I know it’s not her fault. She didn’t invite this, and she probably hates it as much as I do. In fact, didn’t she admit to me how hard it was for her to grow up in the spotlight in the aftermath of her father’s death? She didn’t ask for the fame or the attention, and certainly not for Percy, who’s probably gloating somewhere over thisscandalousnews. For him, this is probably just another day. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I should’ve known better than to get involved. I should’ve kept my distance.

I toss my phone down onto the counter, rubbing a hand over my face. The renovations on her place are nearly finished anyway. Just another month, or maybe less if I really push the crew. I can keep things professional, wrap up the project, and make sure the lines don’t blur again.

Because, as much as I might like spending time with her, and as much as she understands things about me that no one else ever has, I can’t have this in my life. Not with the boys. Not withour quiet life here. I’ve tried so hard to avoid chaos for them. Tried so hard to make sure that they never felt the strain or grief of losing their mother so young that they can’t even remember her.

The last thing I want to do is put them in a situation where they can get hurt.

I shake my head to push these thoughts away. For now, I’ll just make sure this doesn’t go any further. One tabloid photo and a stupid article composed of guesswork is a nightmare, but it’s not the end of the world. It’s just a sign that I need to take a step back and give myself a reality check.

---