Page 3 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

“Almost there,” Aiden murmurs.

We turn onto a road so narrow that I can hardly believe it’s two-way. It’s lined with spindly pine trees. I smell salty brine on the breeze even with the windows closed.

Then, just when I’m sure that this road is going to curve out onto an oceanside highway, Aiden takes a left onto a hidden drive that I didn’t even notice. I see a flash of an old wooden sign that readsMermaid Shores, with a rudimentary arrow carved into it.

This road is even narrower, and even more densely lined with trees.

I sit up a little straighter in the passenger seat, butterflies dancing in my stomach as a strange sensation washes over me. It feels like the warmth of the summer sun embracing you after you’ve been shivering inside an overly air-conditioned place for too long. Which doesn’t make sense, because it’s only May and Aiden’s windows are pretty darkly tinted.

I glance over at him. He grins.

“I’ll never get used to that,” he says.

“You felt that, too?”

“I feel it every time I come back to Mermaid Shores. I told you, Poppy. It’s a special place.”

I shrug off this mystical nonsense. I’m too practical to fall for that kind of stuff. Mermaid Shores might be special to the people who call it home, but I’m sure it’s a normal seaside town just like any other.

Except, the comforting warmth doesn’t leave me as the narrow lane ends at a fork, and Aiden turns right onto an adorable main street lined with kitschy souvenir shops, quirky eateries, and all kinds of other interesting places of business. There’s a candy shop with an old-fashioned machine pulling taffy in the window, and another shop that seems to specialize primarily in weird-flavored popcorn. As Aiden drives by, I notice the popcorn flavor of the day is apparently something calledMonster Mash.

“Tourist season is just beginning, so it’s not crazy busy yet,” Aiden tells me. “In a couple of weeks, though, this place will be crowded with people.”

I hum in acknowledgement, too enamored with the scenery—rows of charming brick storefronts on one side of the street and sand dunes unfurling into a pleasant beach on the other—to contribute much to the conversation.

Aiden did tell me that Mermaid Shores’ usual population of tourists is a little different than other places. It’s considered a hidden gem for all manner of VIPs, including celebrities, diplomats, and old-money types. At the same time, however, it has a robust population of locals who keep the town running all year-round.

After a brief stretch of roadway, Main Street gives way to a curving lane that snakes along the outer edge of the beach. The coastline is guarded from the road by salt-smoothed wooden fencing, tufts of beach grass, and cedar-shingled cottages sitting pretty against the backdrop.

It’s unbearably adorable.

I’m giddy by the time Aiden pulls into the gravel driveway of a traditional cottage with white siding, light green shutters, and a wraparound porch. It’s a three-bedroom, four-bathroom abode built a few decades ago and updated most recently about fifteen years ago. It’s cute, yet not entirely modern enough for my tastes, but that was part of the appeal.

Just like I told the real estate agent, I’m looking for something withpotential.Something that has a good foundation and that I can make all my own.

In fact, I already have a meeting with a general contractor and an interior designer bright and early tomorrow morning. I don’t like to waste time.

With a delighted squeal, I hop out of the vehicle and skip up to the front porch. The wood groans underfoot and the paint is chipped, but I’m sure those things can be fixed easily. The empty plant pots hanging from the roof of the porch can be taken care of by the landscapers I plan to hire, and the rusted wind chimes dangling near the front door can be replaced in a heartbeat.

Honestly, I’ve been desperate for a project. An excuse to get my hands dirty for the first time in my life. I want to do something real. I want to create something tangible.

I want to feel like I actually have a purpose.

“You want to come in?” I call to Aiden, who is very kindly hauling my suitcase out of the trunk.

“You’re only inviting me inside so that I haul this huge thing in there for you.”

I beam at him. “You know me so well, Aiden Marx.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s a playful gesture. He’s chivalrous down to his core, and I know for a fact that he wouldn’t let me lug my overweight suitcase across the lawn and up the porch steps by myself.

I dig around in my purse for the keys, which the agent mailed to me when the paperwork was all officially signed.

An excited chill goes down my spine as the lock gives way under my hand. The doorknob turns with a satisfyingthunk,and then the door moans in welcome as it swings open for us.

We’re greeted by an airy, sunlight foyer. A traditional staircase leads directly to the second-floor landing, with ugly carpeting that I can’t wait to have ripped up.

The previous owners left some basic furniture behind—mostly a few mahogany antiques that added to the value of the property. I’ll be keeping most of it, but the place is still pretty bare. I don’t even have a bed yet. Amazon is supposed to be delivering an air mattress and some bedding to my front door at some point this afternoon.

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