Page 43 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

Joe’s expression shifts, flickering with something unreadable for a moment before he finally decides on a stiff smile. “Mission accomplished, then.”

After Percy’s exit, the air in the room feels lighter and easier to breathe.

And yet… I no longer want to be here. I want to take this dress off. I want to kick off my heels and feel the cool sand squishing between my toes. I want to spend time with Joe somewhere that he doesn’t feel like a fish out of water, somewhere that we can both be comfortable.

I guide him over to the reception table so that I can leave a sizable donation, grateful for a tangible reminder of why I came to this event in the first place. There’s something grounding about actually giving something, about making a real difference beyond all the glitz and noise of the night. I wonder if Percy has even bothered to write a check, or if he’s going to spend the rest of the evening throwing a hissy fit and fussing over his stupid tie.

Joe hangs back while I sign my name at the bottom of a check and then hand it over to the foundation representative.

When I’m done, I step back toward him. “I’m ready to go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

The drive back to the cottage is quiet, the winding road bathed in moonlight. I watch Joe’s hands on the wheel, relaxed but steady. There’s a calmness about him that settles over me like a warm blanket. The gala and all its pressures are behind us now,and the silence, broken only by the hum of his truck’s engine, makes the night feel more like a dream than reality.

As we pull up to the cottage, I catch myself hesitating, not quite ready for the night to end. The memory of us dancing and the weight of our earlier conversation hangs in the air, lingering.

Nobody has ever asked me what I wanted tobebefore. They’ve always just taken me at face value, never bothered to look any deeper. For my entire life, I’ve been Jack Minton’s tragically orphaned daughter. A pampered princess with a dark backstory, but enough shiny money to make up for the shadows.

Joe doesn’t see me that way. It sounds pathetic, but I think he might be the only person who has ever seen me as a human with my own thoughts and feelings and ambitions. Other than my dad, of course. Deb, too. And Aiden.

The point is, that one small question he asked me meant the world, and I don’t really know how to express that to him. All I know is that I want to keep sharing parts of myself with him, if only because I know it will earn me more pieces of him in turn.

“Do you want to come in for coffee?” I ask.

He hesitates for a moment, then twists the key in the ignition to shut the engine off. “Sure.”

In silence, we walk to the door.

Inside, we head toward the back of the house, where the moonlight-drenched conservatory is one of the only places in the house that serves as an escape from the demolished, half-finished chaos. I slip off my heels once we’re away from the treacherous terrain that dominates the rest of the job site at the moment, relishing the feeling of smooth, unmarred hardwood under my feet.

“I actually just realized something,” I say, biting my lip.

“Hm?” Joe seems a little distracted, glancing around the mostly empty room, still strewn with various paint samples.

“I don’t have any coffee.”

Joe laughs. “Right. You barely have a kitchen.”

“I don’t know how I forgot.”

He shrugs.

Naturally, this means that he doesn’t have any more reason to stay. It’s late, anyway. We may have only spent an hour or so at the gala, but it’s already half past ten, and he probably wants to get back to his own house. His own life.

Despite that, I can’t bring myself to let go of him yet.

“I have an idea for the color scheme in the main living room.”

It’s more of a conversation for Misha, but Joe is nice enough to pretend to look intrigued. “Oh?”

I nod. “It’s, um—well, it’s hard to explain. I think I’d have to show you.”

“Now I’m really curious.”

I slip my heels back on and gesture for him to follow me through the dark house. I make my way through the skeleton that my kitchen has become and open the side door for the garage. Flicking on the lights, I kick off my shoes again and hitch up the long skirt of my dress as I approach the boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. The smooth concrete is cold underfoot, and I probably shouldn’t be doing this barefoot, but I don’t care.

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