Page 45 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

My chest twinges with the desire to reach out for him. To touch him. To hold him. The room feels heavy with shared memories, the weight of our fathers’ absences filling the silence between us. There’s also a sense of comfort in it, though. A sense that we’re not alone in this quiet grief.

“He didn’t just love the music,” I continue. “He loved his fans. He used to say he was singing for them, for the people who needed the music more than he did. You may have just been a kid, but I know he would’ve been so happy to know that you were so moved by his music.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“I mean it.” I let out a long breath, frowning down at Isabeau. “Gosh, I really miss him.”

Joe’s hand finds mine a second later. I glance up, caught in his steady, reassuring gaze.

“I miss my dad, too,” he says softly.

He doesn’t need to say anything more than that. He doesn’t need to explain himself. In turn, I know that I don’t need to explain myself to him, either. I nod, squeezing his hand in silent gratitude. We sit there for a little while longer, just two people who understand loss in a way that most people don’t.

Eventually, we make our way back inside, heading to the nest I’ve created for myself in the nook lined with window seats. Instead of excusing himself for the evening, Joe sits down beside me on the blanket-cushioned floor. He loosens his tie and wriggles around for a moment as he discards his tuxedo jacket.

Is this too far? Should we not be sitting so close to each other at such a late hour? Should I not be flicking my gaze down to his lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss him right now?

Who is Joe to me? A friend? An employee? A potential business partner? A guy who is nice enough to lie for my sake? A rough-hewn man who will dance a waltz with me in dazzling candlelight simply because he knew I wanted to?

Instead of broaching the subject of goodbyes, we drift into a comfortable silence. I can feel my eyes growing heavy, the warmth of the room lulling me into a deep sense of peace. The distant sound of the waves whispers across the dunes and slips inside, lulling me into sleepiness as I sink down on the floor. I don’t even care that my dress is tangled around my legs, or that I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so raw and unfiltered in front of another person.

The last things I remember are Joe’s hand resting beside mine and the quiet sounds of us breathing in sync, as if sharing a dream. He’s relaxed, drifting away as easily as I am.

Chapter Fourteen: Joe

On Sunday morning, I’m wrangling my boys through the grocery store, which mostly entails begging them to stop piling sugary cereal into the cart while I try to stick to the shopping list. Cody’s got one hand firmly on the cart and the other grabbing anything he can reach, and Eli’s practically hanging off the side, pitching his case for buying a soccer magazine while I maneuver around the aisles.

I shouldn’t have left her so early this morning without so much as a note, but she was sleeping so peacefully, curled up on her side and soaked in the pinkish light of dawn.

For a long moment, I found myself simply sitting there, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, and staring at her.

Maybe it was creepy of me, but she was just so… beautiful. Her blonde hair had come loose from the style she wore it in for the gala, the loose curls cascading around her head. That silvery dress she wore was tangled around her bare calves, shimmery and delicate gray like a dove’s feathers.

She looked like an angel. I couldn’t bring myself to disturb her.

It was also a little bit selfish of me to make that decision. If I woke her up, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d say to her. After the tender moment we shared, sitting on the cold floor of her garage while she showed me her father’s most prized possession, I knew there was no going back. I knew that Poppy Minton was the person I’ve been looking for all this time. Sweet, compassionate, sentimental. Tender and gentle-souled.

So, instead of going home, I decided to stay. And then we fell asleep. Nothing else happened. All we did was sleep. In truth, it was the best sleep I’ve gotten in a long time, even though I was sprawled on the pine flooring with little more than a woolen throw blanket as a cushion.

When the sunrise woke me, I knew I had to get back home to pick the boys up from their sleepover. Despite my realization about my blossoming feelings for Poppy, I knew I had to put them first.

“Dad, can wepleaseget Froot Loops?” Cody pleads, giving me eyes that could put a sad puppy dog out of business.

“We already have three boxes of cereal, kiddo,” I reply, shaking my head. “I thought you were on a Coco Puffs kick, anyway.”

“I don’t want Coco Puffs anymore.”

“Great! Then you can eat the Cinnamon Toast Crunch I bought you last week that you’ve since refused to eat!”

Cody gives me a deadpan look. I smile blithely at him.

With a quiet grumble, my nine-year-old gives up the fight and I breathe a sigh of relief that I won this battle relatively easily.

When we finally make it to the checkout, I’m half listening to Cody and Eli debate about the merits of various sour candies when something on the magazine rack catches my eye.

Right there, beneath the neon-yellow words of a tabloid’s gaudy title, is a photo ofme.

Me and Poppy.

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