Page 38 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

I take a sip of wine and try to ignore the knot of nerves tightening in my stomach.

This was a mistake. I should’ve come up with an excuse. I should have rejected the invitation outright, or found the strength to skip it entirely without giving a heads-up. The problem is, Wren is the one who invited me. And, clearly, Gabe wasn’t willing to say no to her. I couldn’t bring myself to be the one to let her down. She’s just so… cute.

I’ve never given much thought to whether or not I’d like to become a mother one day. It always seemed like a distant possibility that I could revisit later in life, even as I turned thirty and felt my biological clock starting to tick. Children never seemed like a priority. Nor did the first step of that: marriage.

Now, however, I find myself thinking that it would be nice. Nice to have a home filled with people I love. A family of my own. Children that I would encourage to follow their whims with frivolous carelessness, rather than drilling them into cruel devotion by forcing them to devote their every waking moment to their hobbies.

I wouldn’t be like my parents.

And it could be nice to have the chance to do better than them.

Except, kids aren’t a reasonable possibility for me. By the time I return from my medical leave, I’ll have to focus on perfecting my skills and technique all over again. I’ll also have to focus on ensuring I’m caring for my body as attentively as possible so that this doesn’t happen again.

When will I ever have time to date? To fall in love? To plan a wedding? To be pregnant and have a baby?

Maybe that’s just not for me. Maybe, in another life, I can explore that possibility. In this life, I’m Alina Sokolov the violinist, and nothing more.

Alina Sokolov, Gabe’s rival of many years and, now, begrudging dinner guest.

Wren’s hopeful face had been impossible to resist. Plus, when I brought it up to Karina and Andy, the former got a wicked glint in her eyes that told me she was too intrigued by this situation to help me find a way out of it.

“It’ll be fun,” she said, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Besides, it’s just dinner. What’s the worst that could happen?”

A million worst-case scenarios had immediately sprung to mind when she asked that question, yet here I am, sitting at Gabe Sterling’s dining table, about to share a meal with him and his ridiculously charming daughter.

“Alina, do you like cats?”

Wren’s question pulls me out of my thoughts. I blink and glance over at her, startled by the intensity of her gaze. Brilliantly green, just like her father’s.

“Uh, yes. I do,” I say, forcing a smile.

Her face lights up. “Me too! I want to get one, but Daddy says no because he’s allergic.”

“Not allergic,” Gabe corrects from the kitchen, his voice calm but firm. “I’m just not a fan of fur everywhere.”

Wren rolls her eyes dramatically, eliciting a laugh from Karina.

“They’re worth it,” I tell her, leaning in slightly. For some reason, I want to be on her good side. “Even if you have to vacuum a little more often.”

“Plus, some cats are hairless,” Karina adds. “Maybe you could find one of those at a local shelter.”

“See?” Wren says triumphantly, turning to glare at her father. “Alina and Karina agree with me!”

“I’m outnumbered,” he mutters, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I have a feeling he’d rocket into space and bottle starlight if his daughter asked him to.

Watching the way he interacts with Wren is disarming. He’s patient, attentive, and clearly adores her. It’s a stark contrast to the sharp-edged, competitive boy I knew at Juilliard.

Maybe he’s really changed.

Or maybe I’m seeing a side of him that I was too blind, or too stubborn, to notice before.

“Dinner is served,” Gabe announces, setting a platter of grilled chicken and asparagus in the center of the table.

The meal is simple but, annoyingly, beautifully prepared. Everything is golden and glistening, and it genuinely looks like the kind of spread you’d expect from a food magazine.Summer barbecue elegance,they might call it.

It’s infuriating.

I don’t need to hate him this much, of course. In fact, it’s taking up quite a lot of energy to continue despising every single thing he does. It’s more of a habit than anything else at this point.

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