Page 53 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

“Waiting for me? Haven’t you been gone for days now?”

I regret the words almost instantly. But if Gabe is wickedly amused by the fact that I’ve been tracking his absence, he doesn’t show it.

He simply says, “I need to ask you something.”

I frown. “What is it? Is Wren okay?”

His brow furrows, as if in confusion. “Yes, she’s—Wren is fine. It’s about a project I’ve been working on. A composition for a film score. I, uh… I could use your help.”

I gape at him. Gabe Sterling, asking for myhelp? With afilm score?

The idea is so absurd that I almost laugh, but the seriousness in his eyes stops me.

“My help?” I echo.

“Yeah,” he says, rising to his feet. His hair is all mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it. He used to do that all the time in school when he was overwhelmed. “I’ve got this melody I’m working with, but something is missing. I think your perspective could make it… better.”

I cross my arms, studying him. “Why me? I don’t know anything about music composition.”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “But you’re a natural musician. And I can’t get it right on my own, so I think that maybe the solution might be found in the two of us combining forces—for once.”

“I can’t play, though.” I cringe as I say it. Even if I intend to follow the doctor’s orders, it’s going to be difficult. “No more than thirty minutes a day, really, but I shouldn’t play at all.”

“You don’t have to play,” he says quickly. “Just listen. Give me your thoughts. Please.”

Please. When has he ever used that word with me?

I’m tempted to say no, purely out of habit. Being difficult and contrarian with him is second nature, even after all this time.

But I think I want things to be different now.

“Okay,” I say. “I can try to help.”

He deflates with relief. “Thank you.”

As we step inside, my stomach flips with anticipation. I may be determined to stay on the same path I’ve been walking since childhood, but I can’t help thinking that the earth beneath me is shifting and churning anew, blossoming with something strange and wonderful.

Chapter Eighteen: Gabe

Alina stands just inside the door to the music room, clutching her violin case as though she’s not entirely convinced she should be here. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, the way they usually are when she’s thinking too many thoughts at once.

I watch her gaze dart around the space, landing on the electric piano, the mess of sheet music, and—lastly—me.

“So,” she says, lifting an eyebrow. “Where do you want me?”

The question lingers in the air longer than it should.

Where do I want her? Inexplicably, I want her closer. I want to reach out and find out if her hair is as soft as it looks. I want to close the distance between us out of curiosity and strange desire, rather than vehemence and frustration. We’ve gotten in each other’s faces before, but it was only ever when we were bickering, battling it out.

The closeness I’m beginning to crave where Alina is concerned is different than that.

It’s not important right now, though. It’s not important at all. There’s no way Alina would ever feel the same way.

I clear my throat, gesturing toward the chair next to the piano stool.

“You can set up there. There’s really no pressure to play, though. If you’d rather just give feedback, that also works. I just think the score could use a violinist’s touch.”

“But you’re a violinist.”

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