Page 55 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

“That was… good,” she murmurs.

“Good?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. A disbelieving laugh wheezes out of me. “Is that all? Did you even hear yourself?”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. My gaze gets caught there for longer than it should.

“Fine. It was better than good. But you still need to fix the transitions. The violin can’t just be a Band-Aid that you slap onto it. Prettiness doesn’t negate untidiness.”

I chuckle, leaning back in the stool. “Noted.”

Her smile fades, and she glances at the sheet music. “It’s weird. Playing like this.”

“Like this?”

“Like… for fun. I mean, I love being in the orchestra, and I do prefer performing pieces written by others. I don’t think I’ll ever be interested in writing my own music, but I understand why you gravitated toward it. You’re good at it.”

“Was that a compliment?”

She sighs, letting her violin rest in her lap. Her fingers flex automatically, working out what I’m sure is that persistent ache that landed her on a medical leave in the first place.

“Yes, Gabe. That was a compliment. You’re a fantastic composer. You already know that. You were nominated for a Grammy, after all.”

I can’t help smirking, amused by how weird it is to hear something nice fall from her lips where I’m concerned. “I didn’t win, though.”

“You should have.”

My eyebrows shoot up of their own accord. “Oh?”

Alina purses her lips and glances away. “I may or may not have watchedThe Bone Whispererrecently.”

“I didn’t know you liked action movies.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. The sound of her laughter is such a rare sound. Part of me wishes I could bottle it up and pour it into a song.

“I don’t. I watched it purely so that I could see for myself if you’re a Hollywood sellout or genuinely talented.”

I snort. “And?”

“And you’re obviously talented, Gabe. You always have been.”

“That means a lot, especially coming from you.”

She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she wants to smile.

The moment stretches on, comfortable in a way that I hadn’t anticipated would ever be possible between us. Alina packs her violin away carefully and leans back in her chair, her gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the faint sound of children’s laughter drifts in, the symphony of Wren and some local kids playing in the front yard.

“You’re a really good father,” Alina says suddenly, quietly.

The comment catches me off guard. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugs, still looking out the window. “Wren adores you. And she’s clearly very happy. Very intelligent, too. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Her words mean more to me than I think she realizes. For whatever reason, Alina’s opinion of me carries a lot of weight.

“Thank you. That’s… kind of you to say.”

Silence settles over us again, but it’s not uncomfortable. I find myself studying her—the way the fading sunlight catches in her hair, the way her hands rest loosely in her lap. She looks different than I remember. Not just because she’s not holding her violin anymore, but because her usual guardedness seems to have slipped away, leaving something softer in its place.

“What?” she asks, catching my stare.

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