Page 23 of Single Daddy Doctor Dreamy

"Something like that," Aiden replies, smirking. "You know me, always keeping them on their toes."

"And how are you handling Lucy living with Joel?" she asks, her tone casual but edged with curiosity.

Aiden stiffens slightly, gripping the steering wheel. "Honestly, Mom? I’m not sure how I feel about it. Joel’s a good guy, but it’s…problematic. Lucy’s my little sister. The last thing I want is for her to get hurt."

"You think Joel would hurt her?" she asks, her brow arching.

"Not intentionally, but he’s been through a lot. After Lina died he had a really tough time. I don’t know if he’s ready to get involved. And Lucy… well, she’s not exactly subtle about her feelings. I’m worried they’ll dive into something they’re not ready for."

Mom chuckles softly. "Oh, Aiden. You sound just like your father. Always so protective."

"Can you blame me?" Aiden says. "She’s the only sister I’ve got."

"And she’s stronger than you give her credit for," Mom counters. "Lucy’s got a good head on her shoulders. And Joel… well, I’ve always thought highly of him. If something’s meant to happen, it will. You just need to trust her."

Aiden sighs but doesn’t argue, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "We’ll see."

12

JOEL

Thanksgiving mornings have always been hectic, but this one has a strange, comforting rhythm to it. The house smells like cinnamon, nutmeg, and turkey already roasting in the oven. Lucy’s in the kitchen, a whirlwind of energy as she orchestrates side dishes, her mom’s famous pecan pie, and something that looks like an elaborate cranberry sauce. She’s singing. Well, more humming and occasionally belting out a random verse to a playlist I didn’t even know we had. It’s infectious, her happiness buzzing through the air, impossible to ignore.

"Joel, can you grab me the nutmeg?" she asks, her voice light but commanding.

I scan the spice rack, more cluttered than usual, thanks to this culinary operation. "Where is it?"

"Top shelf, behind the vanilla," she says, not even turning to look. She’s wielding a whisk like a weapon, furiously beating a mixture that’s some shade of orange.

"Got it," I say, handing it over. She brushes her fingers against mine as she takes it, a tiny, insignificant touch that somehow feels like a spark. I’m halfway through trying to analyze that when she interrupts.

"Joel, you’re in the way."

"I’m helping."

"You’re hovering. There’s a difference," she teases, her lips curving into a grin. "If you really want to help, peel those potatoes."

I glance at the pile on the counter. "That’s like a hundred potatoes."

"Twelve," she corrects. "I’ve counted."

I grab the peeler and settle in beside her, grumbling playfully under my breath. "Slave labor."

"Oh, please," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she moves to the stove. "You’re lucky I’m letting you in the kitchen at all."

"Letting me? I’m the one who’s been roasting the turkey since eight this morning."

"Which is why I’m giving you credit—but don’t let it go to your head."

It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Too easy. Every time she laughs, it’s like a tether pulling me closer, grounding me in this moment. I’m not used to this kind of connection—lighthearted, playful, free of the pressure I’m usually carrying.

"Joel!" Lucy shrieks, snapping me out of my thoughts. I look down, realizing too late that I’ve peeled half the potato straight into the cranberry sauce bowl.

"Oops."

She smacks my arm, laughing so hard she has to lean against the counter. "You’re a disaster."

"I’m efficient," I argue, though the evidence says otherwise.

---