Page 17 of Reckless Single Daddy

Sound familiar? It should.

I’ve spent days in my old room, slathering paint on this canvas, using different strokes and techniques to fuel my emotional turmoil. Despite my lack of trust in Cade and struggle to figure out what the hell he wants, he was right to say that inspiration always exists. Even when I feel like wringing his neck, I still want to paint with the colors that speak to his personality.

I step back from the canvas and roll my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I grumble to myself as I note all the colors have flowed beautifully together, only to create what may as well be a portrait of Cade’s face.

I sigh heavily as I stare at the newly painted canvas. I haven’t spoken to him since that day he convinced me to leave the bridal shower early. My absence was noticed, especially when I walked through the front door and got bombarded by Mia and my mom. I didn’t tell them that I had left with Cade. If they had known, maybe they wouldn’t have cared. But at the same time, I don’t want them to suspect anything is happening, especially when I don’t even know if there really is or not.

He’s been so confusing. One moment he’s flirty and playful, the next he’s got a stick up his ass. I get it. We both have Mike to think about, but who cares? We’re two grown adults, and we can make our own decisions. Everything I’ve learned about him has made me see that he isn’t just the playboy of Rose Valley.

He’s so much more than that.

And it seems like he doesn’t show this side of himself very often; in fact, I know he doesn’t, because if he did, he wouldn’t be single. He’s rich, but that’s not what makes him so special. He’s special because behind his tough exterior lies a good, charitable man. He’s caring and capable of love, but something is holding him back, and I refuse to believe it’s just because I’m his best friend’s little sister.

I groan in frustration. “Thanks, Cade, at least I got one piece completed. Too bad it was just another practice one,” I say to myself as I clean up the paint. I still have no clear concept of what my collection is. Lately, I’ve just been painting, hoping for the best and that I’ll finally find a concept I like and stick with.

But so far, nothing has stuck.

For the past several days, things have only gotten worse. I haven’t spoken to Cade since I walked out of his home. To be honest, I’m not even really sure why I was angry with him when I left. I saw a woman’s name pop up on his phone screen, and he got this deer-in-the-headlights sort of look. I think that said all it needed to. He may not be the guy everyone thinks he is, but once a playboy, always a playboy. I mean, I’ve watched Cade date around my entire childhood. I remember Mike once asking Cade when he’d settle on a girl, and Cade replied, “Not everyone is you and Stacy, Mike. I have to do a test run before I make a commitment.”

Ugh, gross.

Looking back on it, that’s the guy I had a crush on while I was growing up?

He doesn’t come off that way now, though. He’s well into his late thirties, so I’d hope that he no longer spoke about women that way, but even if he did, what does he owe me? We’re not together. We slept together once in a chance encounter—in a pub bathroom, for God’s sake—and that’s all there is to it. If he wants to be a free-loving man-child, then more power to him.

I take a deep breath and run my clean hand through my hair as I feel the growing tension settle over me. Getting mad at him won’t change anything. He’s made it quite clear that our one-night stand is exactly what it is—a one-time thing. I should accept that.

Wallowing isn’t going to make this any easier, either. I’m sure Cade isn’t doing any of that, so why should I? I’m not going to let a guy ruin my time with my family, nor am I going to allow him to dampen my creative spirit.

I get dressed and decide that sitting in my room isn’t going to magically drive my inspiration, so I decide to take a drive. I take my mom’s car keys and hastily leave the house, announcing I’m borrowing the car. I don’t even wait for an acknowledgment, knowing I’d be stopped and asked a million questions.

I make my way down the front steps and hop in. Admittedly, it’s been a while since I’ve been behind the wheel. In the city,you walk much of the time, and if a place isn’t within walking distance, public transportation will get you there. The city streets are too congested to own a car, and besides, it’s cheaper not to have one. The money I could put towards a car payment or insurance goes to rent and art supplies, so I call that financially sensible.

Nevertheless, I do miss driving. There is something freeing and independent about it. It’s crazy how something we take for granted can give us such freedom.

As I drive down the main street, I feel a sense of euphoria at the quiet streets and the canopy of trees curling over the road, like a blanket protecting me from the bright sun. I didn’t realize how badly I needed this. Sure, fresh air is always healthy, but being able to drive is a whole other experience.

I take a deep breath, already feeling better as the low hum of the radio station plays some random song from the ’80s. I don’t want to change any of my parents’ radio settings, so I let the chimes and synthetic instruments go. At least they don’t leave me completely in silence.

Soon, I’m lost in the beat and rhythm, and I slowly sway in the driver’s seat. Smiling, I hum along to it, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel, only to get blindsided by a knock on the window.

What?

I look around and notice I’m stopped in front of a gate, not just anyone’s gate—Cade’s gate in front of his estate in Meadow Falls.

Seriously? What is wrong with me?

I look out the window and see a man leaning down to the window, looking stern and cool. I roll the window down, and he nods at me. “Can I help you?” he asks.

I look straight ahead and tell myself there is no reason to come back here. I can just back up and run around, go home, and pretend I never subconsciously drove myself here, but what my brain tells me to do isn’t what my mouth does.

“I’m here to see Cade Hart,” I say, and he shakes his head.

“He isn’t here. Are you Sloane Bennett?” he asks, and I nod. “I just need to see some identification to confirm,” he adds, which leaves me baffled. Is Cade really that worried about someone sneaking out to Meadow Falls to come after him or something? I can’t tell if it’s a matter of being overprotective or outright paranoid.

I hand him my driver’s license, anyway, and he inspects it before returning it to me. “He told me to just let you in. You can park anywhere, but Mr. Hart gave clear instructions that you are to have as much or as little access to the estate as you see fit. Welcome and have a good day, ma’am,” he says before he steps back into the gatehouse, leaving me in awe.

Why am I still surprised by every new thing that happens in relation to Cade? Nothing should surprise me anymore.

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