Page 96 of Single Chance

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Perfect,” Presley agreed.

So it was settled.

Presley and Chloe would make the Nashville run for furniture while I packed all my belongings at Chance’s and tried to figure out what to say to Sam.

The Chance romance chapter had turned out to be a very short, heartbreaking one, but now it was time for the next one. I’d be okay eventually. I’d already made it through a lot.

I reminded myself I’d learned strength from my beloved Gram. Strength and love. My baby would feel that love every day of their life and never doubt they were adored and cherished.

Sadly for him—and me—Chance would miss out on my love, but he’d made his choice.

Chapter Thirty

Chance

Idrove into my garage after seven Tuesday evening and felt a pang at the empty bay next to mine. After killing the engine, I sat there in the dark, wondering how the hell I’d gotten so used to Rowan’s presence in so little time.

When she’d packed up everything and left Sunday evening, I’d been stunned at both her haste to get out and that she’d found a place to go so quickly. I still didn’t know where she was staying and refused to ask, but it was killing me not to know. Killing me more not to have her in my home.

Though we’d both been at work yesterday and today, Chloe had Rowan working closely with her on a project. Was it intentional to keep her from having to talk to me? I had no way of knowing and pretended it didn’t matter.

Thinking about our middle-of-the-night conversation made me sick to my stomach. I’d been a complete asshole. The panic attack I’d had before it didn’t excuse anything. The expression on her face in that instant when she’d accepted I wouldn’t change my mind—of hurt, disbelief, and disappointment—was seared into my brain. I hated myself for making her feel thatway, especially knowing how much grief and sadness she’d been through so recently with her grandmother.

And fuck was I sick of feeling like this, but I didn’t know a way around it.

I got out of my SUV and made my way inside, dreading another quiet night alone. When I entered the house, the first thing I noticed was the smell of food cooking, maybe Italian. I hurried into the kitchen, wondering if Rowan was back.

“Hi, Dad.”

Of course Rowan wasn’t back. Why the hell would she come back here? I’d made sure of that.

“Sam.” I hoped that half-second of disappointment that she wasn’t Rowan didn’t show.

What kind of dad did that make me? Of course I was happy to see my daughter, particularly because she seemed warm instead of sullen.

“What’s going on?” I asked, confused.

My daughter took a steaming, bubbling casserole dish that smelled like heaven out of the oven. “I made lasagna. Rowan gave me her Gram’s recipe.”

I looked from her to the pan and back. “You made lasagna? From scratch?”

Sam used to help me cook when she was younger, but I couldn’t remember the last time she’d willingly made a meal for anyone other than herself.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked, perplexed.

“Could you get us some plates? You got home just in time.”

Still trying to make sense of this welcome surprise, I grabbed plates, forks, and napkins and put them on the table. Sam carried the pan to the table with two oven mitts and set it on a trivet. She went back to the kitchen, picked up a slotted spatula, returned to the table, and sat down.

I stood behind my place, probably with my jaw gaping.

“Do you want to eat?” she asked, snapping me out of my stupor.

I sat down. “Lasagna’s a lot of work. Doesn’t it take a couple of hours?”

“I started around five. I was worried it wouldn’t be ready when you got home, but then you worked late.” She cut generous squares of pasta and gestured to me to move my plate closer to the pan. When I did, she served me, her smile seeming unsure.

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