Page 54 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“It is,” I say, and somehow we’re both smiling down into our wine.
“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands once, the way he must when he has to cut through a room full of noise. “Let me show you the guest room.”
He leads me past the staircase. Family photos hang in a neat grid along the wall: Brick missing his front teeth on a pier; a sunset over a Miami skyline; Rebecca in a sundress on a boardwalk, laughing at something beyond the frame. I don’t linger. I don’t need to. I already understand why he shipped a whole life here—why he kept the colors and textures that used to live around her. Keeping a home is its own kind of mourning.
The guest room is fresh white with a blue quilt, palm-print pillowcases, and that old map of Biscayne Bay over the dresser. He opens the closet. “Fresh towels on the shelf. Lock on the door works. Window latches are new.”
“You had window latches installed?” I ask.
“Last week.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “After your first run-in with Harold, I—prepared.”
The birds in my chest do another ridiculous flutter. “Thanks.”
We drift back to the living room, where the driftwood bowl glows soft under the lamp. I set my glass down. “One more ground rule.”
“Shoot.”
“If I wake up early, I’m making breakfast. No arguments.”
“You own a diner.”
“Exactly.” I grin. “You’ll survive my pancakes.”
He groans. “Please don’t say the P-word in this house. Brick will put it in the custody agreement.”
We’re both laughing when Brick reappears on the landing in pajama shorts, hair sticking up like a dandelion. “Dad?”
“Everything’s okay, bud,” Asher says, turning. “Jasmine’s going to hang out here for a while.”
Brick blinks down at us, then at me. “Can we have scones for breakfast?”
I press a hand to my heart. “My favorite Vaughn speaks truth.”
He gives a sleepy thumbs-up and vanishes again.
After the house goes quiet, the living room exhales with us. Outside, the desert night hums against the windows. Inside, the Miami lifeguard stand keeps its candy-colored vigil, the longboard leans like a calm old friend, and the driftwood bowl holds a pocket tide.
“You’ll be safe here,” Asher says.
For the first time all night, I believe it. I believe him.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Then I’ll be brave here.”
Chapter seventeen
Asher
Harold Swanson’s house is even bigger than I imagined it would be. The foyer alone is twice my living room—and that’s saying a lot. When his steward led me to what I’ve come to learn is his mini lounge, I knew this guy could not possibly have good intentions for this town. If he’s allowed to, he’ll ruin Golden Heights and send it crashing completely into the ground.
“Champagne?” the steward asks, after offering me a seat. “Mr. Swanson has them delivered straight from Port Novo.”
“I bet he does,” I say under my breath.
“Yes?”
“It’s fine,” I add, forcing a polite smile. “I’d rather have some water.”
Better water than some grossly expensive imported champagne.
