Page 7 of Come to Papa

This morning’s run is a departure from subtlety. I’m a thirty-nine-year-old man with a deadline hovering over me like a black storm cloud. I refuse to let it drown me with missed opportunities and what-ifs. I never believed in love at first sight. The concept is incomprehensible. Yet, here I am, chasing a woman I’ve met once, and pleading with her to let me take her on a date.

“No, thank you.” Harlow hobbles away, taking tiny steps as she winces in pain. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

Undeterred by her confession, I sidle beside her, wrap my arm around her waist, and hold her steady, hoping she doesn’t fight. Harlow hesitates, insisting she can do it on her own, then gives up and leans into my ribs. I angle my head and brush my nose against her dark tousled hair, like the creeper I’ve become.

“Busy?” I ask, incredulously. I have a deadline looming over me like the Grim Reaper. We make time for the stuff that matters and I want to matter to her. "I'm not suggesting an all-day tour, just a meal. You break for dinner, don’t you?”

She hops by my side, holding me tightly as we head toward the street. “Why have you been following me? I thought it was a coincidence, but now I’m convinced you’re tracking my scent like a Carolina bloodhound. What gives? Are you worried I’ve done something sinister to Buster?”

“I trust you with Buster. I checked you out, and people consider you a female version of St. Francis. He’s fortunate to be in your care, but that’s not why—” I cut my words, annoyed I’m forced to admit I’m a stalker. “Yes, I followed you. I apologize, but I didn’t know your number and wanted to see you again. Every time I came close to approaching you, I missed my chance, or you ran in the opposite direction.”

She shrugs, seemingly unmoved by my revelation. “Why did you want to see me again?”

I narrow my gaze, unsure if she’s pulling my leg with false modesty. “Because you’re beautiful. Don’t you know how lovely you are? You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met.”

Her hazel eyes widen with disbelief, and she struggles to reply. “I’m not that kind of girl, Felix.”

“What kind of girl?” I stare, confused, hoping she won’t tell me she isn’t into men.

“I’m the strange girl guys like you make fun of behind my back. I live with ten cats and wear cat shirts.” Harlow stops talking and points to the clever cat adorning the front of her shirt. “I’m not the kind of girl who dresses up for dates with a man twice her age. I looked you up. You’re from a big city, slumming it on the islands for inspiration. I’m from a small town in Appalachia. I never finished college, and I’m not looking for a good time.” She wiggles out from my embrace and tries to stand on her own. Her angry expression turns into amusement as she rakes her fingers down the length of her torso. “Believe me. You don’t want this.”

Without thinking, I nod enthusiastically. “Believe me, I do.”

She shakes her head. “You only think you do. I’m set in my ways, and I’d drive you crazy. No man wants to live with a houseful of cats, and I accept that it makes me incredibly unmarketable. I resigned myself to the single life long ago. You may go.” She waves her fingers, brushing me away like a nuisance fly.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what I want? And I never mentioned wedding vows, babies, and jet skiing off into the sunset. I’d just like to get to know you better. There aren’t a whole hell of a lot of single people on the island.” I blatantly lie and place her on a bench near the edge of the street.

Those things are precisely what I want. Although, I’m willing to forgo the jet skis.

I reach for my phone and tap on my rideshare app. Only a handful of Uber drivers are on the island, but it’s still slow enough to require waiting a couple of minutes. A black Prius pulls up seconds later. Business must be horrible.

“What are you doing? I’d just like to head home. My ankle feels better already.” She tilts her head, curiosity twisting her features. I’m not the only liar. There's no way she feels better so quickly.

“I’m calling a car to take you home. Then we’ll set up a time to meet for dinner,” I announce boldly, pretending not to notice her pursed lips and pronounced frown. Wooing her won’t be easy, but I have a suspicion she might respond to a brazen approach.

“I can’t go on a date so last minute. I have responsibilities,” Harlow protests as I lift her into my arms and carry her to the car.

“Fine, I’ll head over early and help you feed your cats. Problem solved.”

7

“Tell me about Sycamore Mountain. It sounds like an interesting place.” Felix walks by my side, protecting me against nonexistent traffic as he guides me on the short walk from his car to Silver Belles Diner. It’s casual, cozy, and right up my alley.

“It isn’t,” I assure him, fidgeting wildly as I try to come across as indifferent and demure.

There’s a possibility he considers this outing a date. He made reservations at the Candy Cane Country Club, the only fine dining establishment on the island open offseason, but I nixed that as soon as he brought it up. A place like that reeks of romance, and this isn’t supposed to be a date.

Felix posed it as something less romantic. We're two people sharing a meal to discuss Buster’s ongoing care. I’m not buying it. He knew my boy had been out there for months and never tried to take him home to give him a better life. Why is he so interested now?

“There’s nothing much to tell. I was born and raised there by my parents, who were born and raised there. Most of my family lives in North Carolina, but I wanted something different, so here I am.” I hate small talk, but I like him—far more than I want to. He's easy on the eyes, and I can tell he’s smart as a whip. Intelligent men have always been my catnip. Of course, it would be nice if I didn't feel like a teenage girl standing next to a hot English professor who spends his free time at the gym. But I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m grateful someone dragged me out of the house.

“Why did you move here? If you hate small-town life, why would you flee to an even smaller place?” he asks as he holds the door open and ushers us into the diner. It’s a fair question, but I’m not entirely comfortable answering. Who moves to an island to rescue cats?

That isn’t the kind of thing a man like Felix would understand.

This isn’t my first date. After all, I’m twenty-one. But Felix Mercer is an honest-to-goodness man. I’ve only ever been out with boys.

My last date was three years ago, just after high school graduation. We were kids, eighteen, and ready to take on the world. He was leaving Sycamore Mountain for the Navy and wanted me to give him some lasting memories before he left. I declined and quickly earned a reputation as a prude.

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