Page 64 of The Single Dad Project

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said, shifting his attention to the television and the baseball game that played on the screen. Lifting his bottle, he downed a long, desperate sip, and only when he was certain he had his face under control did he look at her again. He reached deep for the casual humor they’d shared and grasped it like a drowning man about to go under. “She’s a pro, and well, you’re—” he arched an eyebrow “—an amateur.”

She scowled. “I would take offense to that if it wasn’t true. So I can’t.”

Chuckling, he leaned forward and set the nearly empty beer bottle on the coffee table.

“Thanks again for tonight. For staying late with her, cooking dinner, doing her hair, bedtime...” He loosed a puff of breath. “You went over and beyond what you signed up for in helping me out.”

“I didn’t mind—don’t mind. Honestly,” she said, waving off his words. “I had fun with her today. I know I’ve told you this before, but she’s a wonderful little girl. Funny. Well behaved. Curious. And so damn smart.” She shook her head, smiling. “You’re doing an amazing job with her, Adam.”

“Yeah, you’ve said it before, but I’m not too proud to admit that it feels good hearing it. I...worry if I’m giving her enough. Enough time, attention, of what she needs. Like you doing her hair, for example.” He flipped his hands, staring down at his palms. “My skills and catalog of styles are very limited. They begin and end at ponytails.” Another chuckle, but this one rueful and full of the things he couldn’t say.

Like, how he tried to compensate for Jennifer’s being absent. But in some areas, he just made do, and Justine was the one shortchanged.

“I think you should cut yourself some slack,” Flo murmured. “Even in households where both parents are present, every day, everything isn’t perfect. My sister-in-law grew up in a home with a mother and a father, and because of circumstances there, felt emotionally neglected and unloved. They’re okay now, but it required healing and a slow rebuilding of their relationship years after the fact. Jussy might be a child of divorced parents, but she’s not being raised in an environment that’s devoid of love, encouragement and acceptance. I’m not saying not having her mother here doesn’t affect her. But I am saying she wouldn’t be such a confident, inquisitive child if she wasn’t secure in your love and knew it’s her safety net.”

He had to glance away from the sincerity gleaming in those beautiful eyes. From the lips that spoke assurances that soothed his heart and hardened his cock.

God, he could use another beer. He picked up the bottle again, just giving his hands something to hold so they wouldn’t grab her.

“That’s one of my main worries,” he confessed in a low, hoarse voice that rubbed like grit over his throat. “Are we—my ex-wife and I—fucking her up? Because of our selfishness...because we couldn’t get it together...are we messing this up for her? What kind of father am I when I can’t protect my baby from hurt? A hurt we’re responsible for.”

“I’m sorry, why didn’t you tell me you were bitten by a radioactive spider? That seems like something that should have been disclosed before I offered to babysit for you.”

He stared at her, equal parts perplexed and irritated. Then he noted her small smile, and though the puzzlement remained, the irritation faded.

“I never claimed to be Spider-Man or any superhero.”

“You sure?” She tilted her head. “Because the way you were talking about protecting her from everything that could hurt her, I wasn’t sure. Of course, I’ve never been a parent, but even I know that’s an impossibility. You can do your absolute best, and you’ll still never be able to keep her from all harm. And thank goodness, right? I’m no masochist, but it’s the hurts, the disappointments and the failures that shape us as much as the joys, victories and wonderful times in our lives. She’ll never know she’s capable of being strong or independent if she doesn’t experience one right alongside the other.

“You’re not perfect. You won’t always be there to shield or defend her. But then again, she’d never grow in her own power and voice if you were.” She snagged his beer, tipped it to her mouth and disappeared the little bit left in there. Lowering it, she rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip and pointed the bottle at him. “And whether you can fashion the perfect ponytail has nothing to do with how much she loves you or measures your love for her. Believe me. While I might not be a parent, I was in her place before, and I’m speaking from experience.”

So many things crowded toward the base of his throat, shoving and vying to be the first to escape.

Thank you for that.

Are you sure?

I need you.

That last one he couldn’t afford to loose. It revealed too much. Because as much as he longed to deny it, he didn’t only need her in the physical sense.

So he said nothing, except... “Another beer?”

Understanding flickered in her eyes, but she didn’t call him on his sudden shift in subject.

“No, thanks,” she said.

With a nod, he rose, went to the kitchen and returned moments later with a fresh bottle, the cap twisted off. He briefly considered moving to the adjacent armchair, but at the last moment, changed his mind. That veered too close to cowardice. And while he considered it self-preservation, he feared how revealing it would appear to Flo.

“You mentioned speaking from experience. What do you mean?” he asked.

He just wanted to hear her speak. Wanted to know more about her. And not just in the capacity of his daughter’s temporary nanny. He wanted—needed—to learn more about the woman, the artist. He was damn near voracious for more.

Flo rubbed her fingertips over her thigh, head bowed. After a moment, she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze, and he gripped his bottle tighter, the cold condensation grounding him. Reminding him that he couldn’t reach for her, touch her.

She smiled, but something lingered in her eyes. And it was thatsomethinghe wanted to both decipher and erase.

“I’ve told you a little about my family. We’re blended, with four of us being adopted. And I was the first Black child—and a Black girl at that. I always roll my eyes a little when people say really nice-sounding but misinformed things like, ‘Color doesn’t matter. Children are children.’” She huffed out a small chuckle. “As if we’re not individuals. As if our cultures, ethnic makeups and history don’t contribute to our identities, how we see ourselves, how we stand in this world. And that doesn’t just somehow start when we hit adulthood. It begins when we’re children.”

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