Page 40 of The Single Dad Project

“Daddy, I’m finished!” Justine appeared at his elbow, startling him.

Shit. He’d been so caught up in his verbal sparring with Flo—so caught up inFlo—that he hadn’t even noticed his daughter crossing the diner to him.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said, nabbing his napkin and wiping away her milk mustache. He chose to ignore the graveled texture to his voice. Chose to ignore the source of it. Despite the source sitting right across from him. “Did you tell Ms. Grace thank you for the pie?”

“Yep! She got you a piece, too,” Justine announced. “It’s at our house.”

He frowned, but Flo drew his gaze with her low, amused chuckle. She didn’t look at him, but at Justine, and that derisive smirk she seemed to save just for him had abandoned her face. Instead, she warmly smiled at his daughter.

“Did Ms. Grace say,on the house, Jussy?” she asked.

“Uh-huh. At our house.” Justine nodded.

Adam swallowed a laugh. “That’s nice of her. I’ll pick it up in a few minutes. But we need to go. It’s getting late.” He slid from the booth, removing his wallet from his back pocket. “Tell Flo good night.”

“’Night, Flo.” Justine clambered up onto the booth seat and threw her arms around Flo’s neck, squeezing tight. “Can I see my pictures?”

“I’ll send them to your dad so you can have them, okay?” Flo returned her hug.

“Okay, don’t forget!”

Chuckling, Flo held up a pinkie. “I won’t. Pinkie swear.”

Justine hooked her finger around Flo’s and Flo pumped their arms up and down then kissed her fist. His daughter laughed and demanded Flo “do it again.” After a couple more run-throughs of the “handshake,” Adam intervened, or they would never get out of the diner.

“All right, baby girl, we’ll practice it at home.” He held his hand out to her.

Justine inched out of the booth and slid her hand into his, and that familiar awe and love filled him.

“Bye, Flo,” Justine called, waving.

And as his little girl sang out a similar goodbye to Grace, Adam glanced at Flo, who met his gaze with a steady but shuttered stare.

“See you tomorrow, Adam.”

“’Night, Flo,” he murmured, ushering Justine toward the diner exit.

As he walked out, his daughter’s chatter dancing on the spring night air, he silently answered Flo’s question.

More than ever, he had reasons why his needs had to come second. No, not reasons, plural. Just one.

And he held her hand in his.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FLOSTOODONthe scarred wood floor of the tower room of the Hudson home, staring at the gorgeous circle of stained glass high on the wall. Though the rest of the house was currently in various stages of repair—and disrepair—this ornamental piece had survived all its owners intact. Early-afternoon sunlight streamed through like a portal, scattering the beams like fragments of colored crystal.

Raising her Sony A7 III to her eye, she focused the lens and moved back until she captured several shots. She couldn’t help comparing it to a church as she studied the images. The same sense of reverence and stillness. Beautiful.

The crew was filming below in the kitchen today, and she’d head back down there in a few minutes, but with all the noise and so many people, she’d taken a few minutes to herself. And up here in this circular room under the castle-like turret, she easily remembered herself as a little girl staring up at the tower from outside. Wondering if a princess lived here.

Huffing out a soft laugh at her past whimsical self, she tilted her head, studying the stained glass again. It might have survived the test of time, but it wasn’t perfect. It had a few cracks the owners might find tired instead of charming.

“Who am I kidding? They’ll replace it,” she murmured.

“No, they won’t.”

Her heart thudded against her sternum, her pulse an insistent drum in her veins. Since her back was to Adam, she surrendered to the need to close her eyes and savor that deep, smooth timbre.

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