Page 9 of Summer with the Single Dad

She must have had her eyes closed for a while because the plunk on the bar top in front of her made her jump.

“Did you fall asleep?” Dom asked, still wearing that flirty smile. A paper bag sat in front of her. “Here’s dinner. I also had them throw in Wyatt’s to-die-for Raspberry, Chocolate Ganache Torte.” Then a look of worry filled his blue eyes. “Unless you’re, like, allergic to chocolate or raspberries or something?”

She finished her Island Sunset and shook her head. “No allergies. I’m just not a fan of tomatoes.”

Relief dashed across his face. “Oh good. I double-checked that they got that memo, and can safely say that there are no tomatoes anywhere near your burger.”

Justine grabbed the paper bag. “I appreciate the attention to detail. Thank you.”

“No worries. Enjoy.” Along came another flirty smile before he was distracted by the incoming drink order from the POS printer.

Navigating her way through the sudden influx of patrons arriving, she exhaled in relief the moment she reached the parking lot. Crowds were never her thing. The weather was too perfect to go eat her dinner inside the cabin, so she made her way down below the bustling patio deck, and onto the rocks. Gnarly, twisted madrona tree branches hung, reaching and battered, over the driftwood. They were an unusual and interesting tree. Although they looked deciduous, they were actually evergreen and kept their leaves year-round. The deep reddish-brown bark peeled away like an onion skin to reveal vibrant lima-bean green, silky flesh underneath. A lot of people liked to carve their names—mainly optimistic lovers—into the green flesh, with the hopes of immortalizing their affections.

Idiots.

Also, leave the trees alone.

She walked until she couldn’t hear the music anymore. All that filled the air were the strident cries of hungry seabirds and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore.

She stayed above the tideline, studying where she put each foot as the rocks were all round and slid easily against each other, making her steps unstable.

Eventually, the perfect perch called to her—a fallen and washed ashore log—with no noticeable bird feces, bugs, or anything else that might get on her pants.

With a weary sigh, she took her seat, opening her bag.

The instant scent of Mediterranean spices wafted up to her, and her belly rumbled.

The smile stole across her face before she could stop it.

When she knew it was there, she banished it away and scowled again.

The burger was delicious, and she felt guilty for enjoying it.

The fries were incredible, and she hated that she’d never tasted fries so good.

And that raspberry ganache torte? It brought a solitary tear to her eye as she took the first bite. Nothing should ever taste so decadent. So sinful.

Why the hell did she deserve to eat something that wonderful?

Mr. O’Malley certainly wouldn’t get to taste anything so marvelous.

He’d never get to taste anything again.

And all because of her.

All because of her screw up.

All because Justine let her emotions, her personal life, affect her professional life.

She knew better than to date a colleague. Then to get engaged to a colleague.

But nobody else understood the demands of a doctor, the intense hours and fatigue of a doctor, besides another doctor. So marrying Tad made sense.

She also loved him.

Or thought she did.

Now that her belly was full, she closed her eyes and tuned out everything around her.

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