Page 5 of Small Town Daddy

"Uh-huh," Marie said, clearly unconvinced. "We'll see about that."

There was something else about me. I was a little . . . unusual in my tastes. It’s part of the reason I’d had so many relationships, desperately searching for the right kind of man.

As the conversation lulled, my mind drifted to past relationships—the parade of men who'd never truly seen me. Who'd I'd never let see me.

"Earth to Lucy," Marie's voice cut through my thoughts. "Where'd you go just now?"

I blinked, refocusing on her concerned face. "Nowhere," I lied. "Just . . . thinking about the house."

But it wasn't the house occupying my thoughts. It was Marcus. Broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, that quiet strength. My stomach fluttered.

"Bullshit," Marie said softly. "I know that look. Spill."

I sighed, fidgeting with my napkin. "It's nothing, really. I just . . . sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find someone who gets me, you know? All of me."

Marie's eyes softened. "Oh, honey. The right person is out there. And when you find them, they'll love every messy, beautiful part of you."

I swallowed hard, pushing away the image of Marcus. Someone like him would never want me if he knew the truth. The whole truth.

"Thanks, Mar," I managed. "I should probably get going."

Marie squeezed my hand as I stood. "It's good to have you back, Lucy. Really."

I stepped outside, the gentle drizzle cool on my skin. The walk home felt longer, my mind a whirlwind of emotions. Dad's house loomed ahead, a mountain of memories and unfinished business.

On the porch, I took a deep breath. "One step at a time," I whispered, fumbling with the key.

This time, the lock clicked first time, and I stepped inside, into whatever came next.

Chapter 2

Marcus

Home. This store washome.

The familiar scent of wood shavings and metal filled my nostrils as I moved through the aisles of Wilkins' Hardware. My footsteps echoed softly on the polished wooden floors, each deliberate step grounding me in the routine I'd followed for years.

I paused to take in the sight around me. The high shelves stacked neatly with tools and supplies, the warm glow of the vintage hanging lights casting a comforting hue over everything. This place wasn't just a business; it was a living, breathing memory. Every nook and cranny held a story—like the old cash register my grandfather insisted on keeping, its keys worn smooth from decades of use. I remembered standing on a stool beside him as a kid, his large hands guiding mine as I punched in numbers, his deep laugh echoing whenever I got it wrong.

I paused at a display of wrenches, my hands moving automatically to straighten the tools until they formed a perfectline. The cool metal was soothing under my fingertips. I let out a slow breath, savoring the small sense of control.

"Get it together, Marcus," I muttered to myself. "It's just another day."

But it didn't feel like just another day. The weight of memories pressed down on me, making even the familiar sanctuary of the store feel off-kilter. I ran my hand over a shelf of freshly stocked paint cans, the vibrant colors a stark contrast to the dull ache in my chest.

The blues and greens reminded me of the ocean, of that trip Emily and I had taken to the coast. We'd walked along the beach, our hands entwined, the salty breeze tangling her hair as she laughed at some silly joke I'd made. I shook my head, trying to push the image away, but it clung stubbornly, refusing to fade.

My gaze drifted to the framed photo on the counter—my grandfather smiling proudly in front of the store on opening day. What would he think if he could see me now? Struggling to keep it together over a failed relationship.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the doubts. "This place is more than just a store," I reminded myself firmly. "It's a legacy. Your legacy."

I could almost hear Grandpa's voice, rough but kind, "Chin up, kiddo. Life knocks you down, but you get back up stronger." He'd built this place from the ground up, pouring his heart into every beam and nail. Dad had carried on the tradition, adding his own touches, like the garden section Mom had insisted on. Now it was my turn to keep the legacy alive. I owed it to them—to myself—not to let personal troubles get in the way.

The words rang hollow in the quiet shop. I busied myself straightening more displays, hoping the repetitive motion would quiet my racing thoughts. But images of Emily kept intruding—her laugh, her smile, the look in her eyes when she told me it had all been a lie.

I slammed a hammer down on the counter harder than intended, the sharp crack making me wince.

"Careful there," came a familiar voice from the doorway. "Don't want to break your own merchandise."

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