Page 60 of Small Town Daddy

The sound of my name on his lips cracked something open inside me. Something I’d worked hard to keep locked up.

"Not now," I managed to say, though it came out weaker than I’d intended. My throat felt tight, my pulse hammering like a warning. “I’m about to leave.”

"Now," he countered, firm. Unyielding.

I closed my eyes. The warmth of the coffee shop suddenly felt suffocating. My chin lifted, slow as molasses, like the air had thickened around me. My gaze met his, and I stopped breathing.

He looked . . . different. Not pleading or regretful like I’d been bracing for. His blue eyes burned with something sharp and unyielding. Determination.

"Emily lied," he started, his words cutting through the quiet like a blade.

I blinked, trying to process. "What?"

"She lied," he repeated, his jaw tight, voice vibrating with barely contained emotion. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. The movement was quick, deliberate. He held it out toward me.

"Marcus, I don’t—"

"Just look."

There was a command in his tone I hadn’t heard before, and it made my skin prickle. My hands stayed glued to Mr. Whiskers, but my eyes flicked to the screen. A text thread. From Emily.

"She sent that message," he said, voice dropping lower, quieter, but somehow more intense. "The one you saw. Not me. She knew would make you think . . ."

That made my head snap up. "Make me think what? That you picked her?!" My voice cracked, loud enough to make Marie flinch behind me.

"Yeah," he said, and the word was so bitter it could’ve curdled milk. "That’s exactly what she wanted. And it worked, didn’t it?"

As I looked at him, I so many emotions surged in me.

There wasn’t even a hint of deception in his eyes. Was he telling the truth? Had it all been a trick by a manipulative ex?

“I—I want to believe you. I just . . . I’m so scared. Of being hurt.”

“Of course you are. It’s terrifying. I know. I’ve been hurt. But Lucy, you’ve got to know, you can trust me.”

When he said that word—trust—I thought back to the times we’d spent together. Of the way I’d trusted him to take control of my senses. Of the way he’d always been gentle, always been true.

"Jesus, Lucy," he growled, running a hand through his hair. "Do you honestly think I’d choose her over you? After everything?"

"How am I supposed to know what you’d do?" I fired back, my voice trembling now, the fight draining out of me.

"Because I’m here," he snapped, stepping closer. Too close. I could smell the rain on his jacket, the faint scent of cedar wood soap clinging to his skin. "I’m right here, standing in front of you, trying like hell to fix this because you mean something to me."

My throat closed up, my fingers digging harder into Mr. Whiskers. The relief hit me then, sudden and overwhelming. He didn’t choose her.

But the house.

"Marcus . . ." My voice wavered, and I shook my head, trying to hold onto the anger, the hurt, anything that would keep me grounded. "None of this changes the fact that I sold the house. It’s gone. I can’t—"

Marcus reached into his jacket. My stomach flipped, and not in a good way. His movements were deliberate, slow. The room felt too small, every breath too loud.

"Lucy," he said, voice gravelly, like it hurt to speak my name. He pulled out a worn manila folder, edges creased from being shoved around. Vanessa’s letterhead blinked up at me like a slap across the face.

"What's that?" My words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything else.

"Let me explain." His tone softened, and for a second, the determination in his eyes faltered. Just a second. Then he squared his shoulders, planted himself like he wasn’t going anywhere until I heard him out. “I ran into Vanessa at your place. She told me about the sale.”

Hearing him say it made it even more real. The sale. I felt as though it was all going to overwhelm me.

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