Page 8 of Small Town Daddy

I felt a tug in my chest. The idea of Lucy dealing with all that alone didn't sit right with me. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "Maybe I should stop by. See if she needs any supplies or . . . I don't know, advice on the work."

I was pretty experienced when it came to renovation work and had helped out with a variety of projects around town.

A slow grin spread across Brett's face. "Look at you, jumping at the chance to help a damsel in distress."

I rolled my eyes, feeling heat creep up my neck. "It's not like that. She's probably just looking for a friendly face, is all."

"Uh-huh," Brett smirked. "Well, whatever your reasons, I think it's a great idea. Might do you both some good."

As he left, the bell jingling behind him, I stood there, caught between the urge to help and the fear of putting myself out there again. Lucy's face flashed in my mind, those green eyes filled with a warmth I'd almost forgotten existed.

I thought back to summers spent playing in the fields behind our houses, catching fireflies as dusk settled in. Lucy was always daring me to go on some adventure—climbing the tallest tree, exploring the creek, building forts out of scrap wood from the store. She was fearless, a whirlwind of energy that drew me in and pushed me out of my comfort zone.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. It was just neighborly concern, that's all. Nothing more. But as I turned back to my work, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that something had shifted, ever so slightly, in my carefully ordered world.

I found myself drifting down memory lane, picturing Lucy as she used to be. That bouncy auburn hair, always escaping whatever tie or clip tried to contain it. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about her latest story idea, hands gesturing wildly as if she could paint the scenes in the air.

"Christ," I muttered, realizing I'd been staring at the same wrench display for five solid minutes.

I tried to focus on restocking, but my mind kept circling back. Lucy, sitting on her porch, tongue poking out as she sketched. Lucy, waving at me from her bike, nearly crashing into old Mrs. Peterson's rosebushes 'cause she wasn't watching where she was going.

A protective ache bloomed in my chest. How was she handling all this? Coming back to a house full of ghosts, trying to fix it up on her own. Did she even know which end of a hammer to use?

"She's not a kid anymore," I reminded myself. But the thought of her struggling alone didn't sit right.

I found myself eyeing the gift cards by the register. Maybe I could swing by, just to check in. Offer a friendly ear, some advice on contractors. No pressure, just . . . being a good neighbor.

"Yeah," I said to the empty store. "That's all it is."

I grabbed a gift card and started assembling a basic toolkit. Screwdrivers, a hammer, some sandpaper. My hands moved with practiced ease, but my mind was racing.

"Maybe I should stop by," I said out loud, testing the words. "See if she needs anything for the house. Renovations can be overwhelming."

I kept picturing Lucy struggling with a stuck window or tangled in electrical wires. My protective instincts were in overdrive.

I added safety goggles and work gloves to the pile. Maybe this wasn't just about helping her. Maybe it was a step towards... something. Healing? Moving on?

But then doubt crept in, cold and familiar. Why would a confident young woman want help from someone like me? She'd probably be offended or think I thought she couldn't handle it.

I stared at the items I'd gathered, feeling foolish. With a sigh, I started putting everything back.

"Get a grip, Marcus," I muttered. "You've got work to do."

I buried myself in inventory, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that I was making a mistake.

As the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the store floor, I couldn't shake the restlessness gnawing at me. Maybe reaching out to Lucy wasn't just about helping her—it was about allowing myself to reconnect with someone who once knew me before life got so complicated.

I glanced at the framed photo of Grandpa again. His eyes seemed to hold a hint of amusement, as if encouraging me to take a chance.

"One step at a time," I whispered.

Chapter 3

Lucy

Gentle morning light filteredthrough the curtains as I hugged Mr. Whiskers close. His floppy ears and worn coat were a familiar comfort. "Big day today," I whispered, petting his soft fur.

The past few days had slipped by in a haze of avoidance. The task of renovating my childhood home loomed like a fortress I wasn't ready to breach. Each morning, the sunlight would dance across the Victorian wallpaper, casting intricate patterns that seemed to mock my indecision. Mr. Whiskers, with his steady purring by my side, became my silent witness to procrastination.

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