Page 62 of Small Town Daddy

The sound of clapping startled me. It swelled around us, filling the small space of The Daily Grind like a wave crashing onshore. My chest heaved as my breath caught, and before I could think twice, I launched myself at Marcus.

"Marcus," I whispered, his name breaking apart in my throat as I collided with him. My arms locked tight around his neck, my face buried against his shoulder. Somewhere between us, Mr. Whiskers got squished, but I didn’t care. I clung to Marcus like he was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.

"Whoa, hey!" His laugh rumbled low in his chest, that steady, warm sound I’d missed so much it hurt. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me close, solid and unshakable. "Easy there, sweetheart. You’re gonna bruise yourself."

"Don’t care," I mumbled, tears soaking into his shirt. I couldn’t let go. Not yet.

"Get it, bro!" Brett’s whistle cut through the applause, loud and obnoxious, but I didn’t pull back.

"Shut up, Brett," Marcus said, but there was no heat in his voice.

"Ignore him," Marie sniffled. Her voice cracked, and when I glanced sideways, I saw her dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled napkin. "You two are . . . oh, God, this is too much."

"Marie," I croaked, trying to laugh, but it came out wrong—broken and full of everything I couldn’t put into words.

"Don’t you dare worry about me right now," she managed, pointing a finger at me, watery-eyed but grinning.

"Lucy." Marcus’s voice pulled me back, soft but insistent. He leaned back just enough to look at me, his hands sliding down to grip my waist. His thumbs rubbed slow circles against my sides, grounding me, pulling me into the moment.

I blinked at him, my vision blurred with tears. His blue eyes searched mine, steady and sure, but vulnerable too, like he was laying himself bare in a way I wasn’t sure he ever had before.

"Come home with me," he said. The words were simple, but they carried weight, heavy and full of meaning. "Really home. With me."

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. The lump in my throat was too big, the emotions too raw. All I could do was nod, quick and jerky, as more tears spilled over.

"Yeah?" His lips curved into the faintest smile. That hope I hadn’t dared let myself believe in shone in his eyes now, bright and alive.

"Yeah," I finally managed, though it came out barely above a whisper.

"Okay," he murmured, leaning forward. He kissed my forehead first, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer thanseemed possible. Then he tilted my chin up, catching my gaze one more time before pressing his mouth to mine.

It was soft, sweet—too sweet for how my heart was racing, for how my fingers dug into his shoulders like I needed to anchor myself or risk floating away. But he didn’t rush. He held me like I was fragile, his lips brushing mine in a way that made my knees weak and my pulse pound harder.

Behind us, someone cleared their throat. Probably Brett again. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was Marcus, and the way his kiss promised things I hadn’t dared dream of until now. A home. A future. Us.

Chapter 17

Lucy, Six Months Later

Istared at thecorkboard in front of me, its surface a chaotic mess of pinned-up index cards and scribbled notes. Red string zigzagged between pushpins like a crime scene diagram, connecting plot twists and character fates. My fingers hovered over one card, but I didn’t touch it. Not yet. The idea was there, almost fully formed, but I needed to let it breathe a little longer.

"You're no help," I muttered, glancing up at Mr. Whiskers. He sat regal as ever on his shelf above my desk, his plush fur still pristine despite how many times he’d been clutched in moments of panic—or comfort.

The bay window threw light across the room, catching the edges of my laptop and stacks of horror anthologies. Marcus had insisted on the window. "Every writer needs natural light," he’d said, arms crossed like it wasn’t up for debate. And he'd been right, damn him. The soft glow made the space feel . . . alive. Mine.

I leaned back in my chair, chewing on the end of a pen. Six months ago, this room had been nothing but cracked plaster and dust-covered memories. Now, it smelled faintly of cedar and coffee, warm and safe in ways that shouldn't have felt so unfamiliar.

Then it hit me. That sound. Gentle but steady. Like a heartbeat. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The grandfather clock. Dad’s old clock.

I swiveled in my chair, craning my neck toward the hallway. The ticking carried through the open doorway, rhythmic and dependable. I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. Marcus had spent weeks on that thing, hunched over it with tools I didn’t recognize and a stubborn set to his jaw that warned me not to interrupt. He hadn’t told me why he was so fixated on it. Not until the day he revealed it, polished and perfect, standing tall where it belonged.

"Something old for your something new," he’d said then, brushing sawdust off his hands. His eyes had softened when they met mine, blue like the sky after a storm.

"Oh, Daddy," I’d whispered, voice shaky. "You didn’t have to—"

"Yeah, I did." No hesitation. Just truth. It’s what he did, really. Took broken things and made them whole again.

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