Page 23 of Tempted By the Handsome Doctor

"He sounds like a remarkable man."

"He was." My voice wavers, and I clear my throat. "Sorry, I don't usually get emotional about it anymore. It's been two years."

"Grief doesn't have an expiration date." Daniel hesitates, then gently touches my arm. "And you don't need to apologize for missing him."

The kindness in his voice unlocks something in my chest—a knot of grief I've been carrying so long I've stopped noticing its weight. Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them.

"I just wish he could have known about the baby," I whisper. "He would have been such an amazing grandfather."

Daniel doesn't offer empty platitudes or awkward reassurances. Instead, he simply pulls me into his arms, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other warm against my spine. I stiffen for a moment, then surrender to the comfort, letting my forehead rest against his shoulder.

"He would have threatened me with bodily harm for getting his daughter pregnant," Daniel says, his voice rumbling against my ear. "Then grudgingly accepted me when you told him to be nice."

A watery laugh escapes me. "Probably. He was protective but not unreasonable."

"And he raised an incredible daughter." Daniel's hand moves in slow, soothing circles on my back. "So, I think part of him will be there, in how you parent."

The observation is so unexpectedly perceptive that fresh tears spill over. I let them come, no longer fighting the release. Daniel holds me through it, solid and steady, his shirt growing damp beneath my cheek. He smells like autumn air and something faintly spicy—cologne, maybe, or just him.

When the wave of grief recedes, I don't immediately pull away. There's something healing about being held like this, about allowing myself to be vulnerable with someone who isn't trying to fix or change my feelings. Just witnessing them.

"Thank you," I murmur against his chest.

"For what?"

"For not saying it gets easier with time. Or that he's in a better place. Or any of those things people think they're supposed to say."

His arms tighten slightly around me. "I had enough of those after my mom died to last a lifetime. They don't help."

I pull back just enough to see his face, suddenly aware of how little I really know about his mother. "What was she like? Your mom."

A shadow crosses his features, but he doesn't deflect the question. "Beautiful. Smart as hell—she was a math teacher. Always laughing." A small, sad smile touches his lips. "She baked cookies every Sunday without fail, even during finals week when she had stacks of exams to grade."

"She sounds wonderful."

"She was." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture startlingly intimate. "You remind me of her sometimes. The way you see people, really see them."

"I wish I could have met her."

"Me too." His eyes hold mine.

We stand like that for a long moment, close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth radiating from his body. I should step back, restore some sense of distance and perspective. But I don't want to. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't want to be alone with my grief and fear and uncertainty.

I want to be here, with him.

"I should show you the rest of the house," I say finally, my voice coming out huskier than intended.

Daniel nods, dropping his arms reluctantly. "Lead the way."

We leave my father's study, closing the door gently behind us. The hallway feels narrower than usual as we navigate it side by side, shoulders brushing.

"Last door on the left is the guest room," I say, pointing but not entering. "Nothing exciting in there. And this—" I push open the door at the end of the hall "—is my room."

I step inside, suddenly self-conscious. My bedroom is undeniably mine—walls painted a soft sage green, a patchwork quilt in blues and purples spread across the queen-sized bed, more bookshelves (of course), and a small reading nook tucked beneath the window. It's tidy but lived-in, with a cardigan draped over the armchair and a stack of library books on the nightstand.

Daniel follows me in, his eyes taking in every detail. "It suits you," he says after a moment.

"Is that a polite way of saying it's exactly what you'd expect a librarian's bedroom to look like?"

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