Page 1 of Soren the Single Dad
CHAPTER ONE
DIANA GOLDMAN
The house goes dark after the storm blows out the electricity. Strong winds batter the windows, shaking them in their old panes, and the rain blurs the forest of trees surrounding the cabin. Most people would take these as signs to batten down the hatches and remain safely within shelter.
Not me.
Call me crazy, but the lure of the storm is too great to resist, especially as a woman who has promised to stop curbing her desires, no matter how fraught with danger they may be. I want whimsy and magic. I want to romanticize my life like all those inspirational gurus say.
So, I grab my raincoat, tug on waterproof boots, and enter the storm. Icy drops sting my cheeks, but the slight pain energizes me. I feel like an ancient goddess gathering power from Mother Nature herself.
When I reach the cliffside of the mountain my rental cabin is perched on, I look down to see a river crashing against the rocks below. Trees bend and sway. Entranced, I stand there, letting the elements wash away the stress and worry I’ve felt lately, replacing them with a charged sense of rebirth. That’s why I quit my old job and moved to Suitor’s Crossing.
To break free from the constricting box I put myself in years ago.
To live a life worth living.
My eyes close and my head tips back in supplication, surrendering myself to an unknown—but hopefully better—future. Long minutes pass in this strange dichotomy of inner peace versus outer violence from the storm.
Eventually, the chill on my skin registers, and I decide it’s time to head inside. But before I can move, two strong arms jerk me backward. My feet slip in the wet grass, causing us both to fall to the ground—or in my case, a large, warm body.
We roll over until an angry male face hovers above mine, his frustration palpable as he growls, “Are you out of your mind?”
I can’t speak.
Confusion and wonder war within me at this stranger’s appearance. Where did he come from? My closest neighbor is at least another mile down the road, and according to the Duncans, no one lives there while its owner travels abroad.
The mystery man continues his tirade. “What were you thinking, standing so close to the edge like that? Jumping into a raging river won’t solve your problems. It’ll only leave grief and heartbreak behind for your family and friends.”
“Whoa, you’ve got it wrong. I wasn’t going to jump.” His wild assumption finally breaks through my frozen awe. My hands push at his shoulders—broad and sturdy as the boulders lining the trail to this spot on the mountain—and he cautiously shifts to the side, so he’s not fully atop me anymore. I don’t know why that causes a twinge of disappointment.
“Oh, really? Then what other reason could you possibly have for perching on the edge of a cliff during a fucking rainstorm?”
When he puts it like that, I realize how stupid it was coming out here. I got caught up in the storm’s magic and let whimsicalfantasies rule my actions rather than common sense. Now this stranger thinks I’m suicidal.
“I don’t have a reasonable explanation for being out here,” I admit. It’s not like I’m going to share the personal transformation I’m undergoing with a stranger.
The rain increases in tempo, its icy sting battling the heat where our bodies are still pressed together. He’s a freaking furnace. Hot, burly, and vibrating with annoyance, his giant body forms a cozy little cocoon around me. Well, as cozy as a girl can be pinned to the wet earth by a bearded mountain man during one of nature’s tempests.
When he finally rolls completely off me, my chest expands on a long inhale that includes an enticing whiff of his spicy scent before being washed away by the rain. He offers a callused hand and hauls me to my feet with an ease that belies my considerable curves. I’ve always been short and stout—yes, like the little teapot—so his impressive show of strength puts all sorts of inconvenient thoughts in my head.
Like him hefting me into his muscular arms and whisking me away to his remote cabin in the woods, where he’ll ravage my aching body and—
Holy hell, am I in desperate need of a man or what?
Is it possible to romanticize your life too much?
Shaking off the fantasy—because we’ve seen how wellthoseare working for me tonight—I introduce myself with a trembling hand. “Diana Goldman. I’m staying at the Duncan cabin. Do you live around here?”
“Soren Caldwell.” He jerks a thumb down the trail. “I’m your neighbor to the east. I didn’t realize the Duncans had a guest; I was checking on the house before the storm worsened. Then I saw your shadowy figure up here.” His roughened palm grazes mine for a brief second before dropping my hand like a hot potato.
“You’re the sunflower mailbox!” My fingers snap in recognition. The black mailbox decorated with sunflower stickers brings a smile to my face every time I drive by it on my way home.
“Yeah… that’s my daughter’s favorite flower.”
Daughter.
Shit, he’s got a kid, which means he’s probably married, and here I am imagining being fucked ten ways to Sunday by my would-be rescuer.Not to mention keeping him from returning home to his family.All because of my hare-brained scheme of pretending to be a freaking goddess of the storm.
