Page 43 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
"She lives with you?”
"She's uh… sick." Sadie cleared her throat and pulled her phone out, typing into it quickly. It looked like she was avoiding eye contact, and I knew why. It must've been a hard subject for her. "And my dad left us a long time ago, so I'm her caregiver now."
"How old were you when he left?" I asked, relieved she was opening up so I could put the awkwardness behind me.
"Eight. One day, he was there making pancakes and complaining about the newspaper, and the next morning, there was a note on the kitchen table." She took a larger sip of wine. "Mom used to tell me he'd come back once he figured things out. She stopped saying that when I turned sixteen." Sadie jammed her phone into her purse and set it on the chair next to her and then looked up at me.
"She never remarried?"
"Never even dated. She started drinking after he left, and it got worse every year. By the time I was in high school, I was the one making sure she got to work, making sure there was food in the house." Sadie's laugh held no humor. "I used to think every kid helped their parent through hangovers."
"When did you realize they didn't?"
"Senior year. I went to a friend's house for dinner, and her parents asked me about my day and actually listened to the answer. They had rules that made sense, consequences that weren't about their moods." She took a shaky breath. "I realized what I'd been missing all those years…. I'm so sorry…"
Her voice broke on the last word, and suddenly, she was crying—not the careful, controlled tears I might have expected, but real sobs that shook her shoulders. She put her hands over her face, trying to hide from me, and I felt responsible for her. She needed someone to hold her together, and I'd been so selfish to lay my burden on her already tired shoulders.
"I'm sorry," she said through her fingers. "I don't know why I'm falling apart. This is so embarrassing."
I was moving before I'd made the decision to move. I pulled my chair closer to hers and gathered her into my arms, letting her cry against my chest. She stiffened for a moment, surprised, then melted into me with a sound that was half relief, half surrender.
"It's okay," I said into her hair. "You don't have to apologize."
She smelled like vanilla and something floral and her body was warm and soft against mine, and I found myself pressing my face into her hair, holding her tighter than the situation required. When was the last time I'd held someone this way? When was the last time someone had let me?
"I'm not usually a crier," she said, her voice muffled against my shirt.
"I don't mind. I'm here, and it sounds like you're going through a lot." My chest constricted at the idea that her weights might already be too heavy to have to shoulder up under mine too. I just wasn’t the sort of man to push my own agenda when someone was hurting so much.
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes red but no longer overflowing. "Why do you care so much?"
I could have given her a dozen reasonable answers—comforting her, being a friend, offering support. But as I looked down at her face, flushed from crying and wine, I found I didn't want to lie.
"I don’t even know," I said. "But I do know I don't want to let go of you. You were sad and if the only thing I can do is give you a hug… Well…" My thumb brushed over her cheekbone, swiping at moisture lingering there.
She searched my face for something I wasn't sure I could give her. "This is crazy…" she mumbled, and the air crackled between us. She was right. It was insane for the chemistry to sizzle so much in such a short time.
"Yes."
"We barely know each other."
"I know enough."
"Do you?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Because I don't think I know anything about you, really." Her eyes flicked back and forth between mine and my eyes dropped to her lips, full and plump and probably salty with tears. I wanted to lick them clean, and yet I wanted to respect the fact that this was happening way too fast.
"This doesn't have to mean anything…" I told her. "We're adults, and we're both single, and…"
"It doesn't have to mean anything," she repeated softly, reaching up to run her hand across the stubble on my cheek.
But even as she said it, I knew it was a lie. When she kissed me—or maybe I kissed her, I couldn't tell who moved first—it changed something inside me. Her mouth was soft and urgent against mine, and when I deepened the kiss, she responded with a hunger that matched my own.
I pushed my chair back, lips never leaving hers, and pulled her up with me. Her breath caught against my mouth, a soft hum escaping before she whispered, “You’re not letting go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” I murmured into the kiss, the words brushing her lips as I drew her closer.
She rose on her toes, pressing into me. “Good,” she breathed, her fingers sliding into my hair.
I guided her backward, our steps awkward only because neither of us was willing to separate. The table edge bumped my hip, and she gave a muffled laugh against my mouth.
