Page 3 of Tempting the Single Dad
"We're carving pumpkins," Diana adds, her voice still quiet but more certain.
"That sounds fun! I haven't carved a pumpkin in so long."
"Then it's settled," David says, and the smile that transforms his face makes my breath catch. "Pumpkin carving tomorrow. Say, five o'clock? We could have dinner after, if you don't have plans."
"No plans," I admit. "I don't know anyone in town yet."
"You know us," Diana says simply.
Chapter 2 – David
I've been watching the sunrise from my kitchen window for thirteen years, but today it strikes me differently. The soft pink glow filters through the trees, catching on the morning mist that hovers above the fields. Diana's half-eaten toast sits abandoned on the table, her backpack already slung over the hook by the door.
"Eager for school today?" I ask, pouring coffee into the mug my mother gave me the Christmas before she died. It says "World's Best Dad" in blocky letters that Diana traced with her fingers when she was smaller.
She shrugs, perched on the window seat with her knees pulled to her chest. "I'm watching for birds."
It's the most she's said at breakfast in weeks. Since Mom died, our mornings have been silent rituals of cereal poured, lunches packed, and hair brushed without commentary.
"Dr. Miranda's coming today," she adds, surprising me again. "For pumpkin carving."
"That's right." I hide my smile behind my mug. "You like her, huh?"
Diana turns from the window, her dark eyes serious. "She’s nice and doesn't talk to me like I'm a baby."
My heart squeezes. My eight-year-old, so observant, so wounded, and so determined to be brave. Just like her mother had been. Just like my mom.
After the school bus disappears down our long driveway, I walk the eastern field where our prize pumpkins grow. The morning dew soaks the cuffs of my jeans, and the cold air fills my lungs.These quiet moments used to center me, but today I can't shake a restless feeling that's been growing since yesterday.
Since Miranda.
There was something about her. The way she knelt beside Diana without hesitation, her voice calm and warm, her hands gentle but sure. The curve of her smile when she told that ridiculous squirrel story. The way her eyes, a deep forest green flecked with gold, crinkled at the corners when she laughed.
The anticipation follows me through the day. By four-thirty, I've changed my shirt twice and cleaned the farmhouse kitchen, something I usually save for Sundays.
Her car appears at the end of the drive at precisely five o'clock. Diana, who's been sitting on the porch steps since getting home from school, bolts upright like she's been electrified. Before I can call out, she's racing down the gravel path toward the parking area.
"Take it easy," I call after her, but she's already reached Miranda, who steps out of her car looking like autumn personified in a rust-colored sweater that falls softly over her curves and jeans tucked into brown boots.
"You came back," Diana says, stopping just short of hugging her.
Miranda crouches down, meeting Diana at eye level. "I promised, didn't I? Plus, I heard there might be pumpkin carving involved, and I am very serious about pumpkin carving."
"Dad got the special knives out," Diana says, reaching for Miranda's hand with a casualness that steals my breath. "And the templates. But I like to make my own designs."
"A creative spirit," Miranda says, rising as I approach. "I admire that."
When she looks up at me, I forget whatever smooth greeting I'd rehearsed in my head. "Hi," is all I manage, suddenly aware of how my flannel shirt must smell like hay and tractor fuel.
"Hi yourself." Her smile reaches all the way to those remarkable eyes, and I'm struck again by how at ease she seems here.
Diana tugs at Miranda's hand. "Want to see my secret place first?"
Miranda glances at me, and I nod. "I've got a few things to finish in the barn. Take your time."
As they head toward Diana's "fort"—a small hollow in the pumpkin patch where the vines create a natural canopy—I force myself to walk the opposite direction. Normal, everyday tasks that suddenly feel like they're happening to someone else.
The barn is cool and smells of sweet hay and horse. I climb the loft ladder to toss down a few bales, my mind racing ahead to dinner. Should I have planned something more impressive than pumpkin soup and homemade bread?
