Page 7 of Tempting the Single Dad
"Hilton! We need your muscles over here!"
David rolls his eyes. "That's my cue. Coming?"
The pumpkin display area is organized chaos, long tables being draped with autumn-colored cloths, volunteers arranging hay bales and cornstalks, teenagers unpacking boxes of tiny decorative gourds.
David immediately starts helping a white-haired man lift a massive pumpkin onto a central display. The muscles in his back flex beneath his shirt, and I force myself to look away before I start visibly drooling.
A woman with curly red hair thrusts a box of art supplies into my arms. "You must be Miranda! I'm Abigail. Can you help with the stencils? The kids will be painting mini pumpkins later."
For the next hour, I lose myself in the rhythm of festival preparation. I arrange paint pots and brushes, help hang paper lanterns from shepherd's hooks, and attempt—rather disastrously—to carve a welcome sign into a foam pumpkin.
"That's... interesting," David says, appearing at my shoulder to inspect my handiwork. The letters wobble drunkenly across the orange surface.
"I'm a doctor, not an artist," I protest, laughing at my own failure. "My handwriting is famously terrible. Ask any nurse who's tried to read my charts."
"Here, let me show you." He steps behind me, his chest warm against my back as his hand closes over mine on the carving tool. "Gentle pressure, smooth motion."
His breath stirs the hair near my ear, and I fight a shiver that has nothing to do with the October chill. His hand guides mine, steadying the wobble, his fingers warm and strong against my skin.
"Better," he murmurs, making no move to step away. The double meaning hangs in the air between us.
"You've got—" David reaches up, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Paint." The pad of his thumb lingers, rough and warm against my skin. His eyes darken, pupils dilating slightly in the lantern light.
"Thanks," I whisper, the word barely audible above the fiddle music that's started up near the oak tree.
He glances around at the bustling festival, then back to me. "Do you need a breather? It gets a bit overwhelming if you're not used to the whole town being in one place."
"A breather sounds perfect."
With a subtle nod toward a rustic barn-like structure near the edge of the square, he takes my hand. "The warming barn. It's for staff and volunteers. Should be quiet."
The barn is small but charming—a single room with a potbelly stove glowing in the corner, twinkle lights strung across wooden beams, and stacks of hay bales creating cozy nooks. The noise ofthe festival muffles as David closes the door behind us, leaving just the faint strains of fiddle music and distant laughter.
"Better?" he asks, still holding my hand.
I nod, suddenly aware of how alone we are.
"I should check on Diana," he says, making no move toward the door.
"Ms. Bennett has it covered," I remind him, taking a step closer. "Thirty-minute safety checks, remember?"
His expression changes slightly, restraint giving way to decision. His eyes darken as they drop to my mouth, and my breath catches in my throat. The space between us narrows, molecules of air seeming to vibrate with tension.
"Miranda," he says, my name a question and answer both.
When his lips finally meet mine, the contact is electric, soft and firm at once, tentative for only a heartbeat before deepening with unmistakable hunger. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks with a tenderness that contrasts with the urgency of his mouth. He tastes of apple cider.
I melt into him, my hands finding purchase on his solid chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath my palms. The kiss transforms from exploratory to consuming, his tongue sliding against mine, drawing a small sound from my throat that seems to ignite something primal in him.
"I've wanted to do that since you knelt beside Diana in the pumpkin patch," he confesses against my lips, his voice a rough whisper that sends shivers down my spine.
"Why didn't you?" I ask, breathless, as his mouth traces a path along my jaw.
His hands slide down to my waist, fingers splaying wide to pull me flush against him. "Because," he murmurs, the heat of his breath against my neck making my knees weak, "I knew once I started, I wouldn't want to stop."
The admission thrills me. He walks me backward, his mouth never leaving my skin, until the backs of my thighs meet hay bales. With effortless strength, he lifts me to sit on the edge, stepping between my legs.
"Is this too fast?" he asks, one hand tracing the curve of my waist while the other cups my cheek. "We barely know each other, but I feel—"
