Page 10 of Tempting the Single Dad
When she catches me looking, her smile turns knowing.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, squeezing my hand.
I consider lying, offering something casual about the festival or the weather, but there's an openness in her eyes that deserves honesty in return.
"I'm thinking," I say quietly, "that I should probably feel guilty about what just happened, but I don't."
Her eyebrow quirks. "Should you feel guilty?"
"You're Diana's doctor. You're like a decade younger than me. We barely know each other." I run my free hand through my hair, feeling the grit of hay dust against my scalp. "On paper, this looks like a terrible idea."
A slow smile spreads across her face. "Good thing we're not on paper, then."
Her easy acceptance loosens the knot of tension between my shoulder blades. Before I can respond, Diana spots us from across the plaza, waving frantically from beside the face-painting booth. Ms. Bennett stands next to her, clipboard in hand, looking amused at Diana's enthusiasm.
"Dad! Miranda! Can we go on the hayride?" She bounces on her toes, pointing toward the massive Clydesdales being hitched to a wagon at the edge of the square. "Please? Ms. Bennett says it's okay if you come too!"
Miranda glances at me, a question in her eyes. I wonder briefly if she needs space after what just happened between us, but there's nothing but warmth in her expression.
"A hayride sounds perfect," I tell Diana, ruffling her hair when she reaches us. The orange and black pumpkin painted on her cheek crinkles as she grins. "Did you have fun with the other kids?"
"I painted three pumpkins and went through the maze twice and Lily says I can come to her birthday party next week," she replies in one breathless rush, grabbing both our hands to tug us toward the hayride. "And I told everyone Miranda is our special doctor."
I catch the word "our" and something warm unfurls in my chest. Miranda's eyes meet mine over Diana's head, and I know she heard it too.
"Special doctor, huh?" Miranda says, letting Diana pull her along. "I like the sound of that."
The hayride wagon is already half-full with families and couples nestled on straw bales, wrapped in patchwork quilts and plaidblankets against the October chill. Old Man Tucker, dressed in his usual plaid jacket and wool cap, holds the reins of two massive Clydesdales whose breath fogs in the cool night air.
"Evening, Hilton," he calls as we approach. "Got room for three more."
"Thanks, Bill," I reply, helping Diana up first, then offering my hand to Miranda. As she steps onto the wagon, her fingers linger in mine a moment longer than necessary, sending a jolt of awareness up my arm. Her palm is soft against mine, but there's nothing fragile about her grip.
We settle on a hay bale near the back, Diana wedged between us. A teenage volunteer hands out wool blankets and paper cups of hot cocoa topped with whipped cream and cinnamon. Diana immediately gets whipped cream on her nose, and Miranda laughs, wiping it away with gentle fingers.
"You've got a little..." Miranda reaches up to brush something from my beard, her touch so casual and intimate it steals my breath. "Hay," she explains, showing me the golden strand before flicking it away. Her eyes dance with private amusement, and heat rises to my face as I realize she's thinking about where that hay came from.
With a lurch and the creak of wooden wheels, the wagon begins to move. We roll away from the festival lights, following a path lined with glowing lanterns that leads toward the outer fields. The horses' hooves fall in a steady rhythm against the packed dirt, a sound as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
Diana chatters excitedly about her pumpkin paintings, nestling deeper under the blanket as the temperature drops. The wool is scratchy against my neck, but I don't mind.
"Look," I say, pointing upward as we clear the tree line. "The stars are out."
Above us, the autumn sky spreads like velvet, pinpricked with countless stars. The moon, nearly full, bathes the surrounding fields in silver light. Diana tilts her head back, her expression solemn.
"There's the Big Dipper," she says, tracing the pattern with her finger. "And that's the North Star. Grandma showed me how to find it."
"That's right," I say softly, my throat tightening at the memory of my mother sitting on the porch with Diana, naming constellations. The grief is still raw, not the bleeding wound it was six months ago, but a tender bruise that aches when pressed.
"And which one is your mom's star?" Miranda asks, her voice gentle.
Diana points without hesitation to a particularly bright star low on the horizon. "That one. It's extra shiny because she can see us."
The simplicity of her belief, the quiet certainty in her voice, makes my chest ache. When I glance at Miranda, I see a sheen of tears in her eyes that she quickly blinks away.
"It's beautiful," she says, wrapping an arm around Diana's shoulders.
The wagon sways gently as we follow the winding path through moonlit fields. Other passengers chat quietly or sip their cocoa, but our little corner feels separate somehow. The night air carries the scent of woodsmoke and fallen leaves, and somewhere in the distance, an owl calls.
