Page 17 of Tempting the Single Dad
"Sorry to interrupt, but your one o'clock is here early, Dr. Allen."
Reality intrudes, but gently. David sighs, pressing one last swift kiss to my lips before standing.
"Duty calls," he says. "Still on for dinner tonight?"
"Wouldn't miss it," I promise. "What time should I come?"
"Six? Diana gets home from her after-school program at four-thirty, which gives her time to help with the fruit salad production."
"Six is perfect." I smooth my scrubs. "I'll bring dessert."
"Just bring yourself," he says, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "That's all we need."
I watch him go, his tall frame silhouetted against the autumn sunshine.
As I gather my papers and head back into the clinic, I realize with sudden clarity that I've made my decision. Not just about tonight's dinner or tomorrow's plans, but about everything. About staying in Whitetail Falls. About buying into the practice. About building a life here, with David and Diana and pumpkin festivals and small-town gossip and all of it.
I came to Whitetail Falls looking for a temporary reprieve from burnout. Instead, I found a home. I found a family. I found the kind of love that changes plans and rearranges futures.
And as I straighten my white coat and prepare to greet my patient, I find I'm not scared at all.
For the first time in years, everything feels exactly as it should be.
Epilogue – David
Two Years Later
Steam rises from the pot of spaghetti as I drain it in the sink, the familiar ritual of our Tuesday night dinner as comforting as the breeze drifting through the open kitchen window.
"Dad, you're overcooking it again," Diana informs me, peering over my shoulder with the authority of her ten years. "Miranda likes it al dente."
"Yes, chef," I say, giving her a mock salute. "What would I do without your culinary expertise?"
She rolls her eyes, a gesture she's perfected over the past year. "Probably eat mushy pasta forever." She turns to Miranda, who's stirring the sauce at the stove. "He used to overcook everything before you came. Once he made mac and cheese that was basically soup."
"Betrayed by my own flesh and blood," I mutter, but I can't help smiling as I watch them together.
Miranda laughs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Diana's ear, a gesture so natural, so maternal, that it still catches my breath sometimes. "Everyone has their cooking disasters, Di. Ask me about the time I tried to make bread and ended up with a doorstop."
"The infamous bread incident of 2019," Diana says solemnly, though her eyes dance with mischief. "A tragedy."
The easy banter between them is a joy I never take for granted. Gone is the silent, traumatized child who wouldn't speak after my mother died. In her place stands this confident, occasionallysassy almost pre-teen who excels at science, plays soccer with fierce determination, and talks about stars like old friends.
Miranda catches my eye over Diana's head and smiles, a private communication that says she knows exactly what I'm thinking. That's another gift of these two years together, the way she can read me without words, understanding the currents of my thoughts as easily as she charts a patient's symptoms.
"Taste," Miranda instructs, holding out a sauce-covered spoon for Diana. "What does it need?"
Diana considers with the seriousness of a food critic. "More basil. And maybe a tiny bit more salt."
"Good call," Miranda agrees, adding a pinch of each. Her curls are piled on top of her head, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's still in her clinic clothes—dark slacks and a soft blue sweater—having come straight from work to help with dinner.
"Table's ready," Diana announces, setting down the last fork with precision. "And I put out the good napkins."
"The good napkins?" I ask, carrying the pasta to the table. "What's the occasion?"
Diana shrugs with elaborate casualness. "No reason. Just felt like it."
I exchange a glance with Miranda, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. There's definitely something brewing in my daughter's mind, but experience has taught me she'll reveal it in her own time.
