Page 1 of Tempting the Single Dad
Chapter 1 – Miranda
The maple trees lining Foxglove Lane burn like torches against the cloudless sky. I roll down my window, letting early autumn air flood the car as I slow to take it all in.
After years of fluorescent hospital lighting and the sterile scent of antiseptic, my senses feel almost overwhelmed by the explosion of color and the sweet-spicy scent of fallen leaves.
Whitetail Falls wasn't exactly on my career vision board when I finished my pediatric residency. But when burnout hit me like a freight train six months ago, my mentor suggested this temporary posting, three months covering for the town's pediatrician. "Small-town pace, fresh air, adorable kids who actually have time to get better," she'd said.
I park near Acorn Circle, where an enormous oak tree stretches protective limbs over the plaza. The clinic sits on the corner, a Victorian painted in cheerful yellow with white trim. I take a deep breath, smooth down my wrap dress and head inside.
"Dr. Allen!" The receptionist jumps up from behind an antique desk. She's a whirlwind of energy in a hand-knit sweater decorated with tiny pumpkins. "We're so glad you made it! How was the drive? Did you find the cottage okay? Have you eaten?"
I laugh, the tightness in my shoulders already loosening. "The drive was gorgeous, the cottage is charming, and I had a muffin on my way in."
"Perfect! Dr. Winters left everything organized for you. We're not too busy today, just a few checkups and one ear infection. Oh!" She snaps her fingers. "Before I forget, could you possibly make a house call this afternoon? Well, a farm call, really. Diana Hilton needs a follow-up after her physical."
"Of course," I say, though my stomach flutters. House calls aren't exactly standard practice in Boston. "Is there anything specific I should know?"
Maggie's expression softens. "Diana's been selectively mute since her grandma passed away. Her father is doing his best, but..." She shrugs. "They own Silverbrook Pumpkin Farm, just past Harvest Hollow. You can't miss it, best pumpkins in three counties."
Two hours later, after seeing patients with everything from strep throat to growing pains, I'm back in my car, following Maggie's directions toward Silverbrook Farm. The narrow road winds through hills ablaze with autumn colors, and the tension headache I've carried for months begins to ease.
Silverbrook announces itself with a rustic wooden sign and rows of pumpkins stretching toward distant mountains. I drive through an avenue of sugar maples, their golden canopy creating a tunnel of light that feels magical.
The farm itself is something from a calendar—a red barn, white farmhouse, fenced pastures where horses graze, and fields upon fields of pumpkins in every imaginable size.
Children and parents wander between neat rows, pulling wagons and searching for perfect pumpkins. A hayride circles a far field, laughter carrying on the breeze. I park near a cluster of outbuildings where employees in flannel shirts stack hay bales and arrange corn stalks into decorative displays.
Then I see him.
Standing a head taller than everyone else, broad-shouldered in a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal tanned, muscular forearms. He's directing two teenagers with cratesof mini pumpkins, his deep voice carrying authority without harshness.
I'm so busy staring that I don't notice the small girl perched atop a towering pumpkin display until she reaches for a pumpkin just beyond her grasp. The stack shifts beneath her.
"Diana!" I call out, already moving.
The pumpkins topple like oversized dominoes. The girl gives a startled yelp as she falls, landing hard amidst the rolling gourds. I reach her just as the man, who must be her father, comes running.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?" I kneel beside her, medical training kicking in. The girl's eyes are wide with shock, a small cut bleeding on her forearm where a pumpkin stem caught her.
"Diana," the man says, dropping to his knees beside me. "Are you hurt?" His voice is gentle, belying his imposing size, but panic edges his words.
Diana doesn't answer, just stares at the blood welling on her arm, her lower lip trembling.
"I'm Dr. Miranda," I say softly, pulling a clean tissue from my purse. "Can I take a look at your arm? I promise to be super gentle."
Her dark eyes flick to mine, then to her father's. He nods encouragingly, and she extends her arm with a slight wobble in her chin.
"Thank you for trusting me," I murmur, carefully dabbing at the cut. "This is a brave-girl scratch. Not too deep, but we should clean it." I look up at her father, finding myself caught in the warmth of eyes the color of maple syrup. "I'm Dr. Miranda Allen.The clinic sent me for Diana's follow-up, but it seems we're doing an impromptu appointment."
"David Hilton." His voice has a gravelly quality that makes my skin tingle. "Thank you for being so quick." He brushes a strand of silky dark hair from Diana's forehead with such tenderness that my heart constricts.
I turn back to Diana. "I have a special doctor's kit in my car. Would it be okay if I get it to clean your arm properly? I might even have a cool bandage in there."
Diana doesn't speak but gives a small nod. As I start to rise, David's hand brushes mine, sending an electric current up my arm.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "She hasn't—" He stops, glancing at his daughter. "It's been a difficult time."
"No need to thank me. It's what I do."
