Page 31 of Pucking the Single Dad
"Yeah." He moved to the railing beside me, close enough that his body heat radiated in the space between us. "You were good with him today. You saw something I've been too scared to see. That I've been making him worse by..." He stopped, jaw working.
"By loving him too much to risk anything?"
Brad turned to face me fully, and something shifted in the space between us—unnamed but undeniable.
He moved closer, more than an inch this time, closing the distance between us. His hand came up, fingers barely grazing my cheek, and I found myself leaning into his touch. His eyes searched mine in the darkness, asking a question neither of us could voice.
I tilted my face up toward his. He leaned down, our breaths mingling in small clouds in the cold air. My heart hammered against my ribs. Just another inch now.
Brad suddenly straightened, his hand dropping away. "I should check on Finn. Make sure he's sleeping okay."
The loss of his warmth felt like a physical blow. I nodded, forcing my expression neutral even as disappointment crashed through me. "Of course."
He went inside first. I stayed on the deck a moment longer, pressing cold fingers to my still-warm cheek where he'd touched me. What would have happened if he hadn't pulled away?
I shook my head and followed him in. The house embraced me with warmth and the quiet hum of Finn's breathing monitor from upstairs.
Chapter 12: Brad
The almost-kiss haunted every interaction. I watched Serena pour her energy into Finn's care with aggressive cheerfulness, maintaining a professional distance that made my chest ache. She was still here, still present, but the ease between us had been replaced by careful choreography.
"Miss Serena, look!" Finn called from the living room where they'd built an elaborate city with blocks. "The hospital has a helicopter pad just like Wrightwood General!"
"Brilliant engineering, Finn," she replied, but when our eyes met over his head, she flinched away like I'd burned her.
I hunched over hockey footage, cursor frozen on the same play for twenty minutes while I watched her demonstrate load distribution using towers of blocks, her hands—those careful, competent hands—gesturing in my oldAvalanchesweatshirt that swallowed her whole; seeing her in it created a cognitive dissonance I couldn't resolve.
"Dad's doing the thing," Finn announced to the room.
"What thing?" Serena's voice pitched higher.
"The thing where he stares at you and his face gets all weird and googly." Finn demonstrated by crossing his eyes. "Like when our neighbor's bulldog sees bacon."
I choked on air. Serena turned crimson.
“I’m seven, not blind,” Finn added. “Dad, can Miss Serena stay forever?” It was the third time he’d asked me that week. The kid had my stubbornness and his mother's refusal to let things go.
“Her cabin will be fixed soon,” I said automatically. “She has her own home.”
“But she likes it here.” He looked between us with seven-year-old certainty. “And we like her here, right, Dad?”
“It’s temporary, Finn.”
His whole body deflated. "Everything good is always temporary. Like Mom."
The words landed like a punch to the sternum. Serena dropped to her knees beside him, voice silk-soft.
"Hey, warrior. Even when I'm back next door, I'm not disappearing. We'll still have our adventures."
"It won't be the same." He turned away, seven years old and already learning how people leave. "Nothing stays the same."
The doorbell rescued us from drowning. I opened the door to a light, steady snowfall dusting the porch and the shoulders of the men outside. A repair crew supervisor stood there, clipboard in hand, a few flakes clinging to his cap.
"Ms. Voss? We've assessed your cabin damage."
Serena stepped forward. "How bad is it?"
"The tree went through load-bearing beams. We're looking at six to eight weeks minimum, assuming we can get materials. Every contractor in town is backed up with storm damage."
