Page 48 of Pucking the Single Dad
Two rows up, Mrs. Henderson's stage whisper could've been heard in the next county. "Two weeks living together and now a field trip? Mark my words, Gloria—wedding by spring."
Mrs. Gomez swiveled like a periscope, her eyes bright with small-town hunger. We were performing our fake relationship for an audience of PTA vultures, and they were eating it up with a spoon.
"Dad, your elbow is crushing my lunch." Finn squirmed, then locked eyes with me. "Miss Serena, will you help with my nature journal? Dad draws trees like they're having seizures."
"Seizures?" Brad's outrage was theatrical. "My trees have personality."
"Yeah, personality disorders."
I snorted, couldn't help it, and Brad's answering nudge sent electricity straight down my spine. His cologne, something cedar and dangerous, mixed with the bus's eau de overripe banana and made my head swim.
"Traitors, both of you," he muttered, but his thigh pressed harder against mine, and I wondered if everyone could hear my heart trying to escape through my ribs.
The Wrightwood Environmental Center appeared through the trees like something from a fairy tale—log buildings nestled among towering pines, their bark rough and ancient. The air hit us as we disembarked, crisp and sharp with the scent of earth and growing things. Brad's hand found the small of my back, guiding me down the bus steps. The touch was meant for show, for the watching parents, but it lingered a beat too long to be purely performance.
Children erupted from the buses in barely controlled chaos. I shifted into teacher mode automatically, counting heads and checking buddy pairs while Brad unloaded our gear. His movements were efficient despite favoring his injured knee—something he thought he hid well, but I'd learned to read the subtle shifts in his weight, the careful way he planted his feet.
"Alright, families!" The camp director's voice boomed across the courtyard. "Let's gather for orientation!"
We formed a large circle in the welcome hall, its vaulted ceiling supported by massive log beams. Finn positioned himself between us, his small hand slipping into mine with trusting easethat made my heart stutter. When our turn for introductions arrived, Brad cleared his throat.
"I'm Brad Wilder, this is my—" He paused, and I saw the moment of panic in his eyes. "My partner, Serena, and our son Finn."
My partner. Our son.
The words hung there, radioactive.
Mrs. Gomez made a sound like a stepped-on cat. Mrs. Henderson's hand flew to her pearls. The entire circle held its breath while my heart tried to climb out through my throat.
Finn, blissfully unaware he'd just been claimed, grinned like Christmas morning.
"We met during the storm," I added quickly, my voice steadier than my racing heart. "Sometimes the best things come from unexpected circumstances."
Brad's ears went nuclear red. But his hand found mine—deliberate, decisive—his hockey calluses rough as tree bark against my palm. He squeezed once, an apology or a promise or maybe both.
The circle moved on, but the words kept echoing:Our son. Our son. Our son.
Like a spell that couldn't be taken back.
The family scavenger hunt paired us with the Hendersons. Their twins, Aiden and Ava, immediately attached themselves to Finn, the three of them racing ahead to find the first clue. Mrs. Henderson fell into step beside me, her nurse's eyes cataloging everything: Finn's breathing pattern, the inhaler bulge in Brad's pocket, the way Brad tracked his son like a sniper tracks a target.
"He has severe asthma," she stated rather than asked. "You know that can be extremely dangerous in outdoor settings like this?"
The words stung, implying I was some naive girlfriend playing at motherhood without understanding the stakes. Before I could respond, Brad's arm came around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.
"Serena's handled Finn's worst episodes better than I have," he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that made opposing players think twice before challenging him on the ice. "She's memorized his triggers, completed EMT training on her own time, catches warning signs I'm too thick to notice. I'd trust her with his life before I'd trust myself."
Then he kissed my temple—casual, possessive, devastating. "Right, sweetheart?"
The endearment rolled off his tongue like honey, and Mrs. Henderson's expression softened immediately. "Oh, I didn't mean to imply—I'm just protective of all the children. It's wonderful Finn has both of you looking out for him."
She scurried after the twin terrors, abandoning us to our charade. Except Brad's arm stayed locked around me, his thumb drawing lazy circles on my hip that felt anything but fake.
"Selling it?" he murmured, his breath disturbing my hair, but his grip suggested he was selling something to himself.
"DAD! MISS SERENA!" Finn's shriek saved me from spontaneous combustion. "PILEATED WOODPECKER! THE PTERODACTYL KIND!"
Brad lifted him easily, despite his knee, holding him steady while Finn pointed out the bird's distinctive red crest. I guided their observation, turning it into an impromptulesson about adaptations and ecosystems. Other families paused to listen, children gathering around us as I explained how woodpeckers' tongues wrap around their skulls for protection.
