Page 50 of Pucking the Single Dad
"Thank you," Brad said quietly, his voice rough. "For this. For him. For..." He gestured vaguely at the space between us, unable to name what was growing there.
I understood. We were crossing into dangerous territory, where pretend became practice for something neither of us was ready to admit we wanted. But with Finn's warm weight across our laps and Brad's fingers brushing mine on the seat between us, I couldn't bring myself to care about the danger anymore.
Chapter 17: Serena
I checked my reflection for the tenth time, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the conservative blouse and skirt I'd chosen specifically for today. Not too casual—that would suggest I didn't take this seriously. Not too formal—that would seem like I was trying too hard. The Pattersons—Sarah's parents, Finn's grandparents, Brad's personal demons—would arrive in fifteen minutes, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
"You look perfect." Brad appeared in the doorway of the guest room I still officially occupied. "Remember, we've been together for weeks. We met at—"
"The rink, during family skate night. I'm from Texas, taught in San Antonio before moving here for a fresh start." I recited the practiced details, though they felt less like lies now and more like alternative history. "Brad, I've got this."
He crossed the room in two strides, hands framing my face with surprising gentleness. "I know you do. I just—" His thumb traced my cheekbone. "They're going to come at you hard. Sarah's mother especially. She's never forgiven me for not saving her daughter, and seeing you here, in her place..."
"It’s going to be alright," I said firmly, covering his hands with mine.
The doorbell rang before he could respond. Finn thundered down the stairs, shouting about Grandma and Grandpa, and Brad's expression shuttered into careful neutrality. Game time.
Mrs. Patterson entered like she was conducting a raid, her sharp eyes cataloging everything from the fresh flowers onthe entry table to the way Brad's hand rested at the small of my back. Mr. Patterson's friendliness felt forced, his smile not reaching eyes that assessed me with obvious skepticism.
"You must be the teacher," Mrs. Patterson said, making my profession sound like something she'd scraped off her shoe.
"Serena Voss." I extended my hand with practiced warmth, channeling years of difficult parent conferences. "It's wonderful to finally meet you. Finn talks about you constantly."
"Does he?" Her handshake was brief, dismissive. "How convenient that Brad found someone so... helpful... just when he needed assistance with custody arrangements."
The accusation hung in the air like a slap. Brad tensed beside me, but I squeezed his hand in warning. This was exactly what we'd prepared for.
"I can understand your concern," I said smoothly, guiding them toward the living room where I'd strategically placed photo albums and Finn's recent schoolwork. "Any grandparent would want to ensure their grandson's well-being. Would you like some coffee? Tea? I made Finn's favorite cookies—he insisted you love snickerdoodles."
The shift to Finn threw her off balance, as I'd hoped. I'd learned in teaching that redirecting to the child's needs often defused adult conflicts. Sure enough, Finn launched into excited chatter about our cookie-baking adventure, complete with dramatic reenactment of the flour explosion incident.
"Miss Serena taught me chemistry!" He bounced between his grandparents like a pinball. "Baking soda is a BASE and when it meets ACID there's carbon dioxide and BOOM—fluffy cookies! It's basically science magic!"
"You're incorporating science into baking?" Mr. Patterson looked grudgingly impressed.
I settled into my teacher persona, discussing cross-curricular learning and hands-on education, watching their defensive walls crack slightly. Brad brought coffee, his fingers brushing mine as he handed me my mug—prepared exactly how I liked it.
"How long have you been treating Finn's asthma?" She pivoted abruptly, trying to catch me off guard.
"I don't treat it," I responded calmly. "That's Dr. Lisa's role. But I've worked with asthmatic students for seven years, completed pediatric emergency response certification, and maintain detailed logs of Finn's triggers, peak flow readings, and medication schedules."
I produced the color-coded binder I'd created, tabs marking everything from emergency protocols to dietary considerations. Mrs. Patterson's eyebrows rose as she flipped through pages of meticulous documentation.
"This is... comprehensive," she admitted reluctantly.
"Finn's health is the priority," I said simply. "Always."
The doorbell rang like a referee's whistle.
"Oh, did I forget to mention?" Mrs. Patterson's smile could have frozen hell. "I asked social services to join us."
The ambush. Of course.
Ms. Rodriguez entered with the kind of professional warmth that meant she'd seen everything and judged most of it. Her clipboard looked like a weapon.
"Ms. Voss, I understand you're residing here temporarily due to storm damage?"
"The repairs are ongoing," Brad interjected, but I touched his knee gently.
