Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
OREN
My bedroom looks as though a small tornado hit it. Clothes tossed everywhere, half of them folded, the other half discarded, some tried on and rejected, and others still warm from the dryer.
I should’ve packed last night, but instead I stood in front of the mirror, cycling through outfits as though I was auditioning for America’s Next Top Little. Too babyish? Too grown-up? Too “Please adopt me, Daddy”? Ugh.
In the end, I land on my trusty overall shorts and a Marvel tee—the one with all four Heroes in tight spandex suits that bulge in all the right places. It’s comfortable, playful, and I don’t have to suck in my stomach. Win-win.
Socks? I’m not choosing. I scoop up every pair I own and dump them into the bag. Keane can’t ask for a report if I’ve brought the whole damn inventory.
At the last second, I reach for my journal—the one with the embarrassing cover and the even more embarrassing insides. Pages of dirty bedtime stories no one’s ever seen. No one except maybe… if I’m brave… someday… him. I slip it between my socks like contraband.
But I can’t zip it shut yet. Not without debating The Duck.
Quackers has been with me since I was nine years old, bedraggled and floppy but loyal through every move, every heartbreak, and every nightmare.
He deserves to come. But if I end up in a tent with Keane…
will he think I’m pathetic? A grown man with a stuffed animal? My stomach twists.
I’m still clutching Quackers in indecision when a knock rattles the door.
Keane’s voice calls out, “Oren? You ready?”
Panic detonates. I scramble, trying to shove Quackers under a pillow, but he slips out of my arms and lands with a soft, traitorous plop right by my bag.
“All ready!” I call out brightly, opening the door.
Keane steps in, and the room recalibrates around him as his broad shoulders fill the doorway.
He’s still wearing his jacket, tie loosened as if he’s already anticipating the weekend.
He smells faintly of clean soap and something warmer underneath—coffee, maybe, or leather.
His presence isn’t loud, but it’s decisive, like gravity deciding where things belong.
With one glance, I’m hooked. Not just interested. Not just curious. Hooked.
My eyes land on his handsome face and refuse to move, like my brain has suddenly forgotten how to look anywhere else.
He’s bigger than I expected—not just tall, but solid in a way that makes the space around him feel smaller.
His hair is darker than it looked in the picture, a little mussed like he’s run his hand through it on the drive over.
And his eyes—God. I want to lose myself in them.
My stomach does a weird, swooping drop. My pulse jumps somewhere up near my throat. Even the air feels different, like it’s suddenly thicker, harder to breathe.
This is the man whose words have been living in my phone for weeks. Who calls me kiddo as if I belong to him. The one that makes my shoulders loosen and my thoughts slow down.
Seeing him in person is… a lot. Too much, maybe.
His eyes sweep over the room and land—of course—on the duck.
“Not yet,” he says, crossing the room in two strides. He scoops Quackers up without hesitation, tucking him under one arm as if this was always the plan. With the other, he lifts my duffel easily, as though it weighs nothing at all.
“Now we’re all set.”
Something tight in my chest gives way. My throat closes, not with panic this time, but with relief so sharp it almost hurts. Just like that, Keane made everything okay. Not because he fixed anything—but because he saw it. Saw me. No laughter. No pause. No shame.
All thanks to Quackers.
The car hums along, and I try to swallow my nerves before they bubble up into a mouth-disaster. Keane must sense it, because he leans back in his seat, calm as ever, and says, “Why don’t you pick the music, kiddo?”
I fumble with his phone when he passes it over, nearly dropping it in my lap. My hands are too shaky for something so simple, but he doesn’t comment. I scroll through his playlists and pick one that feels neutral: oldies, a mix of nineties rock and soft pop. Daddy music.
“Now drink some water,” he says next, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. He reaches for the bottle in the cup holder and hands it to me. I unscrew the cap and take a long gulp, throat dry from all the nervous swallowing.
“That’s better,” he says, satisfied.
And for the first time all morning, I actually breathe.
We drive a few more miles, music filling the space, when Keane glances over at me with a quiet smile that makes my tummy feel squishy.
“I like your overalls.”
My ears get hot. “Y-you do?”
“Yeah. They suit you.” He shrugs, casual as ever. “Cute.”
Cute. He said cute.
Before my brain can explode, I blurt back, “Well, I like your Daddy suit.”
He huffs a laugh, deep and rumbling, shaking his head. “Not exactly ideal for the woods.” He tugs at his loosened tie with a wry grin. “Don’t worry, I brought a change of clothes.”
That image alone—Keane in jeans and maybe a t-shirt instead of his lawyer armor—makes me squirm in my seat. I bite back a smile and turn toward the window before he can see my face.
Quackers rides silent shotgun between us, seatbelt snug.
The gravel crunches under the tires as Keane turns into the campground. A big wooden sign welcomes us, painted in cheerful colors like something straight out of summer camp movies.
My stomach does a full gymnastics routine.
“This is it,” Keane murmurs.
I nod, taking a deep breath. No backing out now. The moment I step out of the car, I’m ambushed.
“Oren!”
Three bodies barrel into me—Theo, Lane, and Timmy—chattering all at once, tugging at my bag, my shirt, my arm. They swarm like puppies, and before I can catch my breath, they’re looking past me.
“Ohhh,” Theo says, eyes going wide. “You brought a Daddy.”
Timmy smirks. “Tall. Handsome. Professional-looking. Ten out of ten.”
Lane crosses his arms, scowling. “I should’a brought a Daddy too.”
Theo elbows him, grinning wickedly. “Please. I’m holding out for a hot camp counselor Daddy.”
As if on cue, a laugh rings out behind us—warm, good-natured, and… yeah, hot.
We all turn to find an actual counselor strolling up, dressed in khaki shorts, a tight polo that's struggling to contain his ripped pecs, and a clipboard in hand. He’s carrying a fistful of sparkly laminated name badges that glitter in the sunlight.
“Sounds like I got here just in time,” he says, still laughing. “Which one of you is Oren?”
I raise a tentative hand.
“Perfect.” He hands me a badge with my name written in rainbow gel pen, complete with stickers of stars and ducks. My heart does a little flip.
The counselor hands out badges one-by-one, the Littles buzzing like bees around a candy jar.
Theo immediately pins his to his shirt and twirls.
Lane mutters something about his badge not being sparkly enough, and Timmy is already swapping stickers with a stranger as though they’ve been best friends for years.
Meanwhile, I’m clutching mine as if it’s made of glass.
“Don’t forget your Daddy gets one too,” the counselor says, flipping through the stack and holding out a larger badge in glittery gold. Across it, in thick marker, it reads: Daddy Keane.
My stomach free-falls.
The group chatter dies down just enough for me to realize everyone’s staring—at him, at Keane, towering beside me in his lawyer suit.
Theo grins as if Christmas came early. “Trial Daddy, huh?”
Lane snorts. “Figures you’d show up with a hot one.”
I want the earth to swallow me whole. “He’s not—it’s not like that—it’s just—”
Keane takes the badge with a calm, easy smile, pins it to his shirt pocket, and says, “Trial Daddy. I can work with that.”
But then he tugs me close as he pins the badge through the strap of my overalls, and his warm breath ghosts my ear.
“I’m pretty good at convincing a jury, kiddo. I hope I’m just as good at convincing you,” he whispers, making sparks ignite within my belly.
The Littles laugh and whoop as if he just scored a touchdown, and Theo sighs dramatically. “Ugh, Oren, you’re living my dream.”
I cover my face with both hands. If I stay hidden long enough, maybe no one will notice I’m blushing down to my toes.
But then I feel Keane’s hand again, firm on the small of my back. Just enough pressure to remind me he’s here. Just enough to make me peek through my fingers and find him looking at me as if I’m not ridiculous at all.
Like maybe… he’s proud.
And that’s somehow worse and better than everyone teasing combined.