Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

1. Chapter One Poppy

Chapter One: Poppy

“ T hose sunglasses make you look like a bug, Poppy Minton!”

“It’s nice to see you, too, rockstar,” I reply, sidling up to Aiden’s surprisingly understated, midsize SUV idling on the curb outside the Arrivals gate. He’s leaning against the hood, arms crossed, wearing a black leather jacket despite the warm spring day.

“Are you actually pushing your own suitcase?” he continues to mock me, albeit playfully, as I approach.

Despite the fact that I am, indeed, wearing massive sunglasses that block half my face from view, I roll my eyes at my old friend.

In an attempt to get even at him for his teasing, I nod my chin toward his car. “What even is that? A Nissan?”

“Did you expect me to pick you up in a Maserati?”

“It would’ve been nice.”

Aiden snorts. “Get in the car, princess.”

Without prompting, he reaches for my suitcase and hauls it into the trunk. Grinning, I slide into the passenger seat of his endearingly modest vehicle. Aiden Marx has changed a lot since I last saw him. When we were neighbors in Malibu, he usually drove a sleek red Porsche, but he also had a G-Wagon and a vintage Corvette at his disposal.

Now, my rockstar friend lives in a small town on the coast of Massachusetts with his adorable wife. He used to shred his guitars on stage in front of hundreds of thousands of people all over the world, but his most recent release was a stripped-back acoustic album recorded in the basement of his little cottage. He’s completely changed his life from one of glamour and fame to peace and simplicity.

Suffice to say, he’s an inspiration to me. The blueprint. He’s never been happier, and I wish I could have a taste of that, too. I knew I certainly wasn’t going to find it in LA, where simplicity is a four-letter word. Nor was I going to find it in London, where my father’s side of the family would smother me half to death with all their well-meaning concern.

So, when a cottage close to Aiden’s house went on the market this past winter, Aiden gave me a call, and, within days, I made an offer. Then, when the sale was final, I sold my Malibu beach house, hired someone to pack up my things, and informed the manager of my rental properties in West Hollywood that I was relocating.

It all happened very quickly. So quickly that most of my friends assumed I’d completely lost my mind.

Those people are hardly my friends, though. They were more concerned with who might inherit my Birkin bag since I was downsizing.

And, for the record, you’d have to tear my Birkin bag from my cold, dead hands. I don’t mess around when it comes to Hermès.

“How was the flight?” Aiden asks as he pulls into the steady stream of traffic heading out of Boston’s Logan Airport.

“Divine. Flying commercial is hardly the plebeian horror that everyone in Los Angeles makes it out to be. I’ve been doing it for years and I’ve never had a bad experience.”

“That’s because you always fly First Class, Pop.”

“Whatever.”

Aiden simply chuckles. That’s why I like him so much. He knows the real reason why I don’t get on private jets anymore—not since I was thirteen—but he’s nice enough to let me pretend that it’s simply a matter of personal taste.

“So,” Aiden hums, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “are you hungry? Thirsty? It’s a couple hours down to the Cape. We can do a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through.”

“Dunkin’ what ?”

He smirks. “It’s an East Coast rite of passage. You need to have a watery iced coffee from Dunkin’ immediately, or the ghosts of our founding fathers will haunt you.”

“Ew, Aiden. No, thanks.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“I’ll call your wife and tell her you’re threatening me with bad coffee and dead white men.”

“My wife is also from here. She’ll agree with me.”

“Ugh,” I pretend to groan, sinking lower in the seat. Still, I’m so giddy with excitement over this big, bold, dramatic direction that I’ve decided to take my life in that I can’t pretend to stay bummed for long. I perk right back up a moment later. “How is Sabrina, anyway? Still a wildly successful author and cute as a button?”

Aiden grins—the smile of a man who is truly, deeply, incurably in love. It makes me sick with yearning. I want to know what that feels like.

“Yeah, she’s great,” he replies, his voice all soft and gooey.

I wrinkle my nose at him with playful disgust. He catches me out of the corner of his eye and barks out a laugh.

“Your time will come, Pop. I’m sure of it.”

“Hm. I’m not so sure.”

“You never know. You could meet the love of your life in Mermaid Shores.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “I still can’t believe they actually named the town that. It’s so…”

“Endearing?”

“Corny.”

Aiden reaches out and lightly swats me in the leg. “Believe me when I say that you’re absolutely going to love it there. It’s a special place, Poppy. Unlike anywhere else you’ve ever been.”

“I know, I know. You’ve shown me enough pictures. Not to mention that walking tour you gave me over FaceTime. I’m already in love with the place.” I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s not like I dropped one-point-two million dollars on a whim.”

“For all I know, spending a cool million is a normal Tuesday for you.”

“Aiden Marx, I’m not made of money!”

He laughs. “Hey, I’m just teasing. You’re smarter than you let people think, Poppy. You spend wisely. In fact, I could probably learn a thing or two by taking your financial advice.”

I snort, rolling my eyes as he flicks on his turn signal and pulls into the parking of a coffee shop with a massive pink and orange sign. Dunkin’ Donuts.

When in Rome, I guess…

I insist on Aiden ordering for me, since I usually stick to artisan lattes from a specific independent café in Malibu if I’m in the mood for coffee. Even so, there’s a brief battle of dominance when it comes time to pay—a battle that I lose when Aiden smacks my Amex Platinum onto the floor by my feet and quickly hands his own fancy credit card to the girl waiting at the window.

Grumbling under my breath, I retrieve my card and shove it back into my wallet.

“You picked me up from the airport. At least let me buy you coffee.”

“I mean, I’m the one who is literally forcing you to try it,” Aiden counters.

“Good point.”

In the end, when I try the sugary, iced concoction that he hands me, it’s actually not that bad. Not that I’m going to admit that aloud.

Aiden turns up the radio as we merge onto the highway. Not too loud to make talking impossible, but audible enough to provide some pleasant background noise as I rest my head back and try to get my bearings.

I already know that this little cottage waiting for me in Mermaid Shores is a good investment. Despite what people think about me, I’m neither stupid nor frivolous. They all assume I’m brainless because I’m blonde and bubbly, and because I’ve never really had to work a day in my life thanks to who my father is.

Still, I chose to be wise with what I inherited from him. A hundred million dollars can multiply easily if you invest it the right way. When I turned eighteen and was granted full access to the trust, I hired the best financial advisor in Southern California. Now, I own rental properties in Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco. I also have a house in the Mews in London and a pretty little penthouse in downtown Manhattan, too.

And that doesn’t even cover my investments in the stock market. Although I never went to college, I’ve learned enough through experience to be a decent economist and financial forecaster.

Aiden is one of the few people on this planet who knows how smart I really am. Mostly because he’s really the only person who cares. Most of the friends I have in LA only care about spending money on designer shoes and luxury vacations.

Not that my friends back on the West Coast are horrible people. It’s just… I’m pretty sure I’ve grown up and they never will.

But at least I have Aiden. And, even though I haven’t met her in person yet, Sabrina seems like a really sweet girl.

I’m marching boldly into a new life, but I’m not doing it alone.

Aiden and I chat casually during the drive to Mermaid Shores. He points out various things as we exit onto Cape Cod, and I catch glimpses of the Atlantic Ocean every once in a while. It’s darker than the Pacific, and there’s something beautiful about how unflinchingly wild it is.

“Almost there,” Aiden murmurs.

We turn onto a road so narrow that I can hardly believe it’s two-way. It’s lined with spindly pine trees. I smell salty brine on the breeze even with the windows closed.

Then, just when I’m sure that this road is going to curve out onto an oceanside highway, Aiden takes a left onto a hidden drive that I didn’t even notice. I see a flash of an old wooden sign that reads Mermaid Shores , with a rudimentary arrow carved into it.

This road is even narrower, and even more densely lined with trees.

I sit up a little straighter in the passenger seat, butterflies dancing in my stomach as a strange sensation washes over me. It feels like the warmth of the summer sun embracing you after you’ve been shivering inside an overly air-conditioned place for too long. Which doesn’t make sense, because it’s only May and Aiden’s windows are pretty darkly tinted.

I glance over at him. He grins.

“I’ll never get used to that,” he says.

“You felt that, too?”

“I feel it every time I come back to Mermaid Shores. I told you, Poppy. It’s a special place.”

I shrug off this mystical nonsense. I’m too practical to fall for that kind of stuff. Mermaid Shores might be special to the people who call it home, but I’m sure it’s a normal seaside town just like any other.

Except, the comforting warmth doesn’t leave me as the narrow lane ends at a fork, and Aiden turns right onto an adorable main street lined with kitschy souvenir shops, quirky eateries, and all kinds of other interesting places of business. There’s a candy shop with an old-fashioned machine pulling taffy in the window, and another shop that seems to specialize primarily in weird-flavored popcorn. As Aiden drives by, I notice the popcorn flavor of the day is apparently something called Monster Mash .

“Tourist season is just beginning, so it’s not crazy busy yet,” Aiden tells me. “In a couple of weeks, though, this place will be crowded with people.”

I hum in acknowledgement, too enamored with the scenery—rows of charming brick storefronts on one side of the street and sand dunes unfurling into a pleasant beach on the other—to contribute much to the conversation.

Aiden did tell me that Mermaid Shores’ usual population of tourists is a little different than other places. It’s considered a hidden gem for all manner of VIPs, including celebrities, diplomats, and old-money types. At the same time, however, it has a robust population of locals who keep the town running all year-round.

After a brief stretch of roadway, Main Street gives way to a curving lane that snakes along the outer edge of the beach. The coastline is guarded from the road by salt-smoothed wooden fencing, tufts of beach grass, and cedar-shingled cottages sitting pretty against the backdrop.

It’s unbearably adorable.

I’m giddy by the time Aiden pulls into the gravel driveway of a traditional cottage with white siding, light green shutters, and a wraparound porch. It’s a three-bedroom, four-bathroom abode built a few decades ago and updated most recently about fifteen years ago. It’s cute, yet not entirely modern enough for my tastes, but that was part of the appeal.

Just like I told the real estate agent, I’m looking for something with potential. Something that has a good foundation and that I can make all my own.

In fact, I already have a meeting with a general contractor and an interior designer bright and early tomorrow morning. I don’t like to waste time.

With a delighted squeal, I hop out of the vehicle and skip up to the front porch. The wood groans underfoot and the paint is chipped, but I’m sure those things can be fixed easily. The empty plant pots hanging from the roof of the porch can be taken care of by the landscapers I plan to hire, and the rusted wind chimes dangling near the front door can be replaced in a heartbeat.

Honestly, I’ve been desperate for a project. An excuse to get my hands dirty for the first time in my life. I want to do something real. I want to create something tangible.

I want to feel like I actually have a purpose.

“You want to come in?” I call to Aiden, who is very kindly hauling my suitcase out of the trunk.

“You’re only inviting me inside so that I haul this huge thing in there for you.”

I beam at him. “You know me so well, Aiden Marx.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s a playful gesture. He’s chivalrous down to his core, and I know for a fact that he wouldn’t let me lug my overweight suitcase across the lawn and up the porch steps by myself.

I dig around in my purse for the keys, which the agent mailed to me when the paperwork was all officially signed.

An excited chill goes down my spine as the lock gives way under my hand. The doorknob turns with a satisfying thunk, and then the door moans in welcome as it swings open for us.

We’re greeted by an airy, sunlight foyer. A traditional staircase leads directly to the second-floor landing, with ugly carpeting that I can’t wait to have ripped up.

The previous owners left some basic furniture behind—mostly a few mahogany antiques that added to the value of the property. I’ll be keeping most of it, but the place is still pretty bare. I don’t even have a bed yet. Amazon is supposed to be delivering an air mattress and some bedding to my front door at some point this afternoon.

The rest of my belongings, including my car, won’t arrive for another week. It’ll be like camping. Like a real adventure. And a little bit like the old days, too, when I would rough it with my dad and his bandmates on the road.

But I don’t really want to think too much about that. Not right now.

“It’s a nice place, Poppy,” Aiden says, looking around at the sparse, yet large and bright, rooms. “You did well.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I smile wide.

“My intuition is flawless,” I say. “The place definitely has potential.”

And I can’t help thinking that, without a doubt, I know my dad would love this place.