Guarded Hearted Single Dad (Not Looking for Love #12)

Chapter 1 - Sofia

Mom was here.

The thought settles in my chest as I drive into Aspenbrook, quiet and steady.

I roll down the window and let the air rush in, breathing it deep into my lungs.

This place looks like the small towns I’ve only ever seen in movies.

Wild trees instead of manicured rows. Houses that don’t look alike.

Fields stretching wide beyond a main street that’s barely five blocks long.

The air smells clean, alive, untouched. No smog.

No noise. No pressure pressing in from every side.

For the first time in years, I can breathe.

After Mom died, my dad and stepmom wrapped my life in layers of protection.

College close to home. No risks. No mistakes.

No room to fall. They meant well. They always did.

But somewhere between their good intentions and their fear of losing me too, I stopped moving forward.

I did everything right and still felt like I was standing still, sheltered to the point of suffocating.

Coming here feels like stepping out of a cage I didn’t realize had been locked.

This town is part of my mother’s past, a place she once loved, and maybe that’s why it already feels familiar. Like she’s guiding me here, nudging me toward a life that’s mine. I’m finally taking a risk. Finally choosing the real world over safety.

The mechanical voice of my GPS tells me to turn into a narrow driveway, and I slow as it opens onto a shared property. To one side sits a small one-bedroom guesthouse. Beyond it, a two-story farmhouse rises, solid and quietly impressive.

My attention goes straight to the main house.

Brick and white-painted wood, weathered but lovingly kept.

Sturdy in a way that suggests time has passed here gently, not harshly.

It looks like it belongs to another century and to this one all at once, the kind of place built to endure storms, seasons, and lives lived inside its walls.

There’s something open about it, too. Not grand. Just… steady.

The guesthouse mirrors it in style, all brick with white trim, but it’s newer, smaller, set a respectful distance away. Wildflowers press against the outer walls, unruly and bright, as if no one’s bothered to tame them. Or maybe they chose not to. Either way, it feels intentional.

Whoever owns this place cares. Not just about how it looks, but about what it holds. About making something last.

I like that. I like the quiet pride in it.

Inside, I unload my two duffel bags and backpacks and take a slow look around.

A cozy living room with a compact kitchen tucked beside it.

Front and back doors. A small bathroom. A bedroom just big enough for a bed, a dresser, and built-in cubbies lining the wall.

The closet is barely more than an afterthought, but I don’t mind as this house offers everything I need.

I look around the outdoor area since I like being outside, especially since we’re in an area where there are fireflies. As I set up a lawn chair I bought near what looks like an old fire pit, I hear a sharp whistle.

My chestnut braid slips over my shoulder as I lift a hand to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun. That’s when I see him.

A man stands on the last step of the wraparound porch, broad and solid, like he belongs to the land itself.

He’s still on the far side of the yard, yet the moment he looks at me, my body reacts as if he were already close.

Something tightens in my chest, sharp and instinctive, and my breath stutters.

He steps down from the porch and starts toward me.

Even from here, there’s nothing distant about him.

His grey-blue eyes lock onto mine, slow and assessing, and heat curls low in my belly without warning.

The look isn’t welcoming. It isn’t unkind.

It’s controlled, unreadable, and it makes my pulse kick harder all the same.

Sun-darkened skin. A hint of silver at his temples.

Rugged in a way that speaks of long days, hard work, and a life that hasn’t been easy.

My skin prickles as his attention stays fixed on me.

He’s dressed simply, a plain black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and jeans worn soft from use, thin enough to trace the powerful lines beneath.

He doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t need to.

Every step he takes feels deliberate, confident, like he’s used to commanding space without ever asking for it.

Then he whistles.

The sharp sound cuts through the quiet, and I jump, my heart slamming against my ribs.

I swallow and take a hesitant step forward, suddenly too aware of myself, of my body, of the fact that I’ve already unloaded my bags without so much as introducing myself.

Should I have checked in first? Knocked on his door?

Asked permission before acting like I belonged here?

The questions blur together as he closes the distance between us.

Especially when his hand moves toward his back pocket.

His shirt shifts just enough to reveal a glimpse of hard muscle, but my eyes snag lower, drawn to the sharp dip of his hip, the deep line that disappears beneath his jeans. My mouth goes dry.

“Sofia, yes?” he asks.

“Y-yes,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

The fact that a man like him is standing here, talking to me, short-circuits something in my brain. He’s rugged and closed-off, the kind of stoic presence that should be intimidating. And somehow, that only makes him more attractive. Gorgeous, even.

Then I hear a laugh.

I turn just as a little boy climbs down from the tree behind me, dark hair falling into his eyes, all long limbs and restless energy.

“Dad!” he calls, bounding toward the man in front of me.

Oh.

Cole’s attention shifts instantly. “Liam,” he says, his voice grounding, steady.

The boy stops at his side and glances up at him before looking at me. I smile without thinking, and he grins back, lifting a hand in a small wave.

Before I can respond, Cole steps slightly in front of him. Not abrupt. Not aggressive. Just instinctive.

“The keys,” he says, turning back to me.

Only then do I realize what he means. He’s holding out a small ring with two keys attached.

“For the guesthouse.”

“Oh—” I swallow. “I’m sorry. The door was unlocked, so I thought… I assumed it was open for me.”

“It was,” he says simply.

I nod, suddenly aware of how close he is now. I reach out, and when my fingers brush his, a spark snaps along my skin, sharp and unmistakable. Heat blooms, sliding fast beneath my ribs. My heart stutters. His eyes darken.

I curl my fingers around the keys, resisting the urge to step closer despite the tension rolling off him.

“Thank you for this,” I whisper.

He holds my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Then he steps back, one hand dropping to Liam’s shoulder in a casual, familiar gesture.

“Are you going to stay and play?” The little boy asks, peeking around Cole’s hip. “Dad never wants to play fun games.”

His lips tick down for a moment, but I beam. “I know some good games, but we’ll need your dad’s permission for hide-and-seek, tree climbing, tag, or the other games I know.”

Cole steps closer, cutting off my instinctive move toward his son. Not abruptly. Just enough to place himself between us. His presence is solid, immovable, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of how small the space feels.

He studies my face with quiet intensity, his gaze sharp and assessing, as if he’s searching for something he doesn’t want to find. A flicker of threat. A wrong intention. His hands stay tense at his sides, fingers curled, ready. It should make me uneasy.

Instead, my pulse skids.

There’s something in the way his eyes linger, in the moment his fists slowly loosen, in the subtle shift when his expression eases—not warm, not kind, just… less guarded. The change is minute, but my body feels it instantly, heat pooling low, muscles going soft and weak in response.

I want something reckless.

To close the distance. To press myself into that strength. To show him, somehow, that I’m not what he’s braced for.

Then he clears his throat.

“We’ll see.”

“Better than a no,” I breathe before I can stop myself.

“What was that?”

I force myself to inhale, to pull my thoughts back into order. I just met this man. I’m usually good at reading people, but this isn’t a man who offers himself up to be read. I clear my throat. “I said… that’s better than a no.”

He considers me for a long moment. Then he nods once.

“Come on, Liam,” he says, turning toward his son. “I’m starting dinner. Come be my helper.”

The words are simple, but the tone isn’t. There’s firmness there. Authority. And underneath it, something gentler that makes goosebumps rise along my arms.

I lift the keys when Cole glances back, but what really holds me still is the sight of him right there, exactly where he belongs. His son talking eagerly at his side. His shoulders still tense, his expression still guarded, as if warmth is something he keeps under lock and key.

For a first impression, it’s a surprisingly powerful welcome to town.