Small Town Daddy (Small Falls #1)

Chapter 1

Lucy

I was finally home. Shame it didn’t feel like home anymore.

Rain pelted the windshield as I drove into Small Falls. The wipers struggled against the downpour, smearing more than clearing. My knuckles whitened on the wheel.

The old stone bridge over the Blueway River loomed ahead, its familiar arch a gateway to my past. As I crossed, memories flooded back—summer days spent dangling our feet in the cool water below, Dad teaching me to skip stones across the rippling surface.

My chest tightened. I hadn't been back since leaving for college. Now, Dad was gone, and I was returning alone.

Main Street unfurled before me, quaint storefronts lining the way like sentinels. Nostalgia and anxiety churned in my gut.

"Get it together, Lucy," I muttered, gripping the wheel even tighter.

There was the bakery where I'd gotten my first job. The ice cream parlor that made Dad's favorite rocky road. Each landmark intensified the ache of his absence. The Daily Grind coffee shop. Wilkins’ hardware.

All exactly as it had been.

Eventually, I turned onto Maple Lane, heart racing. At the end of my street stood Dad's Victorian house. Once a cheerful blue, the paint was now faded and peeling. The garden had become a wild tangle of bushes and weeds. Number eighteen.

Tears pricked my eyes as I pulled into the driveway. This house held so many memories - movie nights cuddled on the couch, Dad's booming laugh echoing through the rooms. Mom’s pancakes. Her love.

Then, after she died, the love was replaced with grief., and the house felt empty. Of course, dad hadn’t been the same afterward. And my childhood had just kind of stopped. It wasn’t dad’s fault, of course, but being a single dad had been so hard. All his time was taken up with work, and looking after the house. He had no time to play with me.

"Home sweet home," I whispered, my voice cracking.

I sat there a moment, raindrops drumming on the roof. Part of me wanted to throw the car in reverse and speed away. But I couldn't run from this.

Taking a shaky breath, I grabbed my purse and stepped out into the rain. Time to face the past and figure out what comes next.

I rushed to the front door, fumbling with my suitcase and umbrella. The brass key felt cold and unfamiliar in my hand as I jammed it into the lock. It stuck.

"Perfect," I muttered, rain soaking through my jacket. I jiggled the key and jiggled it again, but it wouldn't budge. Frustration bubbled up inside me, threatening to spill over.

A hysterical laugh escaped my lips. "Welcome home, Lucy. You’re the responsible adult now."

My hands shook as I tried again, memories of easier homecomings flashing through my mind. Dad waiting with open arms, the smell of his famous chili wafting from the kitchen. Now there was only silence and the relentless patter of rain.

Taking a deep breath, I gave the key one last twist. It finally turned with a reluctant click. Of course, there was a knack to it. A knack I’d forgotten with the passing of time.

I pushed the door open, greeted by the familiar creak of hinges. The scent hit me immediately—aged wood, vanilla, and a hint of Dad's cologne. My throat tightened as I set down my suitcase.

There was more to the smell, of course. A musty, dusty, damp note. The smell of absence.

"Dad?" I called out instinctively, then felt foolish. Of course, there was no answer.

I took a tentative step inside, my shoes leaving damp imprints on the dusty hardwood floor. The house felt frozen in time, a snapshot of the life I'd left behind. Family photos still lined the mantelpiece, smiling faces oblivious to the passage of years.

"God, what am I doing here?" I whispered, wrapping my arms around myself. The weight of memories pressed in from all sides, threatening to suffocate me.

Of course, I knew exactly why I was here. Dad had left me the place in his will. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, I was his only surviving relative, and now I was back to decide what to do. I’d left behind a decently-paid job at an accountancy firm in the city to come back.

I needed to renovate the place—that much I knew. Then, most likely, I’d sell it, and use the money as a deposit for my own place in the city. I’d go back to something else in accounting, and life would go on. Small Falls would once again drift into my memory.

I wandered into the living room, my fingers trailing over the worn fabric of the couch. How many nights had Dad and I curled up here, lost in the pages of our favorite books?

He’d been the one to instill a love of reading and writing in me. When I was a kid, whenever anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d always say “Writer. Probably horror.” It wasn’t even a question for me, I just knew.

And it all came from Dad, and, I guess, Roald Dahl.

The grandfather clock ticked softly, its steady rhythm a counterpoint to my racing heart. I glanced at Dad's armchair, half-expecting to see him there—glasses perched on his nose, completely engrossed in his latest novel. He’d been a Stephen King fan. Probably where I got my love of horror.

I had such a clear mental image of him. Smiling.

"Shit," I muttered, blinking back tears. This was going to be harder than I'd imagined.

My gaze landed on a small porcelain teacup perched on a nearby shelf. The sight of it hit me like a punch to the gut, transporting me back in time.

I was eight again, twirling in my favorite princess dress. Dad wore that ridiculous oversize top hat, the one that always made me giggle.

"More tea, Your Majesty?" he'd asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

I'd lifted my chin regally. "If you please, kind sir."

Dad raised his tiny cup. "To the queen of the manor!"

The memory was so vivid I could almost hear his voice, smell the earl grey steeping in delicate china cups.

"We were happy then," I whispered, running a finger along the teacup's smooth rim. "Before..."

I swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought. Before Mom died. Before everything changed.

I don’t know why I hadn’t visited Dad since college. Maybe I’d been trying to prove that I was a grown-up, and that I could take care of myself. Maybe I was just trying to avoid this house, and all the feelings caught up in it.

I think he sensed this, because he’d come to visit me in the city pretty often. To begin with, he’d ask when I was going to come home and visit, but as time passed, he stopped pushing for it.

Then, I missed my chance. I’d never visit him at home again.

The weight of loss crashed over me, and I sank onto the window seat. Rain lashed against the pane. I wrapped my arms around myself, desperate for the comfort I'd always found in Dad's embrace.

"I miss you so much," I choked out, my voice barely audible in the empty room.

Tears flowed freely now, hot and insistent. I didn't try to stop them. What was the point? There was no one here to see, no one to be strong for.

My mind drifted to those dark days after Mom's funeral. The house had felt like this then, too – hollow, echoing with ghosts. Dad had retreated into himself, into the bottle. I'd watched helplessly as the light faded from his eyes, as laughter became a distant memory.

"Fuck," I muttered, swiping at my cheeks. This wasn't helping. Sitting here, drowning in memories—it would swallow me whole if I let it.

I stood abruptly, grabbing my purse. "Get it together, Lucy," I told myself sternly. "You can't fall apart now."

All of a sudden, I had an overwhelming urge to get out of here. It felt like I was suffocating.

An idea hit me. A friendly face, someone I hadn’t seen for a long time. My best friend from school, Marie. These days, she managed The Daily Grind, the coffee shop in town. The idea of Marie's warm smile, of the comforting bustle of her coffee shop, pulled at me. I needed noise, life—anything to drown out the deafening silence of this house.

I yanked open the front door, wincing as cold rain pelted my face. The walk to The Daily Grind wasn't far, but in this weather, it might as well have been miles. Still, the thought of staying put was unbearable.

"Here goes nothing," I muttered, stepping out into the storm.

***

The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into The Daily Grind, shaking raindrops from my hair. A wave of warmth washed over me, carrying the rich scent of coffee and something sweet—cinnamon rolls, maybe? My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since . . . when?

I breathed deep, letting the familiar aromas soothe my frayed nerves. The place hadn't changed much. Mismatched chairs, local art on exposed brick walls, that same old creaky floorboard near the counter. It felt like coming home, in a way the actual house hadn't.

Of course, there was a new manager.

My eyes swept the room, taking in the clusters of people bent over steaming mugs, lost in conversation. For a moment, I felt like an outsider looking in. Did I still belong here?

A gasp from behind the counter snapped me out of my thoughts. "Lucy Bennett? Is that really you?"

I turned, a smile tugging at my lips despite everything. There was Marie, her blonde curls as wild as ever, brown eyes wide with surprise.

"Hey, Mar-" I started, but she was already rushing around the counter, enveloping me in a bone-crushing hug that smelled of coffee and vanilla.

"It's been too long!" she exclaimed, pulling back to look at me. Her hands gripped my shoulders, and I saw a flicker of concern cross her face. Did I look as wrecked as I felt?

"Marie," I managed to say, my voice thick with emotion. "I . . ."

But before I could continue, Marie's eyes softened with understanding. She led me to a cozy corner booth, away from prying ears but close enough to the comforting hum of the coffee shop.

"Luce," she said gently, using the childhood nickname that only she could get away with. "I'm so sorry about your dad."

Her words pierced through the walls I had hastily built around my grief. Tears welled up again, and this time, I didn't fight them. Marie reached across the table, her hand finding mine in a gesture of silent support.

"I miss him so much, Marie," I whispered hoarsely. "It feels like I'm drowning in memories."

Marie's gaze was filled with empathy. "I can't imagine how hard it must be for you, coming back here to all of this," she said softly.

I swallowed hard, fighting the lump in my throat. "Yeah, it is," I managed. The genuine warmth in Marie's eyes threatened to undo me all over again.

She gave my shoulder a squeeze. "You wait here. Let me bring you something warm and sweet. You deserve it."

I sank into the worn leather seat, running my fingers along the cracks and grooves. A minute later, Marie slid in across from me, placing two steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with towers of whipped cream between us.

"So? What do you think of the place?"

I looked confused. “Have you changed it?”

“Nope! Not a bit!” she let out a musical laugh. “I want to keep this place exactly like it is—cozy and familiar. Although I have improved the hot chocolate recipe,” she winked, pushing one towards me.

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, inhaling the rich scent. "What’s the secret?”

“More. More chocolate. More cream. More cinnamon. More everything!”

Her enthusiasm was infectious. I couldn’t help but smile. I tasted the drink.

“Holy fuck!” I said, before I knew what I was saying. “Why is this so delicious? It’s the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted.”

“It’s the more ,” Marie said, simply.

“More is good.”

Marie leaned in, her eyes sparkling. "So, catch me up! You’re back in town. What’s the plan?"

“Honestly, I’m not sure. Fix up dad’s place. Then probably sell?”

“You’re not sticking around?”

“Nah. Too many memories.”

“Yeah?”

I hesitated, not ready to dive into the mess of emotions swirling inside me. "What about here? Any good Small Falls gossip?"

Marie's face lit up. "Oh honey, you have no idea. Remember old Mr. Jones from the bakery?"

I nodded, taking a sip of my cocoa.

"Well," Marie lowered her voice conspiratorially, "turns out he's been having a torrid affair with Mrs. Peterson from the library. Her husband caught them in the romance section!"

I nearly choked on my drink. "No way!"

Marie nodded gleefully. "Way. The whole town's been buzzing about it for weeks."

As Marie launched into more tales of small-town drama, I felt the knot in my chest start to loosen. The laughter bubbling up surprised me—I couldn't remember the last time I'd genuinely laughed like this.

After a particularly ridiculous story involving the mayor and a runaway goat, Marie's expression turned sly. "So, Lucy . . . how’s your love life? Last I heard you were about to marry some biker?”

It actually took me a moment.

“Ohhhhhh, you mean Brock! No, no, no, he was like, five boyfriends ago.”

“You’ve had five boyfriends in the past two years.”

“No! Way more than five. I’ve had five serious boyfriends in the past two years.”

She gave me a disbelieving smile.

“Damn, you put me to shame.”

“Yep. I’ve got a kind of problem,” I said, sheepishly. “I’m not a sex addict—I’m an intimacy addict.”

“What’s that?”

“I basically fall in love within two seconds of meeting someone.”

She chuckled. “That sounds exhausting.”

“I can’t help it. I completely ignore all the bad aspects someone has and see only the good stuff. Then, normally after a couple of weeks, that wears off.”

“So are you with anyone right now?”

“Actually, no. When dad died, I split up with Tobias—he was a German performance poet; do not recommend—and decided not to date anyone for a whole year.”

“A year?”

“Yep. I’m on detox.”

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you date someone while you’re back here!” There was a gleam in her eye.

“I’ll take that bet. There’s no way. I’m too emotional to even consider it. Plus, I know everyone in town, and there’s no-one—”

“Not even Marcus Wilkins?”

My breath caught in my throat.

Well, obviously Marcus Wilkins. The lava-hot hardware store owner was about the sexiest man I’d ever met. He had been a major childhood crush of mine. Of course, he was a clear ten years older than me, and would never be interested in a silly little girl like me. I was in no danger of dating him.

“No chance.”

“So you’re not interested? I hear he’s freshly divorced and on the lookout.”

“Freshly divorced?” I was suddenly laser-focused.

“Mmhmm. Quite . . . messy.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help laughing. "Not this time, Mar. I'm here to focus, no distractions."

"Uh-huh," Marie said, clearly unconvinced. "We'll see about that."

There was something else about me. I was a little . . . unusual in my tastes. It’s part of the reason I’d had so many relationships, desperately searching for the right kind of man.

As the conversation lulled, my mind drifted to past relationships—the parade of men who'd never truly seen me. Who'd I'd never let see me.

"Earth to Lucy," Marie's voice cut through my thoughts. "Where'd you go just now?"

I blinked, refocusing on her concerned face. "Nowhere," I lied. "Just . . . thinking about the house."

But it wasn't the house occupying my thoughts. It was Marcus. Broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, that quiet strength. My stomach fluttered.

"Bullshit," Marie said softly. "I know that look. Spill."

I sighed, fidgeting with my napkin. "It's nothing, really. I just . . . sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find someone who gets me, you know? All of me."

Marie's eyes softened. "Oh, honey. The right person is out there. And when you find them, they'll love every messy, beautiful part of you."

I swallowed hard, pushing away the image of Marcus. Someone like him would never want me if he knew the truth. The whole truth.

"Thanks, Mar," I managed. "I should probably get going."

Marie squeezed my hand as I stood. "It's good to have you back, Lucy. Really."

I stepped outside, the gentle drizzle cool on my skin. The walk home felt longer, my mind a whirlwind of emotions. Dad's house loomed ahead, a mountain of memories and unfinished business.

On the porch, I took a deep breath. "One step at a time," I whispered, fumbling with the key.

This time, the lock clicked first time, and I stepped inside, into whatever came next.