Chapter 4
Theo
Wildflowers rustle and bend as I run past, Cuddles bounding beside me, her pink ribbon fluttering like a tiny banner in the breeze.
Why was I running with Cuddles?
The thought drifts through my dream-hazed mind as my feet pound the soft earth.
A few strides away, Jeremiah jogs with easy grace, his shirt torn and hanging open.
Why was he here? Why was his shirt ripped?
And why on earth were we running from such a sweet dog? Cuddles was gentle as a lamb and loved Debbie. No one ran from her . . . ever.
Jeremiah’s shirt flies open as he runs, and my gaze fixes on the broad expanse of his chest where sweat glistens like morning dew. Abs ripple like a still pond disturbed by a tossed stone . . . and all rational thought vanishes.
Jeremiah turns back to flash me his devastating smile, the one that makes my knees weak. He reaches out his hand and—
The bed bounced like a trampoline, jarring me from the depths of sleep. Through half-closed eyes, I glimpsed a blur of pink and wild bedhead hair.
“Daddy! Daddy! I want pancakes . . . with chocolate chips!” Debbie’s voice cut through the morning haze like a foghorn. “Pleeeeeeeeeeease!”
I groaned and pulled a pillow over my head. “Five more minutes, sweetheart. Just five—”
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
“Pancakes! Chocolate chip pancakes! With sprinkles! Please, please, please!”
I cracked one eye open to find Debbie’s face inches from mine, her gap-toothed grin impossibly bright for—I squinted at the clock—seven-thirty in the morning.
On a Sunday.
My day to sleep in.
“All right, all right,” I surrendered, sitting up and running a hand through my disheveled hair, as though fingers could make one bit of difference in the tangled mass. “You win. Pancakes it is.”
Debbie clapped and shrieked with delight, then launched herself off the bed, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood as she raced toward the kitchen.
I followed at a much more civilized pace, my joints and foggy mind protesting the early hour.
By the time I reached the kitchen, Debbie had already claimed her perch on the counter stool, swinging her legs and launching into her morning monologue.
“—and then I’m gonna build the biggest fort ever with all the couch cushions, and maybe I’ll catch seventeen butterflies, or maybe just three because seventeen might be too many for one jar, and oh!
I need to finish coloring my picture of the dragon princess who has purple hair like a mermaid but prettier, and—”
I pulled eggs from the refrigerator and began cracking them into a bowl. The familiar rhythm of cooking grounded me and washed away the last vestiges of sleep. I reached for the whisk, the metal cool against my palm.
Debbie’s prattling stilled. And then—
“Daddy, are you using the Willie Wee to stir the eggs?” Debbie asked, pointing at the whisk with barely contained giggles. “The mailman said it works great for mixing things.”
My hand stilled.
Willie Wee.
What could I possibly say in response to that name?
My mind spiraled backward, to my front door, to ripped fabric and sun-kissed skin and eyes that seemed to see right through me.
My dream returned, minus Cuddles and her death-defying chase, minus the package and confusion of the wrong address.
All I could see was Jeremiah, his torn shirt, and the perkiest nipples ever to grace a man-boob.
Jeremiah.
And the way he’d looked at me like . . . like what?
Like I was something worth looking at?
“Daddy?” Debbie’s voice snapped me back to the present. “You’re making a funny face, like when you have to poop but it won’t come out. Do you need to potty? Please don’t poop while you’re making pancakes.”
I blinked, realizing I’d been frozen, whisk in hand, staring at nothing.
“Sorry, kiddo. I was . . . just thinking about . . . breakfast.” I began whisking the eggs with the vigor of a pissed-off lesbian in the return aisle at Home Depot.
The batter came together smoothly, and soon I had the first pancake sizzling in the pan.
The familiar sounds of breakfast—oil popping, Debbie’s endless chatter—should have kept me in the moment.
She’d moved on from fort-building to a detailed explanation of why chocolate chips were better than blueberries (“because chocolate is happy food and blueberries are just okay food”), and then somehow to her latest crayon masterpiece.
“I drew a picture of you and me and Mr. Biscuits yesterday, but I made Mr. Biscuits purple because regular cat colors are boring. Do you think cats can be purple in real life? Maybe if they eat too many grapes?”
Instead of focusing on grape-gnawing felines, my mind again wandered back to the way Jeremiah’s shoulders had filled the doorframe, how his torn shirt had revealed the solid plane of his chest, how his short blond hair had caught the afternoon light.
And that smile.
God, that smile when he’d crouched down to Debbie’s level, his whole face transforming from apologetic to genuinely delighted . . . the way he’d listened to her chatter about her drawings like it was the most important conversation in the world.
When was the last time someone had looked at my daughter—at both of us—with such genuine warmth?
Everyone loved Debbie. Her “adorable level” was off the charts, especially when her dimpled smile turned up the wattage to blinding levels.
But Jeremiah smiled at me, too.
Or had I just imagined that?
He didn’t really have a reason to. Sure, he was technically working, and he thought I was a customer. Maybe he smiled at all his delivery recipients like that. He seemed like a friendly guy.
A friendly guy covered in muscles.
Slathered in muscles.
Drenched in muscles.
I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.
Fine. He was hot.
And with his shirt ripped and hanging open no matter how hard he tried to grip it closed?
Sweet Baby Jesus, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen that much flesh standing only a few feet away.
I found myself wondering what it would be like to see that smile again, maybe while Debbie played in the yard and we could actually finish a conversation without interruption.
But reality crashed down like cold water.
What was I even thinking?
Men who looked like Jeremiah—all broad shoulders and easy confidence—they didn’t go for scrawny nerds who spent their days organizing bookshelves and weekends building blanket forts.
Jeremiah probably dated personal trainers or construction workers, people who could match his energy and strength.
Hell, he could date any man he wanted—or woman.
My gaydar had sounded its happy little trumpets at his arrival, but it was about as accurate as Siri’s autocorrect feature after a night of digital drinking.
Jeremiah was probably into millionaire stock brokers who spent every waking moment bodybuilding and gulping protein shakes, not anxious single fathers who lived month to month on a school salary and got winded climbing a flight of stairs.
Wait.
That wasn’t fair, was it?
I straightened slightly, my inner voice rallying in defense.
I was smart—really smart—with two degrees, I could discuss literature and history for hours, could solve problems that left other people scratching their heads. I was organized, reliable, the kind of person others came to when they needed something done right.
And with kids?
I was amazing with kids. And not just with Debbie, but all my students loved me. I had patience, creativity, knew how to make learning fun.
I was a catch, damn it. A real catch.
Any reasonable person could see that. Still, doubts crept in like shadows at dusk, stronger than my momentary confidence.
Hell, Jeremiah could probably bench press me without breaking a sweat. Or break me without using a bench . . . and I was basically a toothpick with teeth and glasses.
Okay, that made more sense in my head.
I wasn’t even good at self-loathing. Fuck me.
My reflection caught in the kitchen window—my thin frame, unmanageable hair, the same bottle-bottom glasses I’d worn since college. I wasn’t athletic. I wasn’t confident. I was just . . . not enough. Never had been, really.
I mentally shooed the thoughts away like persistent flies.
This was my life—Debbie and me, making pancakes on Sunday mornings, building a quiet existence in our little house.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and it was beautiful.
I loved her more than life. What parent could ask for more than the unfettered adoration of their child?
I didn’t need some hunk of man flesh to affirm my worth—or the life I’d built.
I was strong in ways most men would never understand.
Yeah, that.
Aside from all that, I’d probably never see Jeremiah again.
At least, not in any meaningful way. Dropping off boxes on my porch didn’t exactly count as date material.
There was no sense sulking over the man-that-wasn’t when I never really had a shot to begin with.
I was being silly and needed to refocus on what was right in front of me, what mattered most.
Men be damned.
“Daddy, is the handsome mailman gonna come back?” Debbie asked suddenly, swinging her legs hard enough to kick the counter and rattle my mixing bowl.
“I hope he does. He was really nice, and had pretty eyes like the sky. Maybe next time he can bring a pony instead of just a Willie Wee. Do you think ponies fit in mail trucks?”
I opened my mouth to say . . . well . . . something—
“DADDY! THE PANCAKE!”
Debbie’s shriek jolted me back to reality. I looked down to find the first pancake had transformed into something resembling charcoal, as black as the chocolate chips that dotted its surface.
“Well, shit . . . I mean shoot,” I muttered, quickly flipping the ruined pancake onto a plate.
“You said a bad word,” Debbie observed in the matter-of-fact tone only children could master.
“Sorry, baby. Sometimes pancakes make Daddy forget his manners.” I scraped the burned remnants into the trash and reached for more batter. “Looks like we’re starting over.”
Starting over.
Wasn’t that the story of my life?