Falling Back to You (The Reluctant Romantics #3)

1. Cal

Chapter one

Cal

Mid-October

When you were a single dad with a ray of sunshine four-year-old daughter who didn’t believe in the social construct of time, there was no such thing as a sleep-in morning. Even on weekends.

Your day started at the crack of dawn. And sometimes even before that.

In the span of three seconds, I was transported from dreamland to reality by a small bony elbow impaling itself in my spleen and a very awake voice asking, “Daddy, can I get a puppy?”

I grunted at the rude awakening. My body protested, reminding me that my bruises from yesterday’s hockey game had not in fact miraculously healed overnight.

Puppies? This was not a pre-coffee conversation.

This wasn’t even an after-coffee conversation.

This was a we-can’t-be-having-this-talk-again conversation.

“What time is it?” I slurred, rubbing my bleary eyes. After last night’s first game of the AHL season for the Caldwell Chargers against Abbotsford, I’d been hoping for a slower Saturday morning before game two tonight. Silly me to think my kid would be on board with that idea.

“The little hand is on the six.” Khia propped her elbows on my bare chest and stared me down in the dim predawn light coming through the sheer curtains.

Note to self: remember to buy blackout curtains. Today. Definitely today.

“Pretty please.” Her ocean-blue eyes, a mirror of my own, widened with pleading.

She knew my weakness—which was her—but I needed to stand firm, or else we’d end up running a small hobby farm.

Thank goodness she hadn’t discovered fluffy cows yet, but it was only a matter of time since some had recently moved into Serenity Springs.

“We’ve talked about this, Lovebug.” I groaned, brushing an unruly dark curl off her cheek.

“I’m on the road too much. You already have Mrs. Pickles, and Uncle Grey and Auntie Paisley let you have sleepovers with Rosie Cotton.

” I tickled her, and she flopped around on the bed like a beached whale, shrieking with laughter.

It was music to my ears.

Earlier this year, I’d caved to her pleading for a kitten, and Mrs. Pickles, a ginger tabby, had joined our little family.

My older twin, Greyson, and his wife volunteered their two-year-old golden retriever for sleepovers when Khia’s puppy pleading kicked in.

So far, we’d avoided the dog conversation for the last five months. Now, it was back in full force.

When the giggling stopped, Khia curled against my chest. One day she’d outgrow cuddling, and the thought of it had me squeezing her a little tighter.

“You’re squishing me!” she protested, wiggling.

Right. I was the sentimental one of this family, clearly.

“You said I need a nanny ’cuz Meemaw’s broken. I think a puppy would be better than a nanny,” Khia reasoned with the all-knowing wisdom of a pre-K brain. “Nana took care of Wendy in Peter Pan.”

I tweaked her nose. “And look at how much trouble the Darlings got into.”

“’Cuz their daddy locked Nana up!”

Couldn’t argue with that. You shoulda done better, George Darling.

But she was right on one point. We did have a nanny dilemma, and at this rate, given the lack of suitable candidates, an anthropomorphic dog might be the best option.

For the last four years, my mom had been Khia’s primary caretaker when I was with the team for away games, and my younger sister, Juliet, or one of my four sisters-in-law helped out as needed.

My family was my village for surviving single dadhood while working a career that regularly took me on the road.

But last weekend during our family get-together to kick off the season early, Mama took a swan dive down the last two stairs in their house—thanks to a cowboy rubber ducky—leaving her with a severely fractured ankle and strapped down to the couch in a walking boot for the foreseeable future.

If there was one thing Mama hated, it was being told to slow down.

In fact, you did not simply tell Delilah Satterfield to “take it easy.” Those words weren’t in her vocabulary.

The woman had injured bones and was still trying to figure out how to climb a ladder because she wanted to DIY the crown molding in the kitchen.

And we loved her for it.

But chasing my almost-five-year-old around wouldn’t be beneficial to the healing process, something she reluctantly agreed on after Pops and I went through several rounds of trying to persuade her.

(Which, on my part, included bribery and promising to give Pops a hand with the molding myself despite being the least handy brother.)

And while my siblings were fantastic, I couldn’t expect them to take over full-time care when their hands were full with their own lives.

Hence, the nanny.

If you ever get a mother, you can get a dog.

“Ooh!” Khia wiggled excitedly. “I want a mommy! Katie and Anna have one.”

What?! How had I slipped and said that out loud?

Sleep deprivation, that’s how.

No wonder it was an effective torture technique. Guantanamo Bay had nothing on my daughter.

“Please, Daddy!”

Oh, boy. We’d moved straight from puppy to new mom, and I’d never hear the end of it.

My chest ached at her words, emotion clawing my throat.

Katie and Anna were my nieces closest to Khia in age.

It was only natural she was getting to the stage where she’d start questioning why she didn’t have a mom when all her friends did.

Khia was only eight months old when Izzy passed, so she had no memory of the mother who didn’t truly want her.

This is natural. At least according to all the parenting manuals I’d read.

“Guess we’ll have to see,” I said roughly around the lump in my throat.

“I’m gonna pray about it,” Khia announced, like she hadn’t just obliterated my heart. “Meemaw said Greg Mueller and the orphans prayed for milk, and they got it.”

“George Mueller,” I corrected lightly, chuckling. “And that’s not how prayer works, Lovebug. Sometimes God says no or wait.”

“Just like you.” Khia smiled up at me serenely. Out of the mouth of babes. “But I’m gonna ask anyway—for a mommy and a puppy.” With that declaration, she launched herself out of my arms and off the bed.

Another note to self: set up a sleepover for Khia and Rosie Cotton as soon as possible.

“Can we have pancakes? Like Uncle Grey makes, with chocolate chips?” Khia asked.

And without further ado, we were moving on.

“How about blueberries?” I countered.

“Ew!”

I slid my legs over the side of the bed and scrubbed a hand over my face, the hint of stubble scraping my palm. Time for a shave. “But you love blueberries.”

She propped her hands on her hips, standing in the doorway in her Cinderella pajamas with her dark curls askew. She was four going on fourteen. “I love chocolate chips more!”

“Uncle Grey spoils you,” I grumbled, but I couldn’t help smiling.

Greyson doted on my girl, and I didn’t begrudge him that in the least. I did the same thing with my other nieces and nephews—uncle’s privilege and all that.

Tugging on a T-shirt, I rolled my shoulders to ease out the stiffness.

“All right, chocolate it is. Let me get the coffee on first.”

Khia skipped down the stairs beside me to the kitchen. “Is Miss Ruby coming?”

Shoot. I glanced at the oven clock. Morning practice was in just over two hours, which meant I had exactly eighty-seven minutes to get myself and Khia ready for the day if I was still going to make the half-hour drive from Serenity Springs to the arena in Caldwell.

Ruby Shepherd, my former neighbour and my ex-fiancée’s youngest sister, had agreed to watch Khia today. The same Ruby I had foolishly promised a favour to at Greyson and Paisley’s vow renewal last month.

She wanted me to do a couples photo shoot—with a stranger—tomorrow evening. I had just over twenty-four hours to prepare myself for that disaster. I hadn’t dated since Izzy died, and now Ruby wanted me to go on a blind date?

Once again, I made a mental note to refuse Ruby any more favours.

I’d performed a long list of them in the last thirteen years—not limited to: driving her to prom in my old Mustang (okay, technically it was Greyson’s, but I borrowed it), rescuing her after she got a flat in Missoula, setting her up on a date with one of my teammates, and getting sprayed by a skunk while trying to rescue her cat (which wasn’t even hers, just a random stray).

Ruby was very much another little sister to me, and she knew it. Between her, Juliet, and Khia, I was a total sap.

And while we never discussed it, there was an unspoken understanding that I looked out for her because I still missed her oldest sister, Noelle.

The girl who got away. The girl who still held my heart, even after she stomped on it and left me to pick up the pieces a month before our wedding that never happened.

The girl I couldn’t forget, no matter how hard I tried.

And, boy, had I tried.

Now was not the time to dwell on the past. I had a job to do, a team depending on me, and a daughter to raise. Love wasn’t in the cards right now. Maybe once Khia was an actual teenager. I shuddered at the thought of my little girl growing up.

Growing up meant makeup, boyfriends, and graduating. I wasn’t ready for that. Let me keep the unicorn onesies, tea parties, and butterfly hair clips a little longer.

“I’ll start the pancakes. You go pick your clothes before she comes, okay?” I instructed, hitting the grind button on the espresso maker. “Dress warm. Miss Ruby’s taking you to the park.”

Khia giggled and scampered back upstairs. “You worry, Daddy.”

I absolutely did. And for good reason because my half princess, half feral gremlin of a daughter loved to climb trees (read: fall out of them) and wear princess dresses in the dead of winter without a coat unless I made her.

No one warned you half the battle of parenthood was convincing your kid to keep the appropriate amount of clothes on.