Falling for the Single Dad (Cedar Hollow Romance #2)

1. Chapter 1 Maggie

Ihave exactly three regrets when I pull into the gravel drive of the Prairie Rose Inn.

First: bringing so much luggage instead of leaving it in storage.

Second: trusting the GPS when it confidently informed me to “turn left” directly into a field containing two judgmental goats and what I’m fairly certain was a decorative wagon wheel cemetery.

And third…

Possibly owning twelve pairs of eyeglasses.

“Technically,” I mutter to myself, wrestling a floral suitcase out of the back hatch of my car, “they are accessories. Not a personality disorder.”

The Prairie Rose Inn rises in front of me like something out of a movie designed specifically to emotionally manipulate women into believing in fresh starts.

White columns. Wide wraparound porch. Cottonwood trees shifting in the Oklahoma breeze. Flower baskets hanging from hooks. A porch swing that looks morally obligated to host life-changing conversations.

The place is beautiful.

Not polished-beautiful. Not city-beautiful. Nothing here matches in the carefully curated way hotels try to. The porch steps creak. There’s a suspicious rooster glaring at me from beneath a hydrangea bush like he personally disapproves of hatchbacks.

Still.

The inn feels alive.

Warm.

Like the kind of place where people still knock on doors instead of texting from the driveway.

Which is dangerous, honestly.

Because I am not here to become emotionally attached to a town halfway between Oklahoma City and Stillwater.

I’m here to survive one temporary library contract, recover from professional burnout, and avoid making any major life decisions fueled by charm and nostalgia.

That’s it.

Simple.

Manageable.

A plan that absolutely does not require three suitcases and an emergency tote bag full of novels.

The front door swings open before I can grab the second bag.

“You made it!” Wren Bennett bursts onto the porch holding a roll of painter’s tape and somehow still looking adorable. There’s a streak of pale blue paint on her cheek and another across one knee of her jeans. “I was starting to worry the goats got you.”

“The goats were definitely organized,” I tell her gravely. “One distracted me while the other prepared an ambush.”

“Yeah, that sounds like George and Susan.”

“The fact that they have names feels aggressive.”

Wren laughs and jogs down the porch steps to help me with my luggage. “Welcome to Cedar Hollow. We name everything here. Stray cats. Delivery trucks. One of the town benches has an Instagram account.”

“That can’t be real.”

“It has over four hundred followers.”

I stare at her.

She raises an eyebrow and stares back.

A breeze rattles the cottonwoods overhead while somewhere nearby a screen door slams.

“…I genuinely can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“That’s honestly very healthy for you.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

Okay. Fine. Maybe I like her already.

We haul my first two suitcases through the inn’s front doors into a lobby that smells faintly like lemon polish, old wood, and cinnamon. Sunlight spills across the hardwood floors. Fresh flowers sit on the front desk beside a handwritten welcome sign.

WELCOME MAGGIE!

PLEASE IGNORE ANY MINOR RENOVATION CHAOS

“That seems ominous,” I say.

Wren waves dismissively. “Luke says everything is structurally sound.”

A ladder stands near the dining room entrance. Someone has left paint swatches across a side table. Voices drift from upstairs along with the muffled sound of drilling.

Oddly enough, instead of stressing me out, the chaos settles something inside me.

Libraries are never truly quiet either.

People think they are.

But they aren’t.

Libraries hum.

“Your suite’s upstairs,” Wren says. “The library apartment still needs another few weeks before the plumbing and drywall are finished, so we figured this would be more comfortable.”

“That’s perfect. Seriously. Thank you again for letting me stay here.”

“Please. We’re thrilled you’re here.” She bumps my shoulder lightly. “Mrs. Davis already told half the town the new librarian is ‘young and stylish.’ Expectations are extremely high now.”

“Horrifying.”

“You’ll be fine.”

I head back outside for my final suitcase and my overstuffed tote bag of books.

The late afternoon air wraps warm around me as I pop the hatch again.

The rooster is closer now.

“You need boundaries,” I tell him.

He blinks once, deeply unimpressed.

I grab the suitcase handle, balancing my tote bag against my hip, and manage approximately three triumphant steps toward the porch before a shout erupts somewhere upstairs inside the inn.

Then comes a loud crash.

I freeze.

“What in the world—?”

Another voice yells, “TURN IT OFF!”

And suddenly water starts pouring through the hallway light fixture just inside the front doors.

Not dripping.

Not leaking.

Pouring.

Like the inn itself has decided to give up and become an aquarium.

For one suspended second, nobody moves.

Then absolute chaos detonates.

Wren gasps. Somebody upstairs swears loudly. Water splashes across the hardwood floor while the chandelier flickers ominously.

“Oh no,” I whisper.

Water splashes across the hardwood floors in an alarming stream while Wren darts toward the staircase, already shouting for towels.

“Luke!” she yells upward. “Please tell me that’s not another pipe!”

A male voice answers from somewhere above. “I would love to tell you that!”

The chandelier spits another spray of water.

I shove my tote bag onto the front desk and hurry forward, gripping the slippery runner rug with the wrong shoes for emergency flood response. My sandals slide half an inch anyway.

Okay. Great. Excellent beginning to my new life.

Somewhere, a child laughs.

Not nervous laughter, either. Genuine delight.

The kind usually associated with bounce houses and minor property damage.

I glance toward the staircase just as heavy footsteps pound down from the second floor.

A man rounds the corner carrying a little girl on one hip and an oversized duffel bag in his other hand. He moves with the kind of focused competence that suggests he has spent large portions of his life dealing with situations more serious than exploding plumbing.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark T-shirt stretched across a solid chest. Jeans. Work boots.

And an expression that could sand paint off walls.

The little girl wrapped around his side looks about eight years old, with a tumble of blonde curls and enormous curious blue eyes that immediately lock onto the water pouring from the ceiling like she’s watching the greatest live-action movie ever produced.

“This,” she announces happily, “is WAY better than the hotel with the weird carpet.”

“We are not staying at another hotel with weird carpet,” the man says grimly.

“You said that last time.”

“Because the carpet smelled like feet.”

“That’s true.”

He reaches the bottom stair at exactly the same moment my sandal loses traction on the soaked rug.

One second I’m upright.

The next, the world tilts sharply sideways.

I make a noise no adult woman should ever make in public and windmill directly toward him.

His head snaps up.

Our collision is immediate and spectacular.

The duffel swings. Water splashes. My purse slides off my shoulder. One of my bright purple glasses nearly flies off my face before I manage to catch them mid-disaster.

Strong hands close around my arms before I fully wipe out.

The man steadies me automatically, barely shifting under the impact despite carrying both a child and enough luggage for what appears to be emotional exile.

For one breathless second, we just stare at each other.

His eyes are blue and intensely annoyed.

Not specifically at me, exactly.

More at life in general.

The little girl beams down at me from his hip. “That almost looked like a ninja attack.”

Heat rushes into my face. “I’m choosing to call that a strong first impression.”

The corner of her mouth twitches.

The man’s expression does not.

“You should probably avoid running on wet floors,” he says.

His voice is low, calm, and deeply unimpressed by my existence.

Something in me immediately wants to poke at that.

“You know,” I reply, straightening carefully, “most people open with hello.”

Behind us, Wren skids into the lobby clutching three towels and a bucket.

“Okay,” she says breathlessly, surveying the scene. “Nobody panic.”

Water immediately gushes harder through the light fixture.

The little girl gasps with delight. “It’s getting bigger!”

“Nobody,” Wren repeats, more weakly this time, “panic too much.”

The man releases my arms and shifts the child more securely against his side. Even soaked and irritated, he radiates steady competence. The kind that probably alphabetizes batteries and owns functioning flashlights during tornado season.

Unfortunately, he is also extremely attractive.

Which feels rude under the circumstances.

“I’ve got the breaker,” he tells Wren.

“Luke said he’d get it.”

“Then towels.”

“Already grabbed some.”

“The plumber?”

“On his way.”

The little girl leans toward me confidentially. “Dad gets bossy during emergencies.”

“I can hear you,” he says.

“I know.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.

The little girl twists toward me again. “I’m Sophie.”

“Maggie.”

“I like your glasses.”

“Thank you. They’re emergency purple.”

That finally earns the faintest reaction from her father. Not a smile exactly, but something dangerously close to one flickers near his mouth before disappearing.

Then the upstairs hallway emits a horrible crunching sound.

Everyone freezes.

Wren slowly closes her eyes.

“Oh no.”

The horrible crunch overhead is followed by total silence.

Not reassuring silence, either.

The kind of silence that usually appears right before a second, larger problem introduces itself.

Water continues dripping from the light fixture into a growing collection of towels while Wren stares toward the ceiling like she’s mentally calculating insurance deductibles.

Meanwhile Sophie looks delighted enough to start selling tickets.

“This,” she whispers to me with enormous eyes, “is WAY more fun than school shopping.”

“Sophie.”

“What? It is.”