"It's easy," Sophie assures me. "You just say thank you for the food and the people."
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes. "Thank you for this food and for the kindness of the people around this table. I'm very grateful to be here tonight."
It's simple, probably inadequate, but when I open my eyes, Jake is looking at me with a warmth that makes me feel like I've said exactly the right thing.
"Amen," he adds softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it.
Dinner is a lively affair, with Sophie dominating the conversation through detailed descriptions of her day at school, occasional corrections from Emma, and patient questions from Jake.
I find myself laughing more than I have in months, drawn into their family dynamic as if I've known them for years rather than hours.
"Miss Isabella, do you have kids?" Sophie asks suddenly, in the direct way of children.
"Sophie," Jake warns. "Remember what we talked about? Some questions are private."
"It's okay," I assure him again, "No, Sophie, I don't have children."
"Do you want them?" she persists, ignoring her father's pointed look.
The question catches me off guard. "I do," I answer honestly. "Someday. With the right person."
"Like Daddy found Mommy?" she asks.
I glance at Jake, whose expression has grown guarded.
"Yes," I say. "Like that."
"Dad doesn't date," Emma informs me, with the slightly smug knowledge of an older child. "Mrs. Miller says he should, but he says he's too busy."
Jake nearly chokes on his water. "Emma, that's enough about Mrs. Miller's opinions."
I hide my smile, filing away this information despite myself. It's none of my business whether this attractive, kind single father dates. I'm only passing through his life, a temporary disruption that will be forgotten once I figure out my next move.
"Can I show Miss Isabella my rock collection now?" Sophie asks, clearly bored with the adult conversation.
"After you help clear the table," Jake tells her. "Everyone helps with cleanup."
"I'll help too," I say quickly, standing to gather plates.
Jake looks like he might protest, but then thinks better of it. "Thanks."
The moment strikes me again as we work together to clean the kitchen—Jake rinsing dishes, me loading them into the dishwasher, the girls wiping down the table. It's such a simple thing, this cooperative effort, but it fills me with a strange longing for something I've never had.
"Dad," Emma says as we finish, "can we have ice cream now? You promised."
Jake glances at the clock. "One scoop, then homework check, then bed."
The girls cheer, and Sophie immediately grabs my hand. "You'll have ice cream too, right? Dad bought chocolate and vanilla and strawberry because we can never agree."
"I'd love some," I tell her, allowing myself to be pulled toward the freezer. "I'm partial to chocolate."
"That's my favorite too!" Sophie exclaims, as if we've discovered we're long-lost soulmates.
Jake catches my eye over her head, an apologetic smile playing around his lips.
"She attaches quickly," he says quietly as he reaches past me for the ice cream. "Don't feel obligated."
"I don't," I assure him, meaning it. "This is the most normal I've felt in... maybe ever."
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or understanding. Before he can respond, Sophie is tugging me toward the stairs.
"Ice cream in my room while I show you my collection!" she declares.
"Nice try," Jake calls after her. "Ice cream at the table, then you can give Miss Isabella the tour."
Sophie sighs dramatically but returns to the table, where Jake is scooping ice cream into colorful plastic bowls.
I watch him with his daughters—the easy affection, the clear boundaries, the gentle authority.
He's a good father. The realization shouldn't surprise me, but it does deepen my already growing admiration for him.
After ice cream, true to her word, Sophie leads me on a tour of the upstairs, proudly showing me her rock collection, her stuffed animals, and the "secret" hideout under her bed. Emma joins us, eager to display her softball trophies and collection of nature books.
Their room is exactly what a children's room should be—colorful, slightly messy, filled with evidence of their personalities and interests.
It stands in sharp contrast to my own childhood bedroom, which was decorated by a professional in pale pink and white, with furniture too delicate to actually use with any enthusiasm.
"And this is Dad's room," Sophie announces, pushing open a door at the end of the hall before I can stop her.
"Sophie, I don't think—" I begin, but I've already glimpsed the interior.
A large, simply furnished room with a patchwork quilt on the unmade bed, a stack of books on the nightstand, and framed children's artwork on the walls. It's deeply personal, and I feel like an intruder.
"Sophie," Jake's voice comes from behind us, making me jump. "We don't show people Dad's room without asking. Remember our conversation about privacy?"
Sophie's face falls. "Sorry, Daddy."
"It's okay," he says, ruffling her hair. "Just remember for next time."
"I'm sorry too," I tell him, embarrassed. "I should have stopped her."
He shakes his head. "Not your fault. She's a force of nature." He checks his watch. "Alright, girls. Bedtime routine starts now. Teeth, pajamas, one story."
"But Miss Isabella hasn't seen the treehouse!" Sophie protests.
"Another time," he says firmly. "It's dark outside now anyway."
Another time. Yes, I hope so.
"Can Miss Isabella read our bedtime story?" Emma asks, surprising me with her request.
Jake looks at me questioningly. "Only if she wants to. She's had a long day."
"I'd love to," I say, touched by the invitation into this sacred family ritual.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself perched on the edge of Sophie's bed, a well-worn copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" in my hands, two pajama-clad girls watching me with rapt attention as I read about Max's wild rumpus.
Jake leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a soft expression on his face as he watches us.
When I finish the story, Sophie is already half-asleep, her eyelids heavy. "Will you be here tomorrow?" she mumbles as Jake tucks her blanket around her.
I glance at him, unsure how to answer. "I'm not sure yet, sweetheart."
"Hope so," she murmurs, then drifts off, her small face peaceful in sleep.
Emma is more pragmatic. "If you stay, I can show you how to throw a proper fastball."
"I'd like that," I tell her, meaning it.
Jake kisses each girl goodnight, and I follow him out of the room, emotion thick in my throat at witnessing such tender fatherhood.
Downstairs, in the sudden quiet of the living room, an awkwardness falls between us. The structured activities of dinner and bedtime are behind us, and now we're just two adults, essentially strangers, left alone.
"Thank you," I say, breaking the silence. "For dinner, for everything. I should probably figure out where I'm going to stay tonight."
Jake runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I'm beginning to recognize as a sign of his discomfort. "About that. I called the motel in Millfield. They're booked too—some regional softball tournament this weekend."
My heart sinks. "Oh. Is there somewhere else nearby?"
He hesitates. "Next town with vacancies is about two hours away."
"I see." I gnaw at my lower lip, considering my options. Which are, frankly, limited.
"You can stay here," he says abruptly. "You’ll sleep in my bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch. It's comfortable enough. Just for tonight, until we can figure something out tomorrow."
The offer is generous, possibly inappropriate given his position, definitely more than I deserve. "I couldn't impose like that."
"It's not an imposition. It's practical." His tone is matter-of-fact. "It's late, you're exhausted, and I'm not going to send you off to wander in the dark."
"Are you sure?" I ask, searching his face. "It's not exactly proper, having a strange woman sleep in your bed."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Isabella, you ran away from your own wedding today and ended up in my town. I think we're well past 'proper' at this point."
He has a point. And the thought of staying here, in this house that already feels safer than anywhere I've been in years, is undeniably appealing.
"Okay," I agree finally. "Just for tonight. And I'll take the first bus out tomorrow."
He nods, looking relieved and something else I can't quite identify. "I'll get some blankets."
As he disappears down the hall, I sink onto the couch, the full weight of the day finally crashing over me.
I ran away from my wedding. I abandoned my fiancé at the altar.
I fled Boston without a plan or proper luggage.
I'm now preparing to sleep in a small-town sheriff's bed while his daughters dream down the hall.
It's insane. Completely outside the structured life I've always led.
And yet, sitting here in the warm glow of a lamp in Jake Reynolds' living room, I feel more myself than I have in years.