Page 11 of Tempted By the Handsome Doctor (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #3)

Watching Daniel in my father's study feels like worlds colliding. He moves around the space, hands clasped behind his back as if afraid to disturb anything. His eyes linger on the model Corvettes lined up on the shelf, gleaming under a thin layer of dust I haven't had the heart to wipe away.

"This was his pride and joy," I say, nodding toward the collection. "He'd spend hours detailing them with tiny brushes. I used to sit on the floor and hand him the colors he asked for."

"That was the first one. I gave it to him for Father's Day when I was fourteen. Saved up my babysitting money for months." My throat feels like it’s closing. "He acted like I'd handed him the keys to the actual car."

Daniel sets it back exactly where he found it, aligning it perfectly with the others. The care in that small gesture touches me more than I expected.

"You were close," he says. Not a question.

"He was everything." The simple truth of it still hurts. "Mom left when I was a baby, so it was just us. Team Sullivan, he called us."

Daniel's eyes find mine, full of quiet understanding. "When was he diagnosed?"

"Three and a half years ago." I move to the window, looking out at the darkening yard. The memory still feels razor-sharp. "Pancreatic cancer. Stage four by the time they found it."

"I'm sorry." He comes to stand beside me. "That's a difficult diagnosis."

"The doctor gave him six months." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm house. "He made it fourteen, stubborn to the end. Long enough for me to move back from Chicago, to get the library job, to say a proper goodbye."

"Small mercies," Daniel says softly.

"That's exactly what he called it." I look up, surprised. "A small mercy, getting time to put his affairs in order. To make sure I was settled."

"He sounds like a remarkable man."

"He was." My voice wavers, and I clear my throat. "Sorry, I don't usually get emotional about it anymore. It's been two years."

"Grief doesn't have an expiration date." Daniel hesitates, then gently touches my arm. "And you don't need to apologize for missing him."

The kindness in his voice unlocks something in my chest—a knot of grief I've been carrying so long I've stopped noticing its weight. Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them.

"I just wish he could have known about the baby," I whisper. "He would have been such an amazing grandfather."

Daniel doesn't offer empty platitudes or awkward reassurances. Instead, he simply pulls me into his arms, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other warm against my spine. I stiffen for a moment, then surrender to the comfort, letting my forehead rest against his shoulder.

"He would have threatened me with bodily harm for getting his daughter pregnant," Daniel says, his voice rumbling against my ear. "Then grudgingly accepted me when you told him to be nice."

A watery laugh escapes me. "Probably. He was protective but not unreasonable."

"And he raised an incredible daughter." Daniel's hand moves in slow, soothing circles on my back. "So, I think part of him will be there, in how you parent."

The observation is so unexpectedly perceptive that fresh tears spill over. I let them come, no longer fighting the release. Daniel holds me through it, solid and steady, his shirt growing damp beneath my cheek. He smells like autumn air and something faintly spicy—cologne, maybe, or just him.

When the wave of grief recedes, I don't immediately pull away. There's something healing about being held like this, about allowing myself to be vulnerable with someone who isn't trying to fix or change my feelings. Just witnessing them.

"Thank you," I murmur against his chest.

"For what?"

"For not saying it gets easier with time. Or that he's in a better place. Or any of those things people think they're supposed to say."

His arms tighten slightly around me. "I had enough of those after my mom died to last a lifetime. They don't help."

I pull back just enough to see his face, suddenly aware of how little I really know about his mother. "What was she like? Your mom."

A shadow crosses his features, but he doesn't deflect the question. "Beautiful. Smart as hell—she was a math teacher. Always laughing." A small, sad smile touches his lips. "She baked cookies every Sunday without fail, even during finals week when she had stacks of exams to grade."

"She sounds wonderful."

"She was." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture startlingly intimate. "You remind me of her sometimes. The way you see people, really see them."

"I wish I could have met her."

"Me too." His eyes hold mine.

We stand like that for a long moment, close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth radiating from his body.

I should step back, restore some sense of distance and perspective.

But I don't want to. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't want to be alone with my grief and fear and uncertainty.

I want to be here, with him.

"I should show you the rest of the house," I say finally, my voice coming out huskier than intended.

Daniel nods, dropping his arms reluctantly. "Lead the way."

We leave my father's study, closing the door gently behind us. The hallway feels narrower than usual as we navigate it side by side, shoulders brushing.

"Last door on the left is the guest room," I say, pointing but not entering. "Nothing exciting in there. And this—" I push open the door at the end of the hall "—is my room."

I step inside, suddenly self-conscious. My bedroom is undeniably mine—walls painted a soft sage green, a patchwork quilt in blues and purples spread across the queen-sized bed, more bookshelves (of course), and a small reading nook tucked beneath the window.

It's tidy but lived-in, with a cardigan draped over the armchair and a stack of library books on the nightstand.

Daniel follows me in, his eyes taking in every detail. "It suits you," he says after a moment.

"Is that a polite way of saying it's exactly what you'd expect a librarian's bedroom to look like?"

He laughs. "Maybe. But in the best possible way." He moves to my bookshelf, examining titles just as he did in the living room. "Though I'm not sure how many librarians have an entire shelf dedicated to murder mysteries."

"Occupational hazard," I joke. "We know too many creative ways to kill people and hide the evidence."

"Remind me never to get on your bad side." He picks up a small framed photo from my dresser—me and Dad at my college graduation, both of us beaming at the camera. "You have his smile."

"And his stubbornness," I add, coming to stand beside him. "And his taste in books. And his terrible sense of direction."

"All excellent qualities to pass down to our child," Daniel says, setting the photo back carefully. He turns to face me, suddenly serious. "Thank you for showing me your home. For trusting me enough to let me in."

"Thank you for listening." I meet his gaze, aware of how close we're standing, of the quiet intimacy of being in my bedroom with him. "About Dad. About everything."

"Always."

Daniel's eyes drop to my mouth, then back to my eyes, a question in them.

My heart pounds against my ribs. This is probably a bad idea.

Definitely a complication we don't need.

But I'm tired of making the safe choice, of holding everyone at arm's length.

And my body remembers his—remembers the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth, the way he made me feel that night a month ago.

I answer his unspoken question by rising onto my tiptoes and pressing my lips to his.

For a heartbeat, he goes completely still, as if afraid any movement might shatter the moment. Then his hands come up to frame my face, gentle but sure, and he kisses me back.

It's nothing like our first kiss, that night at Finch's Bar. That had been all heat and urgency, tequila-brave and stranger-bold. This is slower, deeper, more deliberate. A getting-to-know-you kiss. A maybe-there's-something-real-here kiss.

His thumbs brush my cheeks as his lips move against mine, coaxing rather than demanding.

I sigh into the contact, my hands finding home on his shoulders, feeling his solid strength beneath soft fabric.

He tastes faintly of the caramel apple he had at the festival, sweet with an edge of tartness that makes me want more.

I curl my fingers into the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer.

What started slowly quickly deepens as Daniel angles his head, changing the pressure in a way that makes my knees weaken.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, requesting rather than demanding entrance, and I open to him with a soft sound that seems to ignite something in him.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine.

"Maya," he whispers, "I can't—I've been thinking about you, about us, every day since that night."

"Me too," I admit, the confession easier in the dim light of my bedroom, with his hands warm against my skin.

"I want you," he says, voice rough with desire. "I've tried to be patient, to take things slow, but God, Maya, I want you so much it hurts."

The raw honesty in his voice sends heat spiraling through me. I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "What are you expecting, Daniel? From this? From us?"

His gaze is steady, unwavering. "Everything you're willing to give. I just know I don't want to walk away again."

It's the right answer—the only answer that could have bridged the distance I've maintained. I rise on tiptoes again and capture his mouth with mine, pouring every feeling into the contact.

The kiss turns molten almost instantly. Daniel's restraint dissolves as his hands slide down my back to my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his hard bulge pressing against me, a tangible reminder of how much he wants this. Wants me.