Page 2 of Tempting the Single Dad (Curvy Girls of Whitetails Falls #1)

I've been watching the sunrise from my kitchen window for thirteen years, but today it strikes me differently.

The soft pink glow filters through the trees, catching on the morning mist that hovers above the fields.

Diana's half-eaten toast sits abandoned on the table, her backpack already slung over the hook by the door.

"Eager for school today?" I ask, pouring coffee into the mug my mother gave me the Christmas before she died. It says "World's Best Dad" in blocky letters that Diana traced with her fingers when she was smaller.

She shrugs, perched on the window seat with her knees pulled to her chest. "I'm watching for birds."

It's the most she's said at breakfast in weeks. Since Mom died, our mornings have been silent rituals of cereal poured, lunches packed, and hair brushed without commentary.

"Dr. Miranda's coming today," she adds, surprising me again. "For pumpkin carving."

"That's right." I hide my smile behind my mug. "You like her, huh?"

Diana turns from the window, her dark eyes serious. "She’s nice and doesn't talk to me like I'm a baby."

My heart squeezes. My eight-year-old, so observant, so wounded, and so determined to be brave. Just like her mother had been. Just like my mom.

After the school bus disappears down our long driveway, I walk the eastern field where our prize pumpkins grow.

The morning dew soaks the cuffs of my jeans, and the cold air fills my lungs.

These quiet moments used to center me, but today I can't shake a restless feeling that's been growing since yesterday.

Since Miranda.

There was something about her. The way she knelt beside Diana without hesitation, her voice calm and warm, her hands gentle but sure.

The curve of her smile when she told that ridiculous squirrel story.

The way her eyes, a deep forest green flecked with gold, crinkled at the corners when she laughed.

The anticipation follows me through the day. By four-thirty, I've changed my shirt twice and cleaned the farmhouse kitchen, something I usually save for Sundays.

Her car appears at the end of the drive at precisely five o'clock. Diana, who's been sitting on the porch steps since getting home from school, bolts upright like she's been electrified. Before I can call out, she's racing down the gravel path toward the parking area.

"Take it easy," I call after her, but she's already reached Miranda, who steps out of her car looking like autumn personified in a rust-colored sweater that falls softly over her curves and jeans tucked into brown boots.

"You came back," Diana says, stopping just short of hugging her.

Miranda crouches down, meeting Diana at eye level. "I promised, didn't I? Plus, I heard there might be pumpkin carving involved, and I am very serious about pumpkin carving."

"Dad got the special knives out," Diana says, reaching for Miranda's hand with a casualness that steals my breath. "And the templates. But I like to make my own designs."

"A creative spirit," Miranda says, rising as I approach. "I admire that."

When she looks up at me, I forget whatever smooth greeting I'd rehearsed in my head. "Hi," is all I manage, suddenly aware of how my flannel shirt must smell like hay and tractor fuel.

"Hi yourself." Her smile reaches all the way to those remarkable eyes, and I'm struck again by how at ease she seems here.

Diana tugs at Miranda's hand. "Want to see my secret place first?"

Miranda glances at me, and I nod. "I've got a few things to finish in the barn. Take your time."

As they head toward Diana's "fort"—a small hollow in the pumpkin patch where the vines create a natural canopy—I force myself to walk the opposite direction. Normal, everyday tasks that suddenly feel like they're happening to someone else.

The barn is cool and smells of sweet hay and horse. I climb the loft ladder to toss down a few bales, my mind racing ahead to dinner. Should I have planned something more impressive than pumpkin soup and homemade bread?

"Need help?"

Her voice startles me, and I nearly lose my footing on the ladder. I turn to find her standing in the wide barn doorway, silhouetted against the golden afternoon.

"I thought you were with Diana," I say, climbing down.

"She's gathering her art supplies from her room. Said she needs her special markers for pumpkin design planning." Miranda steps into the barn, running her hand along a weathered post. "I hope it's okay that I came looking for you. Diana said you might need help with the horses."

"Well, Butterscotch and Maple do get cranky if they're fed late."

"Butterscotch and Maple? Please tell me you have another one named Pumpkin Spice to complete the fall theme."

"His name is Thunder, actually," I say with mock seriousness. "He refused the rebrand."

Her laugh echoes in the rafters, and something loosens in my chest. I hand her a small bucket of oats. "Want to do the honors? Butterscotch is the palomino. She's gentle, but she'll nudge you for extras."

Miranda approaches the stall cautiously, and Butterscotch immediately sticks her golden head over the gate, nostrils flaring.

"Hello, beautiful," Miranda murmurs, offering the bucket. As the horse dips her muzzle to eat, Miranda glances at me. "I didn't grow up around animals. My apartment in Boston barely allowed houseplants."

"You're a natural," I say, loading Maple's feed bucket with grain. "Butterscotch is picky about strangers."

"So," I begin, leaning against the stall door, "what made a Boston pediatrician choose Whitetail Falls?"

Something crosses her face, a shadow quickly replaced by a small smile. "Would you believe a dart thrown at a map?"

"Not for a second."

She sighs, running her fingers through Butterscotch's mane.

"Burnout. Three years in pediatric emergency medicine will do that to you.

Too many kids I couldn't save, too many nights wondering if I was making any difference at all.

" She looks up, her expression vulnerable.

"My mentor suggested this posting. Said I needed to remember why I became a doctor in the first place. "

The honesty in her voice catches me off guard. "And have you? Remembered?"

"Diana's smile yesterday was a good reminder," she says softly.

Something warm spreads through my chest. Before I can respond, a stack of hay bales I'd balanced precariously shifts and topples, sending golden straws flying everywhere. Miranda jumps back with a startled laugh, but not before getting showered in hay.

"Oh god," I groan, reaching out to pluck a piece from her hair. "I swear I'm usually more coordinated."

"Really? Because that's not what Diana tells me." Her eyes dance with mischief. "Something about you falling into the duck pond last spring?"

"Betrayed by my own flesh and blood," I mutter, my fingers lingering in her hair longer than necessary.

The hay has nestled there like it belongs, and suddenly I'm extremely aware of how close we're standing, close enough that I can see the faint freckles dusting her nose, and smell the cinnamon scent on her skin.

Miranda doesn't step back. Instead, she reaches up to brush hay from my shoulder, her touch light but electric. "Hazards of farm life?"

"Something like that," I manage, my voice rougher than intended.

A shout from outside breaks the moment. "Dad! Miranda! I found my markers!"

The next hour passes in a blur of pumpkin guts and laughter. We set up at the big wooden table on the back porch that overlooks the western fields, where the sun is beginning its descent behind the mountains. Diana meticulously sketches her design while Miranda and I tackle larger pumpkins.

"This is harder than I remember," Miranda admits, frowning at her wobbly attempt at a traditional jack-o'-lantern. A smudge of pumpkin pulp marks her cheek, and I resist the urge to wipe it away.

"Here," I say instead, moving to stand behind her. "If you hold the knife like this—" I cover her hand with mine, guiding the carving tool. Her body tenses slightly, then relaxes against me. The warmth of her back against my chest makes it hard to focus on pumpkin carving techniques.

"Like this?" she asks, her voice slightly breathless.

"Perfect," I murmur, reluctantly stepping away before I do something foolish like bury my face in her hair.

Diana watches us with an expression too knowing for an eight-year-old. "Miranda, do you want to see my drawings after we finish? I made one of Mom and Grandma for Day of the Dead."

The casual mention of Elisa and my mother makes my heart twist. Diana rarely speaks of either of them so openly.

Miranda's response is perfect. "I'd love to see them. What's Day of the Dead?"

As Diana explains the holiday, I watch Miranda's face. There's no pity there, just genuine interest and warmth. She asks thoughtful questions, drawing Diana out in a way no one has managed since the funeral.

"We put up pictures and marigolds," Diana explains, cutting out her cat's eye. "And Dad makes dead bread."

"Dead bread?" Miranda's clearly curious.

"It's sweet bread," I explain. "My mother taught me how to make it. We eat it to remember those we've lost."

"That's beautiful," Miranda says softly, her eyes meeting mine. "Honoring memory through food and flowers."

Diana puts down her carving tools. "Want to see my fort now? I put all my drawings there."

"Lead the way," Miranda says, wiping her hands on a towel.

I start to follow, but Diana turns with unexpected firmness. "Just Miranda first, Dad. It's girls only."

I raise my hands in surrender, ignoring the tightness in my throat. "I'll start dinner then."

Through the kitchen window, I watch them kneel by Diana's fort, a small hollow where pumpkin vines create a natural shelter.

Diana disappears inside, then emerges with papers clutched in her hands.

She speaks animatedly, pointing to her drawings, and Miranda listens with complete attention, nodding and smiling.

When they return to the house twenty minutes later, Miranda's eyes are suspiciously bright, and Diana is holding her hand.

"Dad," Diana announces, "Miranda likes my pictures of the stars."

"They're really good," Miranda adds. "She has a natural eye for patterns."

The kitchen is warm with the scent of pumpkin soup and fresh bread as we gather around the old farmhouse table.

Diana, usually so quiet at mealtimes, chatters between spoonfuls about her school's upcoming science fair, her words tumbling out as if making up for months of silence. Miranda listens intently, asking questions about volcanoes and solar systems, her eyes bright with genuine interest.

I can't remember the last time she spoke this much, this freely.

We'd tried everything after Mom died—grief counselors with gentle voices and offices full of stuffed animals, art therapists who promised drawing would help her process emotions she couldn't verbalize, even a child psychiatrist in Burlington who specialized in selective mutism.

None of them could break through the wall Diana built around herself.

Yet here she is, laughing and talking with a woman she's known for barely two days, as if the floodgates have suddenly opened.

What is it about Miranda that makes her different? Maybe it's that she doesn't try too hard. Or perhaps it's something more elemental, the way she smells like cinnamon and autumn, how she kneels to meet Diana at eye level, the genuine interest in her questions.

Whatever magic Miranda possesses, I find myself profoundly grateful for it, even as a small voice whispers that we shouldn't grow too attached to someone who's only passing through our lives temporarily.

After dinner, as twilight deepens outside.

Through the window, the sky has transformed into a watercolor of deep purples and fading oranges, stars just beginning to emerge against the darkening canvas.

Diana sits with her elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands, eyelids growing heavy despite her obvious determination to stay awake.

I catch Miranda's eye across the table, and something unspoken passes between us, a shared recognition of this simple, perfect moment.

"Bedtime for pumpkin farmers," I say, and she nods without protest, another small miracle.

"Will you come back?" she asks Miranda, her voice suddenly small.

Miranda glances at me, then back to Diana. "If it's okay with your dad, I'd love to."

"For the festival," Diana clarifies. "Dad's bringing pumpkins for the contest."

"Sure, I wouldn't miss it," Miranda promises.

When I return from tucking Diana in, Miranda is standing on the back porch, her figure silhouetted against the darkening sky. Stars are beginning to appear, pinpricks of light in the velvet darkness.

"She showed me her drawings of her mother," Miranda says quietly as I join her. "And told me how you point out the brightest star and say that's where she's watching from."

My throat tightens. "It helps her to have something concrete to look for."

"You're doing an amazing job with her, David." She turns to face me, her expression earnest in the soft porch light. "She's resilient and creative and so full of love."

"Some days I feel like I'm failing her completely," I admit, the words escaping before I can catch them. "After my mother died, it was like losing our compass. She knew how to help Diana through losing Elisa. I'm just... figuring it out as I go."

Miranda's hand finds mine in the darkness, her fingers warm and steady. "That's all any of us are doing. It’s our first time here too, you know?"

We stand there in the quiet, her hand in mine, watching the stars emerge over the pumpkin fields.

"Will you really come tomorrow?" I ask finally. "To the festival?"

She turns to me, her face half in shadow, half illuminated by the soft glow from the kitchen window. "Try to keep me away."

And in that moment, I realize I'm already falling for the doctor from Boston who smells like cinnamon and makes my daughter speak again.