Page 3 of Tempting the Single Dad (Curvy Girls of Whitetails Falls #1)

The Whitetail Falls Fall Festival blooms before me like a scene from a movie I never knew I wanted to star in.

Acorn Circle pulses with golden light, mason jars flickering on windowsills, and jack-o'-lanterns grinning from every available surface.

The massive oak tree at the center, draped in fairy lights, drops amber leaves that twirl like dancers in the crisp evening air.

"It's magical," I breathe, tightening my grip on Diana's hand as we navigate the crowded cobblestones. Her eyes are wide, reflecting the constellation of lights above us.

"Wait till you see the pumpkin display," she says, tugging me forward with newfound confidence. "Dad's are the biggest."

I catch David's eye over Diana's head, and the slow smile that spreads across his face makes my stomach flip. He's traded his usual flannel for a dark blue button-down that stretches deliciously across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to expose forearms.

"Sounds like serious business," I say, breathing in the mingled scents of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and apple cider. "Are there actual pumpkin rivalries in Whitetail Falls?"

"You have no idea." David's hand settles lightly on the small of my back as he guides us through the crowd. "Last year, someone accused Farmer Lewis of using growth hormones. There was almost a pitchfork standoff."

His touch is casual but electric, sending warmth radiating up my spine.

We stop at a booth where a woman with silver-streaked braids is checking in children for the kids' activities area. A neat row of wristbands and clipboards suggests a level of organization that soothes my doctor-brain.

"Ms. Bennett," David says warmly. "This is Dr. Miranda Allen, new pediatrician in town."

"Ah! The miracle worker who got our Diana talking again." Her eyes crinkle with genuine warmth as she extends her hand. "The whole teachers' lounge has been buzzing about it."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I just happened to be there at the right time."

"Modesty," Ms. Bennett says with a wink. "I like that in a doctor." She turns to Diana. "Ready for some fun? We've got pumpkin painting, a hay maze, and apple bobbing."

Diana looks up at David, then me, uncertainty flickering across her face.

I crouch to her level. "What do you think? Want to show the other kids how it's done?"

She bites her lip, then nods. "Will you and Dad still be here?"

"Promise," David says, crouching beside me. The nearness of him, his clean cedar scent and the warmth radiating from his body momentarily distracts me. "We'll be helping with the pumpkin display right over there. See those tables?"

"Two parent volunteers, security at entry and exit, wristbands, and thirty-minute safety checks," Ms. Bennett assures me, correctly reading my professional concern.

"She's in good hands," David murmurs close to my ear as Diana skips off with a group of children. "Ms. Bennett raised four kids of her own and has been teaching for decades. Plus, I can see the whole area from the pumpkin table."

"Sorry," I laugh, embarrassed at being so transparent. "Occupational hazard. I've spent too many ER shifts patching up injuries."

"It's cute," he says, his voice dropping lower. "You being all protective."

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the festival around us blurs into background noise. Then someone calls his name, breaking the spell.

"Hilton! We need your muscles over here!"

David rolls his eyes. "That's my cue. Coming?"

The pumpkin display area is organized chaos, long tables being draped with autumn-colored cloths, volunteers arranging hay bales and cornstalks, teenagers unpacking boxes of tiny decorative gourds.

David immediately starts helping a white-haired man lift a massive pumpkin onto a central display. The muscles in his back flex beneath his shirt, and I force myself to look away before I start visibly drooling.

A woman with curly red hair thrusts a box of art supplies into my arms. "You must be Miranda! I'm Abigail. Can you help with the stencils? The kids will be painting mini pumpkins later."

For the next hour, I lose myself in the rhythm of festival preparation. I arrange paint pots and brushes, help hang paper lanterns from shepherd's hooks, and attempt—rather disastrously—to carve a welcome sign into a foam pumpkin.

"That's... interesting," David says, appearing at my shoulder to inspect my handiwork. The letters wobble drunkenly across the orange surface.

"I'm a doctor, not an artist," I protest, laughing at my own failure. "My handwriting is famously terrible. Ask any nurse who's tried to read my charts."

"Here, let me show you." He steps behind me, his chest warm against my back as his hand closes over mine on the carving tool. "Gentle pressure, smooth motion."

His breath stirs the hair near my ear, and I fight a shiver that has nothing to do with the October chill. His hand guides mine, steadying the wobble, his fingers warm and strong against my skin.

"Better," he murmurs, making no move to step away. The double meaning hangs in the air between us.

"You've got—" David reaches up, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Paint." The pad of his thumb lingers, rough and warm against my skin. His eyes darken, pupils dilating slightly in the lantern light.

"Thanks," I whisper, the word barely audible above the fiddle music that's started up near the oak tree.

He glances around at the bustling festival, then back to me. "Do you need a breather? It gets a bit overwhelming if you're not used to the whole town being in one place."

"A breather sounds perfect."

With a subtle nod toward a rustic barn-like structure near the edge of the square, he takes my hand. "The warming barn. It's for staff and volunteers. Should be quiet."

The barn is small but charming—a single room with a potbelly stove glowing in the corner, twinkle lights strung across wooden beams, and stacks of hay bales creating cozy nooks.

The noise of the festival muffles as David closes the door behind us, leaving just the faint strains of fiddle music and distant laughter.

"Better?" he asks, still holding my hand.

I nod, suddenly aware of how alone we are.

"I should check on Diana," he says, making no move toward the door.

"Ms. Bennett has it covered," I remind him, taking a step closer. "Thirty-minute safety checks, remember?"

His expression changes slightly, restraint giving way to decision. His eyes darken as they drop to my mouth, and my breath catches in my throat. The space between us narrows, molecules of air seeming to vibrate with tension.

"Miranda," he says, my name a question and answer both.

When his lips finally meet mine, the contact is electric, soft and firm at once, tentative for only a heartbeat before deepening with unmistakable hunger.

His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks with a tenderness that contrasts with the urgency of his mouth. He tastes of apple cider.

I melt into him, my hands finding purchase on his solid chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath my palms. The kiss transforms from exploratory to consuming, his tongue sliding against mine, drawing a small sound from my throat that seems to ignite something primal in him.

"I've wanted to do that since you knelt beside Diana in the pumpkin patch," he confesses against my lips, his voice a rough whisper that sends shivers down my spine.

"Why didn't you?" I ask, breathless, as his mouth traces a path along my jaw.

His hands slide down to my waist, fingers splaying wide to pull me flush against him. "Because," he murmurs, the heat of his breath against my neck making my knees weak, "I knew once I started, I wouldn't want to stop."

The admission thrills me. He walks me backward, his mouth never leaving my skin, until the backs of my thighs meet hay bales. With effortless strength, he lifts me to sit on the edge, stepping between my legs.

"Is this too fast?" he asks, one hand tracing the curve of my waist while the other cups my cheek. "We barely know each other, but I feel—"

I silence him with a kiss, nipping gently at his lower lip, savoring his sharp intake of breath. "I know exactly what you mean," I whisper against his mouth. "It's crazy and impossible and feels completely right."

His smile is part relief, part hunger as he pulls me closer. "Thank god."

His kisses deepen, becoming a slow, thorough exploration that leaves me dizzy.

One hand tangles in my hair, tugging slightly to expose my neck to his mouth.

The gentle scrape of his beard against my sensitive skin sends goosebumps racing across my body as he traces a path of open-mouthed kisses down to my collarbone.

"You smell incredible," he murmurs, nuzzling the hollow of my throat. "Like cinnamon and something sweet."

His other hand slides beneath my sweater, warm and calloused against the small of my back. Each point of contact between us feels like a tiny flame, building a fire that pools low in my belly. I arch into his touch, wanting more, needing to feel his skin against mine.

When his fingers trace the underside of my breast through my bra, I gasp, my legs tightening around his hips. The hardness of him presses against me through our clothes, and the friction draws a moan from us both.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes. His pupils are blown wide, a thin ring of amber around endless black. "I need to hear you say it."

"You," I say simply, my fingers working at his shirt buttons.

The twinkle lights cast his face in gold and shadow as he helps me, shrugging the shirt from his shoulders.

My breath catches at the sight of him, broad chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a tantalizing trail disappearing into his jeans.

His shoulders are powerful, his arms defined not from a gym but from years of physical labor.

"What?" he asks, noticing my appreciative gaze, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You're hot," I say honestly, running my hands over the contours of his chest.