Page 6 of Tempting the Single Dad (Curvy Girls of Whitetails Falls #1)

The wagon begins its loop back toward town, the festival lights gradually brightening on the horizon.

Diana yawns widely, snuggling against Miranda's side with the easy trust of childhood.

I watch Miranda's arm tighten around her, the way she absently strokes Diana's hair, and that longing intensifies.

This is what we've been missing. Not just romance or companionship for me, but this maternal softness for Diana. The quiet understanding of what it means to care for a child not because you have to, but because you want to.

"I can stay with Diana while you handle the pumpkin emergency," Miranda offers as the wagon approaches the drop-off point. "That way she doesn't have to trail around after you through boring committee stuff."

I hesitate, torn between wanting to keep them both close and recognizing the practical solution she's offering. "You sure? You don't have to babysit on your night off."

"It's not babysitting when it's someone you care about," she says simply, and the words hit me like a physical touch. "Besides, I saw a caramel apple stand we haven't tried yet. Right, Diana?"

Diana perks up at this, insisting she's not tired at all and definitely needs a caramel apple.

As the wagon rolls to a stop, we disembark, returning our blankets to the volunteers, and make our way back to the heart of the festival. The crowds have thinned slightly, but music still plays from the small stage, and the food stalls continue to do brisk business.

"I shouldn't be too long," I tell them, spotting Hank Jenkins waving frantically from the judging area. "Meet you by the apple stand in fifteen minutes?"

"Take your time," Miranda assures me. "We'll be fine."

I watch them walk away, Diana's small hand tucked securely in Miranda's, their heads bent together in conversation. The sight does something to my heart, expands it, somehow, making room for possibilities I haven't allowed myself to consider in years.

The pumpkin mix-up is exactly the kind of small-town drama that would have irritated me in my previous life as a city dweller—two farmers entered pumpkins in the wrong categories, another forgot to fill out his form completely, and someone's grandmother is insisting her jam should be judged alongside the vegetables because "pumpkin is a fruit, technically. "

"I need your ruling, Hilton," Hank says, gesturing dramatically at the disputed entries. "You're the expert here."

It takes twenty minutes of diplomacy, form-filling, and gentle redirection before everything is settled. As I finish, I glance around the plaza, searching for Miranda and Diana.

I spot them by the caramel apple stand, heads bent together over something Diana is showing her.

Miranda's expression is one of absolute focus, as if whatever my eight-year-old is saying is the most important thing in the world.

As I watch, Diana says something that makes Miranda throw her head back in laughter, her waves catching the golden light from nearby lanterns.

They look like they belong together. Like they've always known each other.

And I suddenly understand what people mean when they talk about moments that change everything, because I'm having one right now, standing in the middle of a small-town festival, watching the woman I'm falling for laugh with my daughter.

I want this. Not just for tonight or tomorrow, but for all the nights and days stretching into the future.

I want Miranda's laughter in our kitchen, her books on our shelves, her clothes in our closet. I want her checking Diana's homework and arguing with me about which movies to watch and falling asleep beside me every night.

It's too fast, too soon, too intense. But I feel a strange calm, as if my heart has made a decision my brain is just catching up to.

"Dad!" Diana calls, spotting me across the plaza. "Miranda got us caramel apples with nuts! And hot chocolate with extra whipped cream!"

I make my way to them, unable to keep the smile from my face. "Sounds like a sugar overload."

"It's a festival," Miranda says with a playful shrug. "Aren't sugar overloads mandatory?"

"Pretty sure it's in the town charter," I agree, accepting the cup of hot chocolate she offers me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and even that brief contact sends warmth cascading through me. "Crisis averted, by the way. Though I may have accidentally volunteered to be a judge next year."

"The perils of being competent," she teases, reaching up to brush something from my jacket, a casual touch that reminds us both of what happened earlier. Her cheeks flush slightly, and I have to fight the urge to kiss her right there in the middle of the festival.

Diana yawns again, more dramatically this time, and I check my watch. "It's getting late, pumpkin. Ready to head home?"

She nods reluctantly, then looks up at Miranda with hopeful eyes. "Can Miranda come too?"

Miranda's eyes meet mine, and I see my own conflict mirrored there, wanting more time together, but aware of the boundaries we should probably maintain.

"I think Miranda might be tired too," I say carefully. "But maybe she can come for dinner tomorrow?"

"Actually," Miranda says, her expression softening as she looks at Diana, "I should probably get back to my cottage. I have early appointments at the clinic tomorrow."

Diana's face falls. "Oh."

"But," Miranda continues, crouching to Diana's level, "I would love to come for dinner tomorrow night. If that's okay with your dad."

"More than okay," I confirm, relief washing through me. We're navigating this together, finding our way with Diana's feelings in mind.

"Can we make spaghetti?" Diana asks, perking up. "I can help with the sauce."

"Spaghetti sounds perfect," Miranda agrees, tucking a strand of hair behind Diana's ear with such natural tenderness that my chest aches.

As we walk toward the parking area, Diana between us, my phone buzzes again. This time it's Maggie from the clinic, and I hand the phone to Miranda.

"Probably for you," I say.

She takes the call, her expression shifting to professional concern as she listens. "Yes, I understand. No, it's not a problem. I can be there in twenty minutes."

When she hangs up, her apologetic look tells me everything. "The Reyes baby has a high fever. Maggie says it's probably nothing serious, but the parents are first-timers and pretty scared."

"Go," I say immediately. "We understand."

"Duty calls," she says with a rueful smile, then kneels to give Diana a quick hug. "I'll see you tomorrow for spaghetti, okay? Save your pumpkin designs to show me."

Diana nods, surprisingly accepting of the change in plans. "You have to help the sick baby. That's important."

Miranda stands, her eyes meeting mine over Diana's head. "Rain check on that ride home?"

"Definitely," I say, fighting the urge to pull her into my arms in front of everyone.

The sounds of the festival fade, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant hooting of an owl. Diana is quickly distracted by a nearby display of carved pumpkins, giving us a moment of privacy as we step away.

When we reach Miranda’s car, she turns to face me, her back against the driver's door.

"So," she says, looking up at me with those incredible eyes that seem to see straight through me.

"So," I echo, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. I settle for resting them lightly on her waist, relieved when she doesn't pull away.

"Today has been..." She trails off, searching for words.

"Unexpected?" I offer.

She laughs softly. "That's one way to put it."

I lean closer, drawn to her like gravity. "In the best possible way, though."

"Definitely the best possible way," she agrees, her hands coming up to rest on my chest.

In the silver moonlight, with fallen leaves crunching beneath our feet and the scent of woodsmoke in the air, I kiss her.

Not with the desperate hunger of earlier, but with slow, deliberate tenderness.

Her lips are soft beneath mine, tasting of chocolate and caramel, and when she sighs into my mouth, I have to force myself to remember we're in a public parking lot with Diana just a few steps away.

When we part, her eyes remain closed for a heartbeat, her lips slightly parted. Then she looks up at me with such warmth that it steals my breath.

"For the record," she whispers, "I don't do casual either. And this, whatever it is, feels anything but casual to me."

"Good," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Because I'm already in too deep to pull back now."

She smiles, pressing one last swift kiss to my lips before reluctantly stepping away. "I should go. That baby won't examine itself."

"Doctor humor," I tease. "Very professional."

"Oh, I can be very professional," she assures me with a wink that promises anything but. "Just not around you, apparently."

I watch her drive away, taillights disappearing down the road toward town. The absence of her feels physical, like a sudden drop in temperature. But unlike other goodbyes I've experienced, this one carries no dread, no fear of abandonment. Only anticipation of seeing her again.

When I return to Diana, she slips her hand into mine without comment, but the knowing look in her eyes tells me she understands more than I give her credit for.

"I like her, Dad," she says simply.

"Me too, baby," I reply, squeezing her hand. "Me too."