Page 8 of Tempting the Single Dad (Curvy Girls of Whitetails Falls #1)
Two Years Later
Steam rises from the pot of spaghetti as I drain it in the sink, the familiar ritual of our Tuesday night dinner as comforting as the breeze drifting through the open kitchen window.
"Dad, you're overcooking it again," Diana informs me, peering over my shoulder with the authority of her ten years. "Miranda likes it al dente."
"Yes, chef," I say, giving her a mock salute. "What would I do without your culinary expertise?"
She rolls her eyes, a gesture she's perfected over the past year. "Probably eat mushy pasta forever." She turns to Miranda, who's stirring the sauce at the stove. "He used to overcook everything before you came. Once he made mac and cheese that was basically soup."
"Betrayed by my own flesh and blood," I mutter, but I can't help smiling as I watch them together.
Miranda laughs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Diana's ear, a gesture so natural, so maternal, that it still catches my breath sometimes. "Everyone has their cooking disasters, Di. Ask me about the time I tried to make bread and ended up with a doorstop."
"The infamous bread incident of 2019," Diana says solemnly, though her eyes dance with mischief. "A tragedy."
The easy banter between them is a joy I never take for granted.
Gone is the silent, traumatized child who wouldn't speak after my mother died.
In her place stands this confident, occasionally sassy almost pre-teen who excels at science, plays soccer with fierce determination, and talks about stars like old friends.
Miranda catches my eye over Diana's head and smiles, a private communication that says she knows exactly what I'm thinking. That's another gift of these two years together, the way she can read me without words, understanding the currents of my thoughts as easily as she charts a patient's symptoms.
"Taste," Miranda instructs, holding out a sauce-covered spoon for Diana. "What does it need?"
Diana considers with the seriousness of a food critic. "More basil. And maybe a tiny bit more salt."
"Good call," Miranda agrees, adding a pinch of each. Her curls are piled on top of her head, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's still in her clinic clothes—dark slacks and a soft blue sweater—having come straight from work to help with dinner.
"Table's ready," Diana announces, setting down the last fork with precision. "And I put out the good napkins."
"The good napkins?" I ask, carrying the pasta to the table. "What's the occasion?"
Diana shrugs with elaborate casualness. "No reason. Just felt like it."
I exchange a glance with Miranda, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. There's definitely something brewing in my daughter's mind, but experience has taught me she'll reveal it in her own time.
We settle around the table, passing dishes and filling glasses with such practiced coordination it feels like a dance we've performed for decades, not years.
The farm stretches beyond the windows, pumpkin fields golden in the September light.
In two weeks, we'll open for the season, welcoming families to pick pumpkins and take hayrides.
"So," Diana says after a few minutes of contented eating. "I have a question."
"Mmm?" Miranda responds, twirling pasta around her fork.
"When are you going to become officially family?"
The question hangs in the air, startling in its directness. Miranda's fork pauses halfway to her mouth, and I nearly choke on my water.
"Diana," I begin, but she forges ahead.
"Because Emily's mom and stepdad got married last year, and now she has a little brother coming.
And Zack's dad just proposed to his girlfriend at the waterfall.
" She takes a deliberate bite of garlic bread.
"I'm just saying, you guys are basically already married.
You have a drawer here, Miranda. And a toothbrush. "
"Multiple drawers, actually," Miranda says, recovering enough to smile. "And half the closet."
"See?" Diana points her fork at me triumphantly. "It's silly not to make it official."
I feel heat creep up my neck. This wasn't how I'd planned it.
Not with spaghetti sauce splatters on my shirt and Diana wielding matchmaking tactics at the dinner table.
The small velvet box hidden in my sock drawer was meant for a more romantic moment.
Maybe the upcoming harvest festival, or our anniversary next month.
But looking at Miranda now, her eyes bright with surprise and something softer, more vulnerable, I realize there's no perfect moment, only perfect people to share it with.
"Diana," Miranda says gently, "that's something your dad and I need to—"
"She's right," I interrupt, setting down my fork. Both pairs of eyes turn to me, one hopeful, one wide with surprise. "It is silly not to make it official."
Miranda's lips part slightly. "David?"
I push back my chair and move to her side of the table, lowering myself to one knee despite the creaking protest from the joint I wrenched helping Hank Jenkins with his tractor last week. Diana gasps, then claps her hands over her mouth.
"This wasn't how I planned to do this," I admit, taking Miranda's hand in mine. "I had something more elaborate in mind. Maybe stars and pumpkins and that fancy Champagne you like."
"Dad!" Diana hisses. "The ring!"
"Right." I pat my pockets, then realize the obvious flaw in my spontaneous plan. "Um, slight problem—"
"I'll get it!" Diana is already halfway to the stairs, clearly aware of exactly where I've hidden it. She's back in seconds, pressing the small velvet box into my hand with a triumphant grin. "Hurry up, her pasta's getting cold."
Miranda laughs, a sound caught between tears and joy, and I've never loved her more than in this imperfect, perfect moment.
"Miranda Allen," I say, opening the box to reveal the vintage emerald ring I found in Burlington, green like her eyes, surrounded by tiny diamonds that reminded me of stars.
"You walked into our pumpkin patch two years ago and changed everything.
You healed my daughter's silence. You brought color back into our lives.
You turned this house back into a home." My voice catches, but I push through.
"Will you marry us? Become officially family, as Diana puts it? "
Miranda's eyes fill with tears that spill over, tracking down her cheeks. "Yes," she whispers, then louder, "Yes. To both of you. Yes."
As I slide the ring onto her finger, Diana gives a whoop of delight and throws her arms around both of us, nearly knocking me off balance. We end up in a tangled heap of laughter and tears beside the dinner table, spaghetti forgotten, three hearts beating in perfect sync.
"I knew it would work," Diana says smugly, admiring how the emerald catches the light on Miranda's finger. "You guys just needed a little push."
"You're too smart for your own good," I tell her, ruffling her hair.
"I get it from my family," she replies, and the simple, confident way she includes Miranda in that statement makes my heart swell.
Later, dishes piled in the sink for tomorrow, we stand together at the window watching the first stars appear over the pumpkin fields. Miranda's head rests against my shoulder, the emerald ring glinting on her finger as she points out constellations to Diana.
My daughter leans against her other side, chattering about the wedding and whether we can have it in the pumpkin patch, and if she can help design the invitations.
This, I think, is what happiness feels like. Not grand gestures or perfect moments, but ordinary Tuesday nights made extraordinary by love. By family. By the woman who walked into our lives when we needed her most, and decided to stay .
Thank you for reading!