Dad Bod Read online

  “No,” I say. “I’ll be back and run them to the laundromat. If you can get everything ready, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Have you been crying? You sound stuffed up.”

  “Yes,” I tell her.

  “Mila asked about him again?”

  I nod, realize she can’t see me, and murmur in agreement.

  “I’m sorry,” Emily says. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “It doesn’t feel right, but...it’s the best option I can see.”

  “Come on, Maggie. Don’t be so hard on yourself; your family is complete as is. You just have to look at Mila to see that. I’ve never seen a happier little girl, and you love her enough for two parents.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her. Hearing another beep, I glance down at my phone before responding. “My mom’s calling. I’ll see you soon.”

  I start up the car and pull toward the inn, having no extra time to feel annoyed at the washer breaking. First the popcorn machine, then the washer—things are starting to crumble around the inn, and I don’t like it.

  “Mother,” I say, keeping an even voice. She’s one person who doesn’t need to know I’ve been crying. “How are you today?”

  “I hear Mila’s hanging out with the wrong crowd.”

  “What are you talking about? She’s six.”

  “These things start young, Margaret. You have to watch her carefully.”

  “Mom. I hope you didn’t call about my parenting skills again.”

  “I heard about her fight, and I’m just concerned. She shouldn’t be getting so worked up at that age.”

  “Mom!” I take a few deep breaths to gather my words before speaking. “You can’t correct the mistakes you made with me by trying to parent Mila. She’s my daughter, she’s a wonderful girl, and you need to accept that.”

  “I just have experience raising a daughter, and I thought you might like some help,” she says, waspish. “Heaven knows I learned something the first time around.”

  “Maybe I should let Mila make all the mistakes she wants then,” I tell her. “Because they turned out pretty good for me.”

  “Margaret!”

  “What? I finished my degree. So what it took me six years? I run a business, and I have the most amazing daughter. Where did I go wrong?”

  “It’s just—”

  “If you bring up Mila’s father, I will hang up the phone. I’m in no mood today, mom.”

  “Things could have been different.”

  “Well, they’re not, and I have to get back to work,” I say, parking the car before I storm into the inn. “Have a great day.”

  “Yikes,” Emily says. “Tough morning?”

  “The towels,” I growl. “Please.”

  There are about ten huge bags of towels and miscellaneous items that need washing shoved into my car as I head toward the laundromat. I’m fuming, torn between letting more tears leak down my cheeks and screaming profanities into the hollow of my car.

  I decide on the latter because I’m sick of crying.

  Which is why it’s unfortunate that Tyler Daniels pulls up next to me at the stoplight just as I’m finishing a string of very vulgar curses.

  “Wow,” he says, giving a low whistle through our open windows. “Colorful.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Daniels,” I warn him. “I’m in a mood.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he says, giving me a smirk that says my mood doesn’t intimidate him in the slightest. “What’ll I get if I can talk you out of your mood?”

  The light turns green, and I shake my head. “Eat my dust, Tyler.” I start to press my foot to the gas, but I hit the brake almost at once and align myself with Tyler’s window once more. “Oh. And thank you for fixing the popcorn machine.”

  Then I hit the gas and pull away from Tyler Daniels.

  This time, I’m determined to be the one not left behind.

  Chapter 9

  TYLER

  She is in a mood.

  A mood that has me thinking she needs to burn off some energy, and I’m just the guy to make that happen.

  Yeah, right. I laugh at the thought.

  I have more of a chance with the chef at the inn—some dude named Jax, who looks like a Ken doll—than I do with Margaret Marshall. At least, the way she’s been acting around me lately.

  I whip my car into the parking lot, a quick little Audi I leased for the next year. If I have to be stuck here in Nowheresville, Maine for the foreseeable future, the least I could do for myself was get a decent vehicle to kill time.

  A year. That’s how long it’d take to scout out the area, get all the legal shit squared away, and pop up a shiny new hotel. The board of directors at my company had thought this very location would benefit from a nice little hotel serving the hordes of tourists who flock here year after year. Lucky for them? I’m a local. At least, I was.

  I know the market they’re trying to hit—we called them leaf peepers, the people who slide casually into town during the fall rush of tourism, hoping for sights of quaint little storefronts and piping hot coffees to a backdrop of sweeping color as the leaves begin to change one by one.

  Then visitor rush continues somewhat over ice skating through the winter months, snowball fights. and winter carnivals drawing small crowds, and into spring around our rainy season. We finish up with another round of tourists during summer, those looking for a little getaway from the city, sticky little carnivals for kids, or scenic hiking for romantic couples.

  Now that I’m back, I can see the reason Harp’s Haven has made it onto the map. It’s pretty here, and serene, and for folks like me who spend day after day toiling amongst the hustle and bustle of the big city, there’s something to be said for a little slice of quiet in our busy lives.

  Then again, I’m beginning to think I’m influenced by the way Maggie Marshall looks at me. Harp’s Haven has taken on a new challenge for me in the form of one woman. Margaret’s a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any second. Half the time I’m sure she’s undressing me with her eyes, and the other half of the time I think she wants to shove a fork in my eye.

  I sit parked in a space outside of the local laundromat. It’s no coincidence I showed up here at the exact same time as Maggie. I could hear her clunker pulling into this spot from miles away.

  I suppose I’m here out of curiosity more than anything; Margaret’s definitely feeling something for me, and I need to know what. It might be love and it might be hate, but so long as she’s feeling something, I’m not giving up.

  In the last decade, I haven’t found another soul who feels so much. Anastasia—my ex, if you can call her that—enjoys shopping and cars and parties and worthless shit. She likes things—things that I’d tried to give her for the sake of our family, but it had never been enough.

  So, the moment Margaret Marshall laid into me, her eyes ablaze, I could hardly focus on the world. I was too damn happy someone cared enough to yell. I can handle a fight, I can handle an argument, and I can handle the fact that Maggie might be the death of me. The thing I hate is bland indifference. Maggie doesn’t do bland.

  In fact, I’m itching for another fight right now.

  Or a kiss.

  Or whatever Margaret is willing to give me.

  The way she lead-footed her way out of the stoplight has me thinking something’s bothering her, and I have this burning desire to know what it is. Maybe I can help.

  Stop being an idiot, my brain tells me. You can’t fix everything.

  I close my eyes and grit my teeth, wondering if the little stunt with the popcorn machine had been a weak attempt to begin the deeper repairs I owe Maggie. When I left, I’d needed to go, needed to get out of town, and I don’t regret the choice—I only regret the fact that it tore Maggie apart as much as it did me.

  Seems to me, however, that life’s giving us a second chance, and I’m more intrigued than ever by her.r />
  One foot steps in front of the other as I stride toward the front door of the laundromat, hoping I look the picture of confidence. On the inside, there’s a weird palpitation going on with my heart and a shudder across my skin that has nothing to do with the brisk outdoor air.

  “What are you doing here?” Margaret interrupts before I can overanalyze the nerves prickling at my spine. “Did you follow me?”

  “You didn’t seem fit to drive. The way you raced away from that stoplight...”

  Maggie scowls. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to be all gooey toward you just because you fixed my popcorn machine. I appreciate it, but—”

  “No gooiness necessary,” I say, biting a lip to stop my smile. “Just wondering if something was bothering you. You seem, uh, miffed.”

  “Yeah, I am!” She turns back to several bags of laundry piled on the floor next to her and resumes her pummeling of the sheets and towels into the washing machine. “Everything is breaking around the inn.”

  “The washer this time?”

  “Gee, you’re a real Sherlock.” She stands, one hand on her hip and the other wiping her brow, as she faces me again. “How’d you guess?”

  One of these moods, I think, re-examining my approach. I can feel Maggie’s need for a punching bag, and who better than the man standing before her? I’m up for a challenge—I’m looking forward to it.

  “Maybe if you took better care of—”

  “I take perfect care of my equipment,” she says, her eyes narrowing at me. “Don’t you dare question the way I run my inn.”

  “So it is yours?”

  “Partially,” she spits, turning back to the laundromat.

  “Emily’s?” I press, when she doesn’t seem inclined to answer.

  “Yes,” she says shortly.

  “Is that all? Co-owners?”

  “Technically our boss is Claire—she fronts the money end of things, but she lives in New York, so she’s never around.” Maggie stops short, seeming annoyed at herself for spilling so much, and shakes her head and speaks again, more stiffly. “Are you enjoying your room?”

  “Very much. Jess, too,” I add. “I also stopped in here to thank you for last night.”

  At these words, an older gentleman a few washers down perks right up and stares at us.

  “You’re welcome,” she hisses to me, then turns to the old man. “Oh, it’s not what you think, Charlie. Relax. It’s business for the inn.”

  Charlie raises his eyebrows, which appear to be stiff brooms of gray bristles, and moves a few more washers down and around the corner, leaving us in a semi-private row of the laundromat. Apparently, the Lilac Inn has enough laundry to buy out the entire damn place.

  Except for Charlie—whose piercing whistles are the only reminder that we’re not completely alone.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Maggie snarls. “I have a reason to be pissed. What’s your reason for being nice?”

  “Why are you pissed?”

  “My mother!” Maggie bursts before she can hold herself back. Her cheeks color red with embarrassment. “She is so critical about my parenting. Nothing I do is good enough. I didn’t care when it was all about me, but now Mila’s involved, and...it drives me insane!”

  I nod, extending silent sympathy.

  “Does anyone ever do that to you?” The question feels rhetorical, and indeed, she continues without prompting. “Can’t she see that Mila is an amazing girl? No. I’m not doing enough because I didn’t get married. Now, I’m apparently letting Mila hang out with the wrong crowd—which is complete bullshit. Not to mention the fact that I work for an inn, instead of utilizing my potential and becoming a nurse like she wanted.”

  “Do you love what you do?”

  “Of course I do! The inn is home to me, and the employees are my family. I can’t imagine myself anywhere else, unless—”

  She stops abruptly, pulling me closer by her silence. “Unless?”

  “Nevermind,” she says, her ears coloring. “It’s stupid.”

  “Unless?” I prompt again.

  She eyes me, and I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but eventually she finds it. “I suppose if I ever got married I’d have to move out, move nearby, but that’s looking like a more and more distant possibility every day.”

  “Do you want to be married?”

  “I don’t know, what is this, twenty-four questions?”

  “I thought it would be nice to get married,” I offer. “I don’t think it’s in the cards for me.”

  It never has been, I suppose, but I don’t say that. I’d tried to get Jessica’s mother to marry me, but eventually, I’d had to give up. If the mother of my own daughter didn’t want to marry me, then who the hell would?

  “It might be nice to find someone,” she admits. “But with Mila, I can’t take the risk of jumping in too soon. I don’t have time to date, and this town is so small. I know everyone here. You’d think if there were someone here for me, they’d have turned up by now.”

  I survey her wry smile, wanting to grasp her face in my hands and wonder aloud: what if I’d been here?

  She shakes her head, continuing on before I can find the words to express the thought, which is probably better for both of us.

  “For what it’s worth,” I say, not realizing that Maggie’s still talking, and I’ve interrupted her. “Your mother’s wrong.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She’s wrong.” I clear my throat. “You’re a wonderful mom, and Mila is a great girl. All because of you. You don’t need to add to your family if you’re not interested; you and Mila are complete already.”

  Maggie struggles for a response, eventually giving up. She shoves the last of the fabrics into the washer. I follow her lead and drop the more personal note to the conversation, sensing I’ve made her uncomfortable.

  “I don’t mean to—”

  “Thank you,” she says, her eyes flickering up to meet mine. “For saying that. Even if you don’t mean it, well...it means something to me.”

  “Of course I meant it.” My heart feels as if it’s cracking at the sight of her tear-filled eyes. Pools of shimmering green, as if whatever I’ve said has opened a dam that’d been seeing fissures arise for years. “Don’t cry, Maggie—what did I say?”

  “It’s nothing, I just—I guess I’m more sensitive than you remember.” She gives a sniff, a false laugh, and attempts bravery. “Don’t overthink things.”

  I follow her command and don’t stop, for a second, to overthink my next move. I brashly step forward, following my instincts, and raise a hand to the side of her face. I stroke my thumb over her cheek where a tear has slipped from her carefully protected facade, and brush it away.

  Her breath is stilled, halted, and I feel her tense beneath my fingers.

  “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” I take a step forward, and she moves back. A sort of dance. “But I want to kiss you.”

  She blinks, her eyelids closing, and several tears previously held in place dot her eyelashes. They’re like crystals suspended between us, and I want—need—to taste them, to press my lips against her eyelids so gently she’ll barely know I’m there. Then her cheeks, her neck, her lips.

  Her acceptance isn’t a word, it’s a gasp, the most subtle sound. It slips from her lips like a moan, drifts to my ear like a breath, and by the time I can process her body arching toward mine, I’m burning with an onslaught of need.

  Still, I don’t rush her. I let my hand slip behind her head where her loose waves fall, and I weave my fingers through them. I stroke her hair, pulling her closer and closer until we’re aligned and her body is all but quivering for mine.

  “Please,” she murmurs, and finally, I combust.

  My lips meet hers, and unlike the fireworks I pictured, there’s a simple contentment. It’s as if we were made for one another, as if there’s nothing particularly surprising about this moment; as if this is what’s meant to be and always has been.
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  I know for a fact that one taste won’t be enough, and I breathe her in, willing every detail to imprint on my brain. My hands explore, her curves softer now than they were before, her body thinner—probably from years of running around with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  As my fingers sink into her hips, I can’t help the primal groan that escapes, a sure giveaway of my desire. I worry that it’s too much, that she can feel my arousal pressed against her, that the threat of more between us will push her back into her own little corner once again.

  Please, God, no, I silently beg.

  I can’t have her pull away, not yet. Not without a fair shot.

  I needn’t have worried. She responds to me like a magnet, both of us pressing against one another and thirsting for more. My desires are completely reciprocated, at least on a physical level. It’ll be that damn emotional mountain that’s difficult to summit; it always is.

  For now, the physical is all we have, and it’s enough. My tongue slips between her lips and she welcomes it. The sweetness intensifies, and my brain sizzles, short circuiting with her scent. Then there’s a thud, a beeping, and a giggle from Maggie as we crash against the washer.

  “Ignore it.” She gasps at the thud and runs her hands through my hair, fisting it tightly.

  I have no intention of stopping for World War III, let alone the fucking washing machine—especially now that her hands have landed on me. If anything, I’m wondering how I can kick Charlie out of here and lock the doors.

  “Maggie,” I groan. “You taste incredible. And the way you feel...” My hands encircle her small figure, landing on her bottom as I pull her harder against me.

  Maggie’s lips crash back to mine, her hands pulling, tugging, exploring. We can’t get enough of one another, and it’s escalating quickly. She’s in a mood, that’s for sure, and I can match it, no problem. If she just gives me a chance, if we can just try this one more time...

  “Damn,” I murmur as her legs wrap around me and I raise her, back pressed against the machine. “You are so sexy.”

  “Then shut up, Tyler.”

  I do as I’m told, and together we sink back into bliss. The warmth of the driers spinning and the vibrations of the washer against Maggie’s back send us spiraling into a whole new dimension. I’m crazed, unable to separate lust and love, want and need, desire and pleasure.