When We Met: A Small Town Single Dad Romance

by Shey Stahl

  Barron’s face softens a fraction. “We will tonight.” He leans down and kisses her forehead, and then hands her a coat. “I just need to talk to Kacy, and Nana Lee has a special treat for you.”

  “I not wanna treat,” Sev says, flopping herself on the ground at his feet. Her witch’s hat she’s been wearing all morning falls off. “I want cockies.”

  I fight the urge to laugh that she said cockies, but restrain myself knowing now is not the time for laughter.

  “Cookies!” Camdyn yells back, the tension in the air getting to her.

  Sev kicks at her sister. “I say that!” she screams, her screeching cry following.

  Everyone is on edge, and the girls are now feeding off it. One crying, one angry at her dad for reasons she doesn’t know. “No! You says cockies. That’s not even a word.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Barron groans, running his hands over his face. “Nana Lee has cookies too. Now get up and get your ass into the truck,” he warns, glaring at the girls.

  They do as he says, almost immediately. Hell, even I think maybe I should get in the truck.

  It’s then he lifts his eyes to mine for the first time since he’s been inside. I gauge his reaction. Waiting. Five feet from him, pressed against the fridge, where he first kissed me. His jaw clenches and his eyes narrow. He steps closer to me, our breathing mixing. “You better be here when I get back. You owe me that much.” His voice is a barely audible hiss, but the warning is there.

  Gulp. Literally. I attempt to answer him and almost choke on my own spit. I can’t breathe again. The words dry up. What were they? What was I going to say? That I led him to believe I crashed into his life?

  That part wasn’t a lie. I didn’t know where he lived in Amarillo.

  That had been fate, hadn’t it?

  I open my mouth to reply, then snap it shut again when his eyebrows shoot up in a silent warning—a threat to shut the fuck up.

  I watch him leave with the girls, fully prepared for that to be the last time I see them. What if it is? Will he let me say goodbye to them? My stomach free falls to my knees, and I hate that feeling. I don’t even like riding on a roller coaster, so me and this feeling, we don’t like each other. I want to run away, hide from the expression on his face, but I can’t. I did this. I have to face him and explain.

  What the hell made me think this was a good idea to stay? Oh, right. Because I was scared. In Karnataka, India, they toss newborns out a window into a makeshift blanket thirty feet below to crowd surf. Doesn’t make it a good idea.

  Keeping this from him for three weeks was, in fact, a bad idea.

  I’m an idiot. A motherfucking stupid idiot, and I should be tossed out a window.

  The realization hits me like a bullet to my heart. That’s when I burst into tears. I know I have no right to feel sorry for myself for my actions, but it certainly doesn’t stop the pain.

  Twenty minutes later, I can hear Barron’s truck coming up the driveway. I nervously pace the kitchen until he comes inside. When he walks through the door, he tosses his keys on the counter. I brace myself for the words I know I’m going to hear, because I deserve them, and they’re going to hurt. But, nothing comes. No anger. No yelling. No… reaction at all.

  He blows out a steady, controlled breath. “You stayed. Huh. I thought for sure you’d leave.”

  “Where was I going to go? Hitchhike on a horse?” I point out sarcastically, because I’m nervous and I get sarcastic when I’m nervous.

  He says nothing. Not a damn word but his glare, yeah, that’s enough to make my blood turn cold. And beg him to fuck me on the counter. Holy shit. Why is that glare so damn hot? Tie me to your bed. Hold me hostage. Give me your anger.

  Kacy, no.

  Say something. Explain yourself. “I’m so sorry,” I rush to say. “I can leave. I didn’t… I’m just so sorry I didn’t say anything.”

  He holds up his hand, shaking his head and pointing to the fridge.

  Um, okay. What does that mean? I notice his hand is bleeding. “Oh my God, your hand.”

  “It’s fine.” He moves past me and opens the door to the refrigerator. Reaching for the Southern Comfort in the freezer, he unscrews the cap and lifts it to his lips. Our eyes meet. Hold. Drinking straight from the bottle, he does two shots and then sets it on the counter. He’s surprisingly… relaxed. I try to decipher the expression, the pursed lips, his breathing, all of it, but I can’t. Truth is, I don’t know this guy that well. Maybe he’s one of those guys who masks his emotions and then explodes on you when you least expect it. My dad was one of them.

  Biting my lip, I fidget with the sleeves of my sweater, wondering if I could suffocate myself with them and not feel this pain. “You’re probably so mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad,” he whispers, staring at the bottle as he shakes his head back and forth. He looks me in the eyes, his lips in a firm, agitated line. “Okay, I’m mad. But I’m curious… did you know when you showed up here?”

  “Knew who you were? Not technically. I knew of you.” I look at him, and his eyes lift to mine. Taking a seat next to him, I ease into my explanation. “I didn’t know when I was driving through town. I swear. I was simply driving, and then that storm hit out of nowhere, and the buck… I had no idea where you lived.” I sigh, knowing that’s not entirely the truth. “I knew you lived here in Amarillo because I mailed the papers to you a couple times, but it’s not like I memorized your address and I wasn’t coming to find you or anything creepy like that. When you said your name that night, that’s when I put two and two together.”

  “I figured it was something like that.” He inhales a deep breath as he stands and begins pacing the kitchen, the bottle of Southern Comfort still in his hand. “But that’s the night you should have told me. Before this went any further.”

  “I know, but I didn’t.” I remain sitting at the kitchen island, afraid to move. My words hold no authority when I say, “In my defense, I tried to leave. A few times.”

  He steps closer to me, and I stand. Setting the bottle on the counter, I notice he’s keeping his composure but still angry. His dark eyes search mine. “Why didn’t you just come out and tell me? I probably would have laughed it off, but now it feels like you did it on purpose to hurt me.”

  “I never meant to hurt you,” I plead, hoping he understands. My words are desperate, begging, because I can’t bear for him to think I used him. “I wanted to tell you, but every time I tried to, the timing was off, and I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

  He cautiously lifts his hand, his thumb brushing my cheek. He stares at me silently, studying me. It’s as if he’s evaluating my honesty. “I wish you would have told me the truth before you involved them.”

  Them? His girls. My heart dives at his words. I wince. His statement crushes me so deeply it feels like a thousand pounds of steel hold me to the ground. My apology catches in my throat, but I manage to say, “I’m so sorry.”

  Reaching for the Southern Comfort, he takes another shot straight from the bottle and then sets it on the counter with a thud. “You said that already,” he snaps and takes another shot.

  And another.

  He sets the bottle back down and sighs.

  I swallow, tears burning my throat. “I should go. I can go.”

  Silence fills the space between us, and I’m paralyzed, unsure what to say or do next.

  His brow lifts, his breathing light and easy. “Don’t be like her.”

  The words cut me. Deep. “What?’

  “Don’t come into their life and leave right before Christmas.”

  I blink rapidly, trying to understand what he’s saying. “You want me to stay?”

  “I… don’t know what I want,” he admits. “I don’t even know how to comprehend the last hour, but if you leave them, I know it will crush them. So don’t go. Stay. And then we can talk about it after Christmas.”

  Tears slide down my cheeks. His armor weakens, and he shifts his stance closer. He chews on
his words before he shakes his head. “Don’t cry.” He whispers the words as if the idea of me crying pains him.

  “I feel like a complete fucking asshole.” I sob into my hands.

  “You kinda are one.” He snorts but then laughs, the sound forced.

  I drop my hands and stare at him. “Did you just call me an asshole?”

  “I did.” He brings the bottle of Southern Comfort to my lips. “This might help.”

  I take the bottle, throw back a few shots and then stare at him. He’s right. It does help. “Are you sure you want me to stay? I can go. I would understand if you never want to see me again.”

  He touches me, his hand against my cheek. “You know what pissed me off more than anything about her being here?”

  I’m dying to know what they talked about, but I figured it was between them. I also can’t ignore the protective stance he took when the girls were near Tara. He stood directly in front of them.

  “Her seeing the girls?”

  “That.” He nods, running his hand through his hair. “But her acting like you weren’t good enough.”

  My lips tremble because, for the first time in my life, someone pierced through my façade. The girl who’s always up for a good time, the life of the party, and quick to make fun of herself does it because it’s the only way. I don’t want to infect anyone with my sadness I bury deep inside. I hide behind humor because somewhere along the way I was told over and over again, you’re not enough, Kacy. Not skinny enough. Lips aren’t perfect. Hair too thin. Body too curvy. Teeth too crooked. All things my mother criticized me for. I wished my voice would have been louder than she was.

  My breath catches when he stares at me. Waiting. My pulse quickens, my cheeks flush, and I instinctively look downward, unable to hold his eyes. He’s known me a month, not even, and already knows more about me than most of my family.

  Barron lifts my chin up, and a sickening feeling stirs inside me. “You are enough,” he assures me. “Anyone who doesn’t see that is a fucking idiot.” Before I can comprehend his statement, his lips press to mine. Once.

  “I’m sorry,” I rush to say, again, because I think it’s needed, but I also don’t pull away from him. I’m eager for assurance. Still. Always.

  He shakes his head, cradling my face in his hands. “Don’t say that anymore.” There’s still a hint of anger in his tone, and I’m not sure if it’s because of me or her, but regardless, I keep my apology to myself.

  He drops his hands and I can feel the tension rolling off him. I want to comfort him because fuck, his wife just showed up out of the blue, and I know he’s dealing with some shit. Not just what’s going on between us. “What did she say?”

  “She wanted me to sign the divorce papers.”

  “Why haven’t you?”

  He sighs heavily and it’s not one of relief. “Because she wanted joint custody of the girls and there was no way in hell I’m letting that cunt have anything to do with my kids.” He draws in another breath. “Did you know about them?”

  “I did, only because she told me she had kids with a guy in Texas. It was about year later that she had me send you the divorce papers. She had me sign a non-disclosure agreement that I wouldn’t say she had children.”

  When I meet his gaze head-on, I realize what Tara showing up did to him. Narrowed eyes, quick breaths, and oh so fucking hot. Barron pissed off might just be hotter than him saying that “ma’am” shit.

  Suddenly, again, my face is in his hands, eyes frantic, roaming over my face as if he’s searching for an answer. His thumb brushes lightly across my cheekbones, his hold equal parts protective and assuring. Closing his eyes, he exhales. That’s when it hits me. He’s hurting, but I don’t know what the hell to do about it because even though this has to do with me, there are wounds Tara dug deep in there. Ones I think he tried really hard to ignore.

  “Kacy,” he says in a pained whisper. He leans in, angling my head to kiss my neck as his other hand grips my waist. He spins me so that I’m against the counter, his hand on my neck moves to the back of my head, holding me in place. That’s when his lips make contact with mine.

  This is a distraction, a primal need to take his aggression out, and I want to give him that.

  I want to pull him closer, beg for more and never let go. That’s when I grab him by the front of his flannel shirt and yank him into me, knowing exactly what’s going to happen next.

  Lifting me up, he sets me on the countertop in front of him, spreading my legs and then stepping between them. He pauses and looks me hard in the eyes. “I don’t know what this is, but I know I need inside you,” he whispers against my mouth. “I… just do. I can’t fucking explain it.”

  I don’t expect him to. I’m right there with him. I want his frustration. I want everything he’s willing to give me.

  His fingers trace the curve of my side until they’re at the waistband of my jeans. We both stop, just for a second. I’m aching for more.

  “Is this okay?” he asks, waiting.

  I nod.

  Our mouths connect, frantic, eager to give this a meaning. While he works my sweater off, tossing it next to the sugar and flour on the counter for the cookies, I unbutton his jeans. Clothes are quickly discarded, our mouths never separating in the process.

  He’s trying to fuck me on the edge of the counter before my jeans are all the way off, and when they are, he lays me across the counter so my ass is facing him. I’m not exactly the right height for his six-foot frame, but we manage when I raise up on my tippytoes. I curl my hands around the sink in the island for leverage and look back at him over my shoulder.

  He’s focused on my ass when he enters me from behind. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Words aren’t needed for this. It’s two people, unsure what the future holds, but desperate for one another. He moves faster than ever before, wildly clutching my body. And though I don’t come, watching him, straining, movements turning erratic as he chases his need, it’s worth it.

  He pushes into me one final time and then holds me firmly against the countertop, his body slumping forward and using me for support. “Holy shit,” he says as his body recovers from the tremors. Stepping back, he stares at me, breathing heavy. I take in the sight before me. His jeans around his ankles, hard cock hanging out, muscles tensed. Jesus. If I could take a picture and save this moment, I would.

  We catch our breath in silence, dress in even more silence until we’re standing there, staring at one another. He runs a hand over his face, then through his hair. He swallows, steading his breathing more. “You didn’t… come. Did you?”

  I shake my head. “No, but that was so hot it doesn’t matter.”

  “I’ll make it up to you later.” He adjusts the sleeves of his flannel. “But I should go get the girls.”

  Hope rises inside me. Later. There’s going to be a later. “Right.” I nod, relieved he’s not kicking me out. “We did promise cookies.”

  He nods, a soft smile forming but not taking over. “We did.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  He tips his head toward the garage door. “Yeah. Let’s take the side by side.”

  I chuckle nervously and button my jeans. “Are you going to toss me out the side? I think I’ve seen this in movies. If you want me to leave, just let me know. You don’t have to kill me.”

  He blinks, keys in hand, and then his brow furrows. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right there. Just need to, you know, clean up.” I gesture between my legs, as if it wasn’t obvious.

  He says nothing more and walks away.

  I use the half bathroom next to the laundry room, curse myself out in the mirror, and then meet Barron in the garage. He’s sitting in the side by side staring out at the driveway as the sunshine hits his face. I look over at him, the brown in his eyes so beautiful and dark, but I can see the worry written on his face.

  I don’t say anything. I wait until he does. He’s ju
st inches away but it feels like miles.

  Swallowing, he clears his throat. “Did she ever say anything to you about why she left?”

  I think about the few conversations I had with Tara about Barron and the divorce papers. “All she ever said was that she couldn’t stay in Texas any longer. She felt… trapped.”

  He breathes in, slow and deep, his eyes ahead. Nodding, he starts the side by side. It hums to life and the anxiety gnaws at me because I don’t know what happens next. While I was open to whatever life had to offer me when I crossed over that California border, I hadn’t anticipated Barron Grady.

  I might have gone overboard on this

  KACY

  When I think about Christmas, I think of two things. An artificial tree that stood thirty feet tall in our foyer, and my dad singing “Jingle Bell Rock” to me while beating chopsticks against my bedroom door because he was shit-faced drunk at four in the morning. I also remember the time my mom called the cops on my dad because he put his hand through a window after finding her in bed with his friend. Good times.

  Another Christmas memory. Opening presents with my mother and getting everything she approved of, and nothing I wanted.

  That changes today. Christmas Eve and I’m making the girls do everything Christmas-related while Barron helps Morgan bring in cattle before another snowstorm hits tonight.

  Look at me in my snowman apron I got in Amarillo the other day. Don’t I look festive? I have matching pajamas for me and the girls too.

  Glancing through Barron’s grandmother’s cookbook, I look up at the girls. “What cookie should we make next?” I ask the girls, my apron covered in flour. Okay, Barron’s kitchen is covered in flour too, but I’m sure he won’t complain. He’s looking forward to cookies when he gets back and I’m looking forward to cockies.

  Sev groans, her body half on the counter and feet dangling in the air as she holds herself steady on it. It looks like she’s trying to body surf. “All this Christmas is makin’ my head hurt.”

  I close the cookbook. “No more cookies?”

  Sev rolls her eyes, sliding down off the counter and dramatically onto the floor. It reminds me of an inflatable being deflated. “Enoughs already. It too much.”