Date with a Single Dad. Ally Blake
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were seven and four, and they had ponies, ballet lessons, piano, rock climbing, Chinese and French lessons, summer trips around the world with their grandmother, twenty-year-old nannies who spoilt them rotten, and a dad who clearly wrestled with the amount of time he spent at work while they grew up without him there to see it.
But as she lay back on her bed, the pale summer moon spilling light through the far window creating a hypnotic play of light and shadow on the ceiling, the fairy dust cleared from her eyes and Ruby’s small face looked back at her instead.
She’d seen so much of herself in the kid’s mutinous streak. That spark could be so easily deflated. Or worse, it could spin out of control. She hoped not. With all her might. Not just for Ruby. But also for Zach.
Big, bad, daunting, noble, solid Zach Jones.
Growing up in her family, the only kind of masculine strength she’d understood till she met him had been overt. Overpowering. Uncompromising.
Zach’s strength came from somewhere much deeper. A place he didn’t feel compelled to proclaim to the world. The fact that she’d been allowed to witness it in the revelation of how he’d changed his life for his little girl made it that much more compelling. It was like seeing a fireman rescue a kitten from a tree.
She’d hate to see all his good work go to waste. But since Zach’s parenting skills were now obviously nothing like her father’s, Ruby might not need the intervention her adolescent mutiny necessitated after all. She struggled with deciding what to do.
One thing she knew had been a bad decision on both their parts had been that kiss.
Her fingers lifted to stroke her lips as they must have done a few dozen times that afternoon. She could still taste his sweetness, sense his warmth all around her, feel his hardness imprinted on every inch of her body as if it had happened mere moments ago.
Soft, dreamy, luxurious, deep, unguarded, magic.
And indefensible. Because Zach Jones had a child.
When she’d ruled out any chance of having kids of her own, kids who—just because they were hers—would never live up to her father’s expectations of them, it had never occurred to her that she might one day meet a man who came with kids of his own. Her usual types were never that proactive.
Then Zach had to come stomping into her life, shaking loose old choices she’d never thought she’d have to revisit again.
But no. Her nieces were living proof of why she’d done the right thing.
They seemed fine, now. But they were little kids. They ought to wear gumboots and get into mud-pie fights, not wear dresses and tights and patent leather shoes when playing in the backyard.
The pressure for them to live up to her father’s unwavering ideal of what a Kelly had to be was mounting. And soon they’d be old enough to feel it. Soon they’d be old enough to know.
There was no way she’d wish that pressure on any child. Not by blood, and not by association. Because she knew the consequences.
She threw her phone across the room and it landed with a thud on a couch in the corner.
She tried humming Stevie Wonder to clear her head, but it didn’t work. Zach’s deep voice rang louder still.
She liked the guy. She adored how he kissed. She was smitten with his efforts to do right by Ruby. And she was in his debt for letting her get away with the unforgivable slip about her exceedingly private dealings with her father.
But she wasn’t any good for him any more than he would be good for her. He might not see it yet, but he had the natural inclination to be some kind of dad. He’d want more kids down the line, and with her insides the way they were she could never give them to him.
Meg turned on her side, tucked her thighs against her belly, and slid her hands beneath her pillow. The sheer curtains over the ceiling-to-floor windows—chosen especially to not let a girl sleep in when there was jogging to be done—flapped under the soft push of air-conditioned air.
Out there, in that big, rambling, amazing house of his, Zach would soon be asleep. She wondered if he dreamt. What he dreamt about. And more importantly, who.
It had long since been dark by the time Zach stepped foot in the place he’d called home for the past few months. He was humming as he shut the front door. It took a few moments until he realised it was KC and the Sunshine Band. Classic disco.
Throwing a full set of keys onto the sideboard rather than a simple hotel card still felt strange.
Being shuffled from foster home to state institution and back again, he’d hit a point where he’d simply stopped feeling connected to places, to possessions, to people. Living in this large, rambling house, sleeping in the same bed every night, seeing the same faces every day, he felt the return of the natural desire to preserve those connections. Along with that came the niggling fear that it all might yet be taken away.
‘Good evening, Zach,’ a voice called out to him in the darkness.
He jumped. ‘Felicia. You took a year off my life.’
‘Working to all hours will do that to you far more quickly,’ Ruby’s nanny said. ‘I’d say you are a prime candidate for attending one of those wellness programmes that are so trendy nowadays.’
Zach gave her shadowy figure a flat stare. ‘If I’d known you had such a funny bone I’d have left you in that draughty old school.’
The older woman patted him on the arm.
He glanced down the dark front hallway towards the bright haven of the warm family kitchen, his nose catching the delicious concoction of homey smells that meant there were leftovers waiting for him in the oven. ‘Is she still awake?’
He felt her shake her head. ‘Out like a light the minute her head hit the pillow.’
‘Have you heard any—?’ He stopped, hoping he wouldn’t have to put into words the wretched sounds she screamed out every few nights.
‘Not a peep. What with her sore throat I’d say she needed the rest.’ She tossed her large book bag over her shoulder. ‘Goodnight, then. I’ll see you in the morning.’
He heard her meet up with one of the rotation of night staff who escorted her back to her own bungalow down the way, their voices trailing into the distance until he was left with silence.
Rather than heading for the beguiling scent of zucchini quiche he took a left. The light from the kitchen faded the farther he moved through the house.
He reached Ruby’s bedroom door and stared at her name spelled out in big pink letters, his ears straining to hear the sound of her sleeping breaths.
He could have been home hours earlier. Certainly before her bedtime. Instead he’d remained shackled to his workstation in the Blueberry Ash Bungalow he’d taken as his office, telling himself Ruby wouldn’t have expected him home as it was still officially a school night. The truth was the thought of having to question her, to chastise her even, for skipping school had left him in a cold sweat.
She was seven, for Pete’s sake. He was thirty-five and operated a massive multinational company. There wasn’t anyone on earth who had a hope in hell of intimidating him. Yet from the day he’d first looked into those all too intelligent brown eyes he’d lived with the fear that, though he’d never abandon her, there was always the chance she’d decide she did not want him.
He ran a hand over his face, the pads of his fingers rasping against the day-old shave, before resting his palm on the cool wood of her bedroom door.
The instinct to press open the door, sneak in and check on his daughter, to let himself believe she slept because he’d made her feel safe, was so strong. Yet every night he managed to talk himself out of it.
He might wake her. She might see him and expect her mum and become distressed. He might get used to her being there.
Yet