Single Dad Seeks Juliet

I chuckle a little out loud.

“What’s she going to do now?” I mutter to myself as she moves from the trunk of the car to the passenger side door, rustling around on the floorboard.

She pulls out a previously opened bag of chips and takes the clip from the folded edge and tosses it on the top of her car.

Then she looks up, glancing around the parking lot, sweeping right over me in my truck. Apparently, she can’t see me with the backlighting from the sun.

Falsely surmising the coast is clear, she steps into the open door of her car again to shield herself slightly—though it does nothing for someone looking on from my direction—and yanks off the soggy black blazer before tossing it to the pavement.

Next, she wiggles her hips, working at the waistband of her pants while facing away from me, and finally shimmies the sand-logged material down to the ground. Her panties are black lace, and I suddenly feel like I’m doing something very, very wrong by watching her without her knowledge.

I don’t want to startle her by driving away, though, so I don’t move.

And against my better judgment, I don’t close my eyes either.

Holley Fields was definitely hiding one hell of a body under that business suit.

Struggling against the wet fabric of her top, she peels it from her skin up over her head, tossing it onto the pile in the parking lot as well. I look on at the tanned skin of her bare back and the unbelievably beautiful shape of her ass.

Christ.

She grabs the towel from where she previously left it on the seat, wraps it around her entire body, and then takes the chip clip from the roof and secures it at the chest.

It’s ingenuity at its finest. But necessity definitely is the mother of invention, isn’t it?

To be completely honest, that could be the slogan for my life as a parent. Because when I first had Chloe, I didn’t have a goddamn clue what I was supposed to be doing. The only option I had was to make it up as I went along.

Finally ready to leave, Holley grabs her bag out of the trunk, slams it closed, and rounds the car to the driver’s door.

She sinks down into the seat and disappears. I wait, watching as her taillights come on and she backs out of the spot, before putting my truck into gear.

Her reverse out of the spot is quick, and she’s off like a shot toward the entrance of the parking lot before I even get rolling.

She puts her right turn signal on, pulls to a stop, and then starts to go and almost runs over a couple crossing the road.

“Shit.”

The brake lights come on as she narrowly misses them, and I can see her arms going crazy through the glass of her back windshield.

I don’t know exactly how I can tell, but I know they’re the motions of apology.

Still, the couple glares before finishing their stroll across the sidewalk at a jog.

Fairly traumatized, she sits there at the stop sign for a full minute, swinging her head back and forth before she finally takes the leap again, pulling out onto the street with caution.

I pull up to the stop sign myself, give Holley’s retreating car one last glance, and then turn the other direction. Toward home. Toward Chloe.

Toward answers.

Sorry, baby girl. It’s time to face the fucking music.I put my truck in park, kill the engine, and jump down to the driveway without pause. Normally, I would pull into the garage, but my mind is too chaotic to allow me the patience needed to do it, so I’ve settled for the simpler parking spot in the front circle drive. My need for answers from Chloe has only grown with the passing moments of my twenty-minute trip back home, and the quicker I find her, the better.

I climb the front steps two at a time, unlock the front door, and shove it open.

“Chloe!” I yell as soon as I cross the threshold. When she doesn’t respond immediately, I shout her name again. “Chloe! We need to talk right now!”

I circle around the front stairs and go down the hall to the kitchen. She’s not there, so I walk into the den, over to the back staircase, and take those steps two at a time on my way to her room. As I approach, an open door becomes obvious. With just that, I know she’s probably not in there, but I continue until I’m far enough to look inside anyway.

“Chloe!” I yell again, a little edge of panic starting to make its way in alongside the anger.

Where is she?

I jog back down the stairs with ankle-snapping speed and circle back into the den, my head swinging back and forth and coming up empty once again. I’m just about to head back out to my truck to find my phone when she steps inside from the back patio, an undeniable look of culpability on her face.