The Single Dad

PROLOGUE

FORD

I

was woken by the sound of an alarm. It took me a few moments to shake the sleep from my head until I realized it was coming from my front gate—a notification that someone was at the call box, trying to get in. The only time the alarm ever went off in the middle of the night was if I invited a woman over. Her presence anticipated, my hands stripping off her clothes the moment she walked through my door, my lips devouring every inch of her skin before she reached my bedroom.

But it was three in the morning, and I hadn’t invited anyone over.

I sat up, turning on the bedside light, and grabbed the tablet from my nightstand, the screen showing a woman, wrapped in a dark coat, standing in front of my call box.

I enlarged the camera feed, zooming in on her face.

She was vaguely familiar, not enough that I could recall her name.

“Hello?” I said into the speaker. “Can I help you?”

“Ford … I need to talk to you.”

I wasn’t surprised she knew my name. She was pressing the button on the metal box on the side of my gate, attempting to gain my attention, so I would hope she knew who I was.

It was the urgency in her voice that startled me.

I ran my hand over my hair. The gel I had put in right before meeting my brothers for drinks caused the strands to be hard, cemented in place. “What do you need to talk to me about?”

“You … me.” She paused. “It’s important.” Another beat passed and then, “Please, open the gate.”

I shook my head even though she couldn’t see me.

Our law firm’s private plane was flying me to Minneapolis in just a few hours to meet with a client. I needed sleep.

“Can you come back? Let’s say, Saturday afternoon at a normal time, and we can—”

“No, Ford, I can’t. Please. I’m begging you. We need to talk now.”

Goddamn it.

I sighed, “I’ll meet you outside.”

I pressed the button that would allow her in and forced myself out of bed, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, walking through my house toward the front. I flipped on the outside light and opened the door. The woman was standing a few feet from the steps with a face I still only semi-recognized, a body that couldn’t be seen in the baggy clothes and long, unbuttoned coat. There was a bag that hung from her shoulder and a strange, misplaced bundle of blankets in her arms.

“I’m sorry, you are?”

“Rebecca.”

Rebecca. Rebecca.

My eyes squinted as I took in her stare. “You’re the bartender at—”

“Yes.”

The night we’d had together was starting to come back to me.

Was it six months ago? Ten months? A year even? I couldn’t recall.

But the more I gazed at her, more from the evening we’d spent together began to unfold in my head.

As I’d been sitting at the bar, alone, it had begun as a simple flirtation. That led to us speaking the entire night, and I followed her into the back room once the last patron left. The moment the door was locked, I held her against the wall, slamming my lips against hers.

I’d fingered her while she drove us to my place.

I’d spread her across my kitchen island the minute we got inside.

Even if the whiskey had made the details of that night a bit vague, I could still recount the major parts.

“Why are you here, Rebecca?”