Page 8 of Singled Out
“You talked to my dad?”
“He talked to me.”
She shook her head, her mouth curving into a partial smile. “He’s all bark. You know that, right?”
I wasn’t sure that was true when it came to someone dating his daughter, but I wasn’t going to date her.
“Did you have something in mind for our evening out?” I asked.
She made a face like she was worried I’d hate whatever she was planning.
“I do. Naomi Finley, who was responsible for this whole fundraiser, was my friend and mentor, so when the Arts in Education Foundation in Nashville decided to honor her with their Art Ambassador of the Year award, they asked me to accept on her behalf.” She frowned. “I hope you don’t have a game that conflicts.”
“When is it?”
“Two weeks from today.”
“I don’t have a game,” I confirmed. Saturdays were when my single dads’ group got together, but I could miss that. “Season opens the night before.”
“I could go alone but”—her gaze flickered downward for a barely noticeable instant—“it might be a little rough. I thought it’d be good to have a date.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’d be happy to go with you.”
“It’s black tie.”
“I can do black tie.” I’d have to dig my tux out of the back of my closet and hope it still fit.
We exchanged phone numbers. I found her easy to like, despite my current agitated state, which…
Hell.
I was less agitated about my son because I’d gotten distracted.
Harper had taken my mind off Danny for five minutes, made me forget my hurry to get home to him. And that was exactly why I hadn’t dated for over a year.
It was a damn good thing we were only spending one simple evening together.
Chapter Four
Harper
Two days before the gala in Nashville, my head was threatening to be all kinds of a mess. I was doing whatever it took to ignore it.
I’d finished an early microwave dinner, and now I was alone in the studio, hand cutting glass sheets—a dark plum color—into small pieces to be used for mosaics or whatever else people wanted to use them for.
My hair was up, my safety glasses were in place, and I’d taped my fingers for protection as I used my nipper to break…crack…the hell…crack…out of the glass.
Crack.
It was therapeutic.
Painful, rhythmic, requiring just enough attention to keep my mind from going to difficult places.
I had a steady rhythm going and tears in my eyes.
Damn, I hoped someone, anyone, showed up for open-studio time soon.
I still lived in Naomi’s house, as I had been for the past three years. It wasn’t a long-term plan, but I wasn’t good at long-term plans. I’d temporarily taken on keeping her studio open for all the people who needed a place to do their art. No one knew what would become of this place—or my living arrangements, for that matter—when and if Naomi’s brother surfaced. I mostly tried not to think about it too much.