Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

10. Chapter Nine Matt

Chapter Nine: Matt

W ith a growl, I yank a chunk of the cabinetry off the wall. It relents with a shuddering crack-snap-crunch , tumbling to the tile in a lopsided mess of bad quality wood. I’ve been in the manor’s kitchen all day, gutting it from top to bottom.

You’d think that an elegant mansion like this would have a nice kitchen to work with. Just update the appliances, maybe change the countertops, and you’re good to go.

Nope. I haven’t been so lucky.

Apparently, way back in the eighties, old man Roger got it in his head to redo the kitchen. So, not only did he pay someone to trash the original oak cabinets and ceramic herringbone tile, he replaced it all with cheap wood pulp products and tacky vinyl flooring. I wish I could bring him back from the dead just to shake him and ask him what he was thinking when he made those decisions. He had to be completely out of his mind, and Joe the contractor agrees with me.

Thankfully, Joe also agrees that we can return this kitchen to its former glory. I’ll build some customized cabinets out of fresh oak and he’ll take care of sourcing the new tile. I took the girls to the hardware store yesterday to look at appliances and light fixtures, which was a lot more interesting to them than I expected it to be. I just want to make sure they feel involved in this process, even if I do snap at them every time they wander too close to the active construction site. It’s their house, too.

I haven’t told them yet that I’m considering converting the place into an inn, but every livable structure needs a kitchen anyway, so I still have some time to finalize that decision.

Today, to my relief, the girls are out of my hair. I signed them up for some kind of insanely expensive day camp down at the school, thinking it’d be a good way for them to make some friends before seventh grade starts. Also, it’s the sort of thing I could never afford before, so I leapt at the opportunity as soon as Mia pointed out the brochure pinned to the board at the local coffee shop.

With another grunt, I yank away the last bit of crappy wood and let it fall onto the crappy tile. I flex my hands in my work gloves and glance at the time. It’s half past four, which means I need to leave to pick up the girls soon. I’ve been working like a maniac all day, barely registering the other workmen coming and going, tending to their own tasks throughout the house.

I’m a mess. My jeans and t-shirt are covered in about three different kinds of dust, as well as some unidentifiable grime. I don’t have time to shower, so I run over to the guesthouse to change my shirt, then rinse off my hands and arms in the bathroom sink. The last thing I want is to be the type of parent who is consistently late picking up their kids. Small towns can be extremely judgmental places.

The school isn’t far, located at the edge of the town center. In fact, nothing in Mermaid Shores is particularly far from anything. We might be living way up on the cliffs, but we could still get to the other side of town in less than fifteen minutes. Even better, this town is designed to make the lives of its tourists as easy and pleasant as possible, which means that it’s extremely walkable. There are sidewalks and streetlights everywhere, and I’m pretty sure the highest speed limit for traffic is only thirty-five miles per hour. That will be great for the girls as they get older and earn a bit of freedom.

With freedom, however, comes responsibility. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified by the prospect of my daughters wandering around town without my supervision. But they’re almost thirteen. Before I know it, they’ll be sixteen. Then, eighteen. In the blink of an eye, they’ll be thirty and married, and I’ll be a grandfather.

If I don’t learn to let go little by little, I’ll turn into a helicopter parent. They might be the only family I have left, but the last thing I want is for them to feel suffocated by me.

When I pull into the parking lot, I notice a couple large vans parked near the gymnasium doors, which are thrown open to tempt in the lazy summer breeze. The decal on the side of the van is in a colorful, curling script that reads Lee Catering .

Something tugs at the hemlines of my memory, but it slips away before I can identify it.

Earlier this morning, the girls were gabbing about how the day camp was hosting an afternoon cooking class. It seems like an odd choice for a camp activity, but it’s a good skill for them to gain. Goodness knows I can barely cook to save my life. I’ve relied pretty heavily on frozen vegetables and chicken nuggets for the girls over the years.

Inside the gym, it’s loud and crowded. The cooking class is obviously over, but I can see neat rows of tables set up with little hot plates and mixing bowls.

I glance down at my attire self-consciously. It doesn’t look like everyone here are locals. In fact, I’m pretty sure the lady who just walked past me starred in a movie the girls were obsessed with a few months ago. And the man over there in the corner, herding his three sons along while taking a phone call… that’s definitely a politician I recognize.

Maple Leaf once told me that Mermaid Shores is considered a hidden gem for the elite, wealthy, and famous. She used to write so casually about bumping into celebrities and pouring coffee for heiresses.

I’m only now registering the reality of it. This day camp isn’t fancy and expensive for the heck of it. It’s because it’s for all the rich kids who come to town every summer.

In a daze, I search the crowd for two matching blonde heads. I spot them on the far side of the room, talking animatedly to a plump woman with curly red hair and wearing a chef’s coat. She must be the cooking instructor, or at least a staff member at the catering company. Knowing the girls, they’re probably asking her a hundred questions and won’t rest until they have answers.

I head over there, sidestepping an au pair speaking in rapid Italian and a well-dressed nanny wrangling four different kids.

Ava spots me first, breaking into a smile and waving me over.

“Daddy! Come meet Gigi. She taught us how to make torta—torella—tortaloo—”

“Tortellini,” Mia cuts in.

“Aha!” says the red-haired woman, green eyes bright with natural humor, as she turns to greet me. “You’re the Mr. Morgan I’ve heard so much about.”

“Just Matt, please,” I reply, having to bend slightly to shake her hand because she’s so short. I don’t bother asking how she’s heard of me. Again, it’s a small town. People talk.

I’m just grateful that word hasn’t yet spread about where we live. It was a close call with that Mabel woman the other day, but I think I convinced her that I was nothing more than a roofer.

For now, while we get settled, I just want privacy.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Matt,” Gigi tells me, giving me a firm handshake. She has a dusting of flour on her cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. “My name is Gigi Lee. I own the local catering company.”

“Great to meet you.”

Mia nudges me with her elbow. “Dad, Gigi was just telling us that she teaches cooking classes for kids during the school year. Can we do it? Please? Pretty please?”

“Wouldn’t it be great, Dad?” Ava chimes in. “We could learn how to cook dinner and we wouldn’t have to order takeout so often!”

I fight the urge to groan in embarrassment.

Gigi chuckles. “Classes start in September. Every Tuesday afternoon, right here at the school. It starts after sports practice and regular clubs finish their meetings, so they won’t have to worry about any overlap.”

I blink in surprise. “You run a catering business and teach cooking classes?”

The woman smiles, warm and friendly in every gesture. “You’ll see for yourself, but when the tourists head home, us townies usually have to switch gears to make ends meet in the offseason.”

“Ah. Right. Well, it sounds great to me. Where do I sign the girls up?”

“Wait right here. My daughter is around here somewhere with the registration papers. She looks just like me, but taller and with less meat on her bones.”

Before I can say anything else, Gigi Lee is bustling away .

Come to think of it, the woman did look somewhat familiar. Red hair. Green eyes. A spray of freckles on pretty porcelain skin.

Beside me, Ava starts laughing. “Oh! Gigi went in the wrong direction. Her daughter is right there!”

My stomach drops as each of my daughters grabs one of my arms and drags me toward a redhead that is, at this point, all too familiar. I try to pull my arms loose, but the girls have iron-tight grips and I obviously don’t want to hurt them.

“Mabel!” exclaim Mia and Ava at the same time.

The beautiful, frustrating creature turns. She’s wearing leggings, a tank top, and an apron. Her thick, coppery hair is pulled back into a long braid that curves around her neck and rests against one side of her chest. I force my eyes back up to her face, but she hasn’t even noticed me yet.

She’s grinning at the girls like she’s genuinely happy to see them.

“Hi, Mia! Hi, Ava! How was the tortellini?”

“ So good. We ate it all so fast,” Mia replies.

“We were going to save some for our dad, but he doesn’t like pasta,” Ava explains.

At that moment, Mabel notices me standing there. Her smile sort of freezes in place and her grip on the clipboard in her hand becomes tight enough to turn her knuckles white. Even as her body grows tense, she bats her long eyelashes and lets out a soft breath of laughter.

“What kind of person doesn’t like pasta?”

Before I can defend myself, Mia says, “Oh my gosh, I know . Tell me about it.”

“I don’t dislike pasta,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’ll eat it if it’s in front of me, but it’s not my favorite.”

Ava mumbles something under her breath. I’m pretty sure Mia rolls her eyes.

“Girls, why don’t you go wait in the truck? I’ll get the cooking-class form and meet you out there.”

They give me twin pouts, but don’t protest. After chirping their cheerful goodbyes to Mabel, they skip toward the exit.

Mabel slips two sheets of paper off the clipboard and hands them to me. “Here. The fee can be paid via cash, check, Venmo, or PayPal.”

“How much is it?”

“$250 per student.”

Normally, I’d flinch. Especially since every child-related expense has always been multiplied by two for me. Yet, over the past few weeks, I’ve slowly learned not to freak out over things like this. There’s plenty of money. We’re not at risk of running out anytime soon.

I wouldn’t say I’m already used to being wealthy, but I am acclimating.

Mabel raises her eyebrows at me, almost like a challenge.

“Alright,” I say. “No problem.”

“Good.”

I clear my throat and turn to go. As beautiful as she is, I can’t forget how she actually feels about my kids.

“See you,” I mutter over my shoulder.

“Wait,” she snaps. I pause, turning halfway to give her a questioning glance. “What’s your problem with me?”

I scoff, facing her fully. The rest of the crowd is almost completely forgotten as we square off with each other. “What makes you think I have a problem with you?”

“Well, you’re nice enough to everyone else. The locals think you’re a very sweet man . And yet, every time we cross paths, it’s like you can’t get rid of me fast enough.”

“I think you’re imagining things, Mabel.”

She steps closer. “No. I’m not. ”

“You’re used to people fawning all over you, aren’t you?” The words slip out before I can stop them. I have no idea where that came from.

Her brow furrows. “I’m used to people being nice to me, yes. Because I’m always nice to them. That’s how friendliness works, Matt.”

I force myself to shrug. “Well, you’re wrong. I don’t have a problem with you.”

As I turn to leave, she catches up with me, grabbing my forearm and causing me to halt in my tracks.

“I think you’re lying.” Her emerald eyes are fierce, determined. This is a woman who won’t stop until she has answers. Maybe that’s why the girls like her so much. They’re similar in that regard.

Anyway, I guess there’s no point in evading the truth with her. If she wants to know, I’ll tell her.

“I’m a single dad,” I tell her. “My girls are my entire world. I’ll do anything for them. And I heard you that day in the restaurant, laughing about how much you hate kids, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t want someone like that around my daughters.”

She jerks back as if she’s been stung. A trickle of guilt drips through me at my harsh tone, but I meant every word.

Mabel’s eyes widen. She blinks once, then again, as if stunned by the revelation that I overheard her.

Then, to my surprise, that verdant gaze narrows at me. Her nostrils flare, and I have a feeling I might be the only person in this town who has ever seen this woman so furious.

“You don’t know anything,” she snarls.

“Whatever.”

She takes one step closer and jabs a finger into my chest. “For your information, Matthew Morgan, I don’t hate kids. Not at all. I love them. If I actually felt like going to college years ago, I might have become a teacher. That’s how much I adore them.”

“But—”

“I was laughing,” she continues, lowering her voice even as her tone becomes as sharp as a knife, “because it’s the only way I can get through conversations like that without announcing to the entire world that I can’t have children of my own. What you witnessed was my coping mechanism, not the truth. But go ahead and keep making assumptions, Matt. I guess we’re all guilty of that sometimes.”

Without waiting for a reaction, she turns on her heel and stomps away.

I’m left standing there in the middle of the crowd, speechless and a little bit helpless.

And, again, there’s something faint tapping on the dusty old windows of my memory.