If You Give a Single Dad a Nanny: a single dad, grumpy sunshine, small town romance

I GROAN AS I SHIFT to my side. It feels like I’ve gone multiple rounds with a pro boxer. My body is achy, and the relentless pounding in my head won’t stop. Exhaustion clings to me like a fog, zapping every ounce of energy I have left. I blink my eyes open and find my room is dark except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

I’m confused when I spot a humidifier on the nightstand, next to a bottle of water and two white pills sitting on top of a sticky note.

Good morning, sunshine,

Take these with water and call me so I can bring you something to eat.

-Dylan

I’m either dreaming or woke up in an alternate reality because there’s no way Dylan Stafford would willingly come to my house and take care of me… would he? I vaguely remember him being here earlier, but it’s all hazy. It’s possible he was a figment of my imagination brought on by the fever. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

I fumble around until I find my phone tangled in the blankets. I’m shocked when I check the time and realize that I’ve been in bed for nearly twenty-four hours, aside from the occasional trip to the bathroom and letting Waffles out last night. There are dozens of missed calls and texts from Dylan—the last message saying he’ll be back after he drops Lola off at school. That was over four hours ago.

When I stand, I wobble like a fawn taking its first steps and use the wall for support until I gain my bearings. I make my way downstairs, and my mouth falls open when I take in my surroundings.

The entryway is spotless—my shoes are arranged on a new shoe rack, Waffles’ toys are piled neatly in a basket, and there’s no trace of dog hair on the floor.

As I wander into the living room, my gaze lands on several stacks of laundry folded on the couch. This comes as a welcome surprise, since I usually skip folding and putting away my clothes, going straight from the laundry basket to wearing them. On closer inspection, I’m mortified to see that my panties are included, every pair folded neatly.

This isn’t how I envisioned Dylan seeing my panties for the first time.

Whoa, where did that come from? It must be my fever talking.

I furrow my brow when I hear Waffles barking insistently and follow the sound to the kitchen.

Dylan is crouched in front of my dog, holding his jaw to keep him in place. He plucks a piece of chicken from a bowl on the floor and balances it on Waffles’ snout. Waffles whines, not happy his treat is being held hostage.

“You got it this time,” Dylan encourages.

He holds out a finger, signaling Waffles to stay still as he slowly releases his jaw. No sooner has he pulled back his hand, Waffles drops the chicken to the floor, and scarfs it up, paying no mind to Dylan’s irritation.

“This is hopeless,” Dylan mumbles. “All you had to do was sit for a few seconds, and I would have given you two treats.”

Waffles barks loudly and chases his tail at the mention of his favorite word.

“Unbelievable.” Dylan throws his hands in the air. “You’d think after twenty tries, you’d have this—”

“Are you trying to train my dog?” I interrupt. “Try being the operative word.”

Dylan turns in my direction, eyes wide when he sees me standing with my arms folded across my chest. He’s on his feet in an instant, forgetting to grab the bowl of chicken off the ground. Waffles doesn’t hesitate to seize the opportunity for an unexpected snack.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Dylan scolds, ignoring my question. “Didn’t you see my note? I specifically told you to call me when you woke up.”

“I’m fine.” A sudden rush of dizziness hits me, and I lean against the counter for support.

“I’m taking you back to bed before you hurt yourself,” he says, crossing over to me.

Without warning, he scoops me up, and I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck. I place my head on his chest, instantly surrounded by the smell of mint and cedar. As my gaze wanders to his face, the attraction is undeniable. He’s downright sexy, particularly with his five o’clock shadow and glasses.

He smirks. “You think I’m sexy?”

Did I say that out loud?

“Yeah, you did.”

That too?

He chuckles as he strides out of the kitchen. “For the time being, let’s assume that whatever is going through your head is coming out of that beautiful mouth of yours.”

“Will you stop being so nice? It’s freaking me out.”

He presses a kiss on my forehead. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I mutter. “Can we talk about how you cleaned my house, folded my underwear, and tried training my dog?”

“Maybe when you’re feeling better.” He doesn’t explain further as he carries me up the stairs and puts me back into bed. “I’ll be right back with some chicken soup,” he tells me and hurries out of the room.

My stomach rumbles at the mention of food. I haven’t had anything to eat since a piece of toast last night, and I couldn’t even keep that down.

I wonder if I’ve entered the twilight zone when Dylan returns with a tray featuring chicken noodle soup, freshly cut strawberries, buttered toast, and a bottle of water. It looks like a gourmet meal compared to what I’m used to. He places the tray on the nightstand and settles on the bed beside me.

“That smells incredible.” I nod at the soup.

“It tastes even better,” he assures me as he pushes his glasses up on his nose.

Why is the fact that he wears glasses so appealing?

“What are you doing?” A look of confusion crosses my face when he picks up the steaming bowl of soup and a spoon.

“Feeding you?”

“I can do that myself.” I reach for the bowl, but he moves it out of my reach.

“A few minutes ago, you almost fell over because you were so weak. I’m not chancing you losing your grip and spilling broth on your comforter.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I challenge.

He shakes his head. “Would you rather keep arguing with me or eat something?

I’m tempted to counter with another comeback, but my stomach lets out a loud growl, silencing my protests.

Dylan chuckles, scooping some chicken noodle soup onto the spoon and bringing it to my lips. “Be careful, it’s hot,” he warns.

I blow on the soup before accepting the bite he’s holding out for me. I moan softly when the mix of savory broth, carrots, celery, and shredded chicken hits my tongue.

“This is delicious.” I greedily accept another spoonful. “Where did you get it? Canned chicken noodle soup doesn’t taste this good.”

“I made it,” he says as he continues feeding me.

“With what ingredients?”

“Well, obviously, I couldn’t use anything in your fridge,” he quips. “Honestly, I have no idea how you’ve survived this long when all you have in the house are corn dogs, Cheez-Its, a jar of jelly, Pop-Tarts, and takeout leftovers. Even Waffles eats better than you.”

This is true. I order him fresh, preservative-free dog food that’s shipped to our door. It’s an easier option than lugging a bag of dog food home every month, and he deserves the best.

“Cooking was never my strong suit. My mom tried to teach me, but her patience quickly wore thin.” I pause to plop a slice of strawberry into my mouth. “After high school, I adopted a nomadic lifestyle, never settling in one place for too long. Ordering frozen meals and prepackaged snacks became my go-to solution. I tend to lose track of time when I’m working and often go an entire day without noticing that I haven’t eaten. That’s why I prefer quick and easy options.”

“That’s not healthy,” Dylan says with disapproval.

“I’m well aware. I don’t deliberately skip meals. When I’m in the middle of painting, eating slips my mind sometimes.” My tone turns defensive. “I get it—I’m a hot mess, scatterbrained, and disorganized. A walking disaster. But I didn’t choose to be this way; it’s just how my brain works.” My bottom lip trembles at my admission.

I’ve harbored a sense of inadequacy my whole life. I’m the quirky girl with strange eyes that no one could relate to. Even my parents found it challenging to understand me, and it felt like somewhere along the way, they gave up. It’s exhausting to constantly justify or explain why I do things a certain way.

That’s why I instantly fell in love with Waffles. When I overheard a volunteer at the animal shelter call him hyperactive, his fate was sealed. He deserved to be adopted by someone who gets what it’s like to be judged for their personality, and lack of recognizing social cues, and who embraces his unique qualities. That’s one reason I’ve been hesitant to train him—I’m worried that he’ll lose what makes my sweet furball him if I do.

Dylan frowns as he sets the soup on the tray.

“I want you to listen carefully, sunshine.” He cups my face with his hands and looks me directly in the eyes. “You might not be perfect, hell nobody is, but you are incredible just the way you are. You find the silver lining in any situation and have a gift for making people smile on their worst days.” He caresses my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “And your artistic ability is unmatched. How you can turn a blank canvas into a masterpiece is a rare and remarkable talent. Your differences are what makes you so damn special.”

“Let’s not forget that Lola worships the ground you walk on, and it’s your unique qualities that she loves most. She’s obsessed with your colorful wardrobe, shares your taste in music, and most importantly, you treat her like she matters.”

I fight back the tears threatening to spill. I’ve grown so accustomed to being reminded of my shortcomings that it’s hard to believe when someone says otherwise. I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy unpacking my issues related to my self-worth, and there are still days that it feels like I’m back at square one. To hear Dylan speak from his heart and knowing it’s sincere is priceless.

“Thank you.” I place my hand over his. “It means more than I can adequately express. It’s rare to hear someone say those things to me, particularly regarding my art.”

Ignoring judgment has become second nature. In the past, I channeled all my energy into brushing the negativity aside. In doing so, I often lost sight of the importance of learning to appreciate and love the distinctive qualities that make me who I am.

“That’s a damn shame.” Dylan brushes his thumb across my cheek. “You should be reminded every day of how exceptional you are.”

I draw in a deep breath, savoring his heartfelt words.

“I appreciate you saying that.”

Dylan clears his throat and pulls his hand back.

“You should finish your soup now.” He motions to the half-empty bowl on the nightstand.

“I will, but I’d like to take a shower first.”

I hold out a section of my hair, noting how dirty it is. I haven’t washed it in days, and it’s damp with sweat. It’ll be nice when it’s clean and silky again.

It’s a good thing I’m not trying to impress Dylan or anything.

He shakes his head. “There’s no way I’m letting you take a shower when you were having a difficult time standing on your own earlier. What about taking a bath instead?”

“A bath sounds nice. You know, Dylan, you’re very good at compromising,” I say playfully.

“I’ve had lots of practice.” He grins. “I’ll be right back.” He gets up and goes into the master bathroom. Moments later, I hear the water running.

He reappears and effortlessly carries me into the bathroom, placing me on the marble countertop.

“Thank you… aren’t you going to leave?” I ask when he doesn’t move.

“I thought you could use some help with getting into the bathtub.”

I roll my lip between my teeth, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions crashing over me. While I could probably manage to wash my hair on my own, it would be much easier with help.

I’m embarrassed that my body is weak and shaky, and I’m not used to relying on someone to help with something so simple. It complicates things when the person is the hot single dad next door, and the man I shared a scorching hot kiss with the last time I saw him.

This situation is making it more difficult to ignore the brewing chemistry between us. Not to mention this would be the first time Dylan sees me naked.

Wait… The first time?

Evidently my subconscious hasn’t got the memo that I’m sick and is scheming up additional scenarios where Dylan and I find ourselves in compromising positions that tempt our self-control.

My eyes dart between Dylan, who’s patiently waiting for my reply, and the steam rising from the hot bathwater.

My mouth runs dry. “You can stay, but I’m keeping my bra and panties on. And I reserve the right to kick you out at any time,” I warn him.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” he says wryly. “You’re in control here. Say the word and I‘m gone,” he adds after a beat.

We’re playing with fire, but I can’t bring myself to ask him to leave.