The Father I Shouldn’t Want

(Reese POV) Sloane's house was a dream home—literally. Her father had built it from a dream he'd had, or so he'd always told us when we were little girls with grass-stained knees and too much curiosity. Looking at it now, pulling up the long oak-lined drive, I believed every word. ✦✦✦✦✦ The estate rose up at the end of Magnolia Crest like something conjured—white stone columns framing a wraparound porch, black iron lanterns casting gold against the Georgia heat. The last time I'd stood here, Sloane's parents were still pretending their marriage wasn't on fire. That version of the house had been her mother's—soft pastels, delicate and cold. What Marcus Hale had done to it since the divorce was something else entirely. Dark reclaimed wood paneling now dressed the facade. A stone fountain dominated the circular drive—a woman with her arms raised, water pouring from her palms like an offering. Climbing wisteria twisted up the columns like it owned the place. He'd turned it into something that felt ancient and alive at once. He always did have taste. "Oh my God." Sloane's squeal cut through my thoughts as she leaned half out the passenger window of the Uber before we even stopped rolling. "Look at this place! Daddy completely outdid himself." "Yeah." I shook my head slowly. "Totally." Thank God she's never seen my mother's double-wide in Macon. I loved Sloane like a sister—genuinely, fiercely—but I wasn't naive about the gap between her world and mine. She didn't mean anything by it. She just didn't know. And what she didn't know had never hurt either of us. ✦✦✦✦✦ The moment we stepped through the front door, my whole body exhaled. Exposed beams. Bourbon-dark hardwood floors. Stone fireplaces dressed in Spanish moss arrangements. Everywhere I looked, the house breathed character—bold and warm and unapologetically Southern, but elevated in a way that made your chest ache a little. This is what a home feels like when someone actually lives in it. "Daddy!" Sloane dropped both her bags in the foyer like they were someone else's problem. "I'm home!" Silence. I set my things down carefully next to her chaos and craned my neck back to study the ceiling—exposed timber and hand-plastered plaster—slowly spinning in a circle. "Maybe he's not here," I offered. "His truck is in the drive." She crossed her arms. "He said he had a long call. That's why he didn't come to the airport, which, by the way, I'm not over." We've been here eight minutes. New record. "Could've taken a second car?" I shrugged, perching on one of the tall barstools at the kitchen island. "That's not the point," she snapped. "He always greets me at the door. Always. You don't think he has someone new, do you?" I stared at her. "That's genuinely the first place your brain went?" "When men change their patterns—" "Sloane." "—it's always a woman." To be fair, that's exactly what happened with Devon before he ghosted her last spring. "Would it be the worst thing in the world if your dad was happy?" "Yes," she said, dead-eyed. "He can be happy with my mother." ✦✦✦✦✦ I wasn't listening anymore. My eyes had drifted to the wall of glass sliding doors overlooking the back terrace—and the man cutting through the pool in long, clean strokes. Even from here, even through glass and distance, there was no mistaking Marcus Hale. The kind of man who filled a room before he entered it. He pulled himself up the pool steps with one smooth motion, water sheeting off a body that had absolutely no business looking like that at his age. He toweled off his hair without looking at anything, unhurried, completely at ease in his own space. Lord have mercy. I bit the inside of my cheek and turned my eyes to the countertop. I'd had a crush on Marcus Hale since I was old enough to understand what that feeling was. Years had done nothing to logic it out of me. If anything— Stop. He's your best friend's father. Get it together, Reese. The sliding door opened, and he stepped in. ✦✦✦✦✦ "Where were you?" Sloane's voice had that particular edge—the one that made grown men rethink their choices. "I expected you at the door." Marcus blinked, genuine confusion crossing his face. He had dark eyes, the kind that held on to you a half-second longer than comfortable. "Baby, I thought your flight wasn't until—" "I sent you my info. I texted you." He picked his phone off the counter, scrolling. The crease between his brows deepened. "You're right. I'm sorry, sweet. I lost track of time." Sloane exhaled loudly through her nose, the way she did when she was deciding whether someone was worth forgiving. "Fine. We're starving. Can we order something?" "Of course." He set his phone down and let his gaze slide—slow, unhurried—across the kitchen. To me. Something flickered in his expression. Recognition chasing confusion. "Reese?" "Hey." My voice came out steadier than I felt. I managed a smile. Do not look down. Do not. "You've—" He stopped himself. Tilted his head, that dark gaze taking a slow pass over me the way you assess something you haven't seen in a long time and need to recalculate. "You've grown up." Two words that should have meant nothing. Two words that landed low and warm in my stomach. "Yeah," I breathed, then cleared my throat. "Little bit." Sloane's phone buzzed. She was already reading the screen, snapping her gum. "Ugh. Devon wants us to meet for food." "I thought we were eating here," I said quickly. Maybe too quickly. "I can have Carmen put something together," Marcus offered, and there was something easy and genuine in his voice that made my chest do something complicated. "No, no." Sloane waved him off without looking up. "We're going out. Devon's waiting." She looked at me. "Can you be ready in twenty?" I opened my mouth. "Sure," I said instead of everything else. ✦✦✦✦✦ As Sloane disappeared upstairs—already calling Carmen about the bags she'd left in the foyer like a human tornado —I slid off the barstool. "Thank you for having me, Mr.—" I stopped. "For having me. I know it was last-minute." Marcus looked at me the way he had before—measured, warm, a little searching. "You've been coming to this house since you were twelve years old, Reese. You don't need to thank me." A pause. "And please don't call me Mr. Hale. Makes me feel ancient." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Marcus." First name. Okay. "Okay." I held his gaze a beat too long before I caught myself. "Marcus." Something crossed his face—brief, unreadable—before the easy smile settled back into place. "I'll see you around," I managed. "Oh," he said, quiet and certain, "you definitely will." ✦✦✦✦✦ I made it to the stairs before my pulse stopped hammering. He's Sloane's father. He's off-limits. He's— He'd looked at me like he was figuring something out. And I had no idea what to do with that.