If You Give a Single Dad a Nanny: a single dad, grumpy sunshine, small town romance
If You Give a Single Dad a Nanny: Chapter 3

“WAFFLES, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I mumble, my voice hoarse from sleep.

I pry one eye open and am met with his nose pressed against my face, accompanied by the sound of his heavy panting.

“Can I help you?” I ask teasingly.

He barks gleefully when he realizes that I’m finally awake.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand and groan when I see that it’s only 7:55 a.m.

“How come you’re up so early, boy?”

I was up until 3:00 a.m. last night, finishing a commissioned hydrangea piece that was supposed to be shipped out a week ago. Inspiration strikes at the most inopportune times—like when I’m getting ready for bed. I planned to sleep in this morning, but it seems someone has other ideas.

Waffles barks louder, reminding me he’s waiting.

“Okay, okay. You win.”

He jumps from the bed and makes a mad dash into the hall, yipping with excitement.

I reluctantly climb out of bed, a shiver coursing through me when my feet touch the hardwood floor. To combat the cold, I put on a pair of fuzzy socks and slip on my cardigan, which was hanging on the colorful patchwork chair in the corner. One drawback to living in Maine is the long, bitter winters, but I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to live in such a charming home.

Shortly after adopting Waffles, I was scrolling through a rental site and stumbled upon this adorable pink house in Aspen Grove, complete with a white picket fence and a porch swing. It felt like the perfect place for Waffles and me to start our new adventure together.

A little over a year later, and we’re still here. This is the longest I’ve stayed anywhere since leaving my hometown.

I’m what my parents like to call a free spirit. I’ve always been easily distracted, impulsive, and constantly on the move. As college professors who ran their lives like clockwork, it was challenging to raise an exuberant child with a short attention span.

Throughout middle school, while they deliberated which extracurricular activities would look best on my transcript, I struggled to commit to a hobby for more than a week. I was always ready to explore something new. In high school, they invested countless hours reviewing my options for college while I daydreamed of taking a trip around the world.

Despite my parents’ disappointment, I chose to travel after high school. Against their better judgment, they gave me a check for ten grand—a portion of my college fund. The rest was contingent on me pursuing a bachelor’s degree, an opportunity I ultimately declined. Instead, I traveled the country, taking international trips when I wanted something more adventurous and chasing my artistic ambitions.

I’m standing in my kitchen waiting for Waffles to finish his business out back when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I groan when I see Gavin’s name light up the screen.

“Hey, Gav. Any particular reason you’re calling me before noon?” I tease.

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine this morning?” he says in a playful tone. “You never answered the email I sent last week. I wasn’t sure if you forgot or were ignoring me, so I figured I’d call you on my way to work.”

“Honestly, it was a bit of both,” I confess. I have an unhealthy habit of putting off responding to texts and emails when I can’t think of a good response or if I don’t have a definitive answer to a question. I tell myself I’ll reply later, but I usually forget.

“Should I even ask how your new collection is coming along?”

Gavin’s a curator for The Artist, a renowned gallery in New York City. He sent me a DM after he stumbled across my work on social media, and after a year of exchanging messages and phone calls, he convinced me to participate in my first art exhibition. We’ve been dear friends ever since he sent me that first message. This upcoming show will be my third at his gallery and could be my last if I don’t get him these paintings ahead of schedule.

He’s been so supportive, and I don’t want to do anything to disappoint him. The idea of letting him down fills me with a sense of unease.

I chew on my lip, knowing he won’t like my answer. “Um, it’s coming?”

“Marlow, please tell me you’ve started,” he says, desperation evident in his tone. “You told me last month it’d be a breeze to complete seven paintings in time for this exhibition.”

“Relax, Gav. The show isn’t for six weeks. I have plenty of time between now and then.”

At least I hope so.

“That’s what you said the last time.”

“And you got my collection on time, did you not?”

“Sure. If you count overnighting the paintings the morning before your art exhibit.” His tone is cynical.

“It wasn’t that bad,” I say, not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself. “No, it was so much worse,” he states. “Do I need to remind you that there was a delay with the delivery, and I had to bribe a coordinator at the shipping company to give me the contact info for the driver? I had to meet the guy in midtown to pick up the paintings in a rented U-Haul and get them back to the gallery with only an hour to spare before the show.”

I admit I’m an unintentional expert at procrastination. With my short attention span and sudden bursts of inspiration, sticking to deadlines is like chasing a moving target. That’s why I typically turn down invitations for gallery showings—I don’t like committing to things I might not be able to deliver, especially when it could negatively affect someone I care about.

“Okay… yes, it was a disaster, but if I recall correctly, my collection sold out within an hour, did it not?”

“Yes,” Gavin says reluctantly.

“And I’m pretty sure I gave you an incredibly generous commission to compensate for the trouble I put you through.” I can’t resist provoking him.

“Yeah, you did. But I’m quite sure chasing down those paintings shaved ten years off my life that I’ll never get back,” he exaggerates in a playful manner.

“I’m starting on the first piece today. I promise you’ll have the full collection in the gallery the day ahead of the show.”

Fingers crossed I can keep my promise.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” His tone is skeptical, and I understand why. “Anything exciting happening in that small town of yours, or are you finally ready to move to New York?”

“I don’t have any plans to leave yet. I’ve made a few friends, and Waffles would be devastated if I took him away from Lola.”

I think she’d be equally as distraught, and the thought of making her sad sends an arrow through my heart.

“Marlow, don’t forget that Waffles is your dog, which makes you the boss. Pets are adaptable, and he’ll be content wherever you go next. Not to mention, you’ve told me that Lola’s hot single dad is a total jerk and can’t wait until you no longer have to be his neighbor.”

Waffles takes that as his cue to whine at the door. I shiver as the cold breeze rushes in when I let him back in. He runs over to his dog bowl that I filled with food earlier and scarfs up his breakfast.

“In hindsight, Dylan had every right to be upset with me and Waffles,” I admit. I was hopeful his icy demeanor would thaw quickly, but it’s taken over a year to notice any signs of him warming up to me. “And to be clear, I’ve never called Dylan hot,” I correct Gavin. “I said that the day we met when I was in the heat of the moment.”

I think back to those intense, frosty eyes of his, glaring at me from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. His short, black hair was ruffled and slightly unkempt, his hands running through it in agitation as if Waffles and I were the source of all his life’s problems. But then I remember how those same brown eyes softened, his gruff tone leveling out, when he talked to his daughter.

“I looked Dylan Stafford up online. That man is a total DILF. Anyone who can pull off glasses like that deserves to be on the cover of GQ,” Gavin says.

“I’m so telling Matthew you said that,” I taunt.

“Go right ahead, babe,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s not anything he hasn’t heard me say before.” Gavin is an open book, never shying away from speaking his mind, regardless of what comes out. He pauses when someone shouts his name in the background. He must have stopped to grab his morning coffee on the way to the gallery. “When you’re ready for your next adventure and want a break from that broody neighbor, Matthew and I would be delighted to have you and Waffles come to stay with us.”

I raise a brow. “Does Matthew know you’re offering?”

Gavin has a bad habit of doing things without consulting him first. “Matthew’s the one who suggested it,” he assures me. “You know how much he adores you.”

“Tell him I appreciate the invite, but I’m going to stay in Aspen Grove for a while longer. I’ll keep you both in the loop if anything changes.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’m sorry to run, but I’m just walking into the gallery and have a private showing with a client in ten minutes.”

“Say no more. I’ll talk to you later.”

“You can count on it, babe. Now go get started on that collection.”

“I will,” I promise. “Bye, Gav.”

After making myself a large cup of coffee, I head up to the loft that I’ve transformed into my art studio. One wall is lined with shelves that house all of my art supplies, including my vast collection of paints, texturing tools, and stacks of new canvases. The other wall has a wooden desk pushed up against it, covered with inspirational photos, invoices, and magazines. My filming equipment is in a haphazard pile in the corner where I keep it stashed when I’m not making videos.

To most, my studio would appear cluttered and disorganized, but for me, my creativity flourishes amid the chaos.

The floor-to-ceiling windows facing the front yard are my favorite feature of the room. There are two easels strategically placed nearby, where I do most of my painting.

I pull back the linen curtains and welcome in the morning light.

Fortunately, it didn’t snow last night, leaving my driveway and sidewalk clear, courtesy of Dylan. For someone who doesn’t seem to like me much, he consistently does nice things, like shoveling and mowing my front lawn in the summer.

Before moving to Aspen Grove, I always lived in an apartment complex, and have never had a yard before. When I rented this house, the owner assured me he’d find someone to do the yard work so I wouldn’t have to worry about it.

When I saw Dylan Stafford shoveling my driveway for the first time, I figured the owner asked him to do it since he lives next door. I admit something is appealing about a man willing to look out for me, even when he maintains a distant demeanor.

I’ve made it my mission to bring a smile to his face, and last night marked the closest I’ve ever come to achieving my goal.

Aside from the trespassing incident when we met, I’m not sure why he dislikes me. It probably has to do with Waffles constantly finding new ways to get into his backyard and Lola often showing up on my porch asking if she can play with him. I think it’s adorable how smitten those two are with each other, but it’s apparent Dylan doesn’t share the same sentiment. His frosty exterior extends to most everyone except his family and Lola.

I met his family last year when his mom, Johanna, invited me over for Christmas Eve. I didn’t visit my parents during the holidays and my friends were out of town, so it was nice to spend time with the Staffords.

Dylan’s entire world revolves around Lola and watching him treat her like a princess is heartwarming. The transformation is remarkable, considering the man acts like a grumbling grouch around everyone else.

I often wonder what happened to Lola’s mom, but I don’t dare ask Dylan about it. She hasn’t been around since I’ve lived here, and Lola has never mentioned her. From what I can tell, Dylan is raising Lola by himself, and it’s the two of them against the world.

I catch movement outside and see Lola and her nanny, Kendra, passing by my house on their way to school. Today, Lola’s rocking fleece lined leggings paired with a rainbow skirt, a purple jacket, and a white pom-pom beanie. Like me, she prefers a vibrant and bold wardrobe, a choice that I can only imagine has faced protest from Dylan. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I hear paws on the stairs, and moments later, Waffles barrels into the room. He scrambles to the window, barking with glee when he sees Lola. She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, waving frantically in our direction, when she hears him.

“Good morning, Waffles. Hi, Marlow,” she shouts, her voice carrying through the closed window.

I wave back with a smile.

On the days that I’m awake this early, it’s routine for Waffles and me to greet her on her way to school.

Kendra appears to be in a rush today, tugging on Lola’s backpack, nudging her along. Lola gives us one more wave before continuing down the sidewalk.

I step away from the window to mix acrylics for the first piece in my collection for The Artist.

Painting is the only thing that’s ever been capable of holding my attention for extended periods. There’s something peaceful about the rhythmic strokes of a paintbrush, the blending of colors, and the artistic freedom in expressing myself. It’s exhilarating to transform a blank canvas into something beautiful and lifelike. The process has a way of holding me captive until I’ve finished a painting.

During an impromptu trip to Paris, I discovered a passion for the impasto technique. Combining my newfound interest with my fondness for flowers, I began creating textured floral pieces. My artwork is vibrant and bright, and every creation draws inspiration from those who’ve crossed my path.

On a whim, I posted my art on social media and quickly discovered that viewers had a fascination for painting tutorials and short clips illustrating how to create textures on a canvas. When a popular influencer shared one of my videos, all the paintings on my website sold out overnight. The rising popularity of my art has allowed me to maintain a comfortable lifestyle and continue to do what I love.

My dream is to participate in an art residency at the Paris Art Collective. Some of the best artists have trained there, and it would be a great way to improve my technique. However, the program is by invitation only so I may never get the chance, but if I ever do, I’d accept the opportunity in a heartbeat.

I’m relieved that the bouquet I picked up from Blooms, the local flower shop, yesterday is still in great shape. I always prefer to paint with real-life inspiration when possible, so I keep at least one flower arrangement in the studio.

I pluck a daffodil from the vase and examine it. They symbolize new beginnings, reminding me of the day Waffles and I met Lola. Her innocence and carefree spirit ignite my inner child, inspiring my first piece in this collection.

Before painting, I lift my arms into a power pose and take five deep, long breaths. I welcome the surge of confidence that courses through me.

Today is going to be the start of something wonderful.

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