One Look: A grumpy, single dad small town romance
Lena Hendrix
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As a big fan of hot sports coaches, I’ve done my best to portray aspects of college level football and the NFL as accurately as possible.
Midwest Michigan University and the town of St. Fowler are completely made up so as not to misrepresent the policies and values, curriculum, or facilities of real institutions. The views in this book are in no way a reflection of the NFL or NCAA, as it is a work of fiction.
This book also contains the death of a parent (off page/not detailed, but referenced) and a parent with early onset dementia.
ABOUT THIS BOOK
I’m a full-time single dad. A former NFL player turned coach, tasked with turning around a college team full of kids who either don’t take it seriously or are determined to get injured. I will absolutely not be falling for my new neighbor.
Lark Butler is pure chaos wrapped in gorgeous, infuriating sunshine. She showed up in my small town—getting paid to cry at a funeral, no less. Who does that? But somewhere between her offering condolences and crawling out of a literal grave site, we’ve found ourselves tangled in the drama of Outtatowner, Michigan—my coastal hometown with a decades-old feud and two aunties determined to end it.
I’m finally putting down roots so my daughter has a normal life, and I need to forget about Lark. Forget the way it felt the night we kissed or what it’s like to finally take something just for me. But when those sparks ignited, it was more intense than either of us bargained for.
Trouble is, I can’t trust her, and she never stays.
She’s burning my carefully laid plans to the ground, and all it took was one look.
1
WYATT
“Do you think I’ll get to see a dead body?”
I stared at my seven-year-old daughter, Penny, unsure about how to navigate this particularly morbid topic. I adjusted the sleeves on the white button-up I’d pulled on. “Get to or have to?”
Penny picked at the hem of her blue dress as she sat with the rest of the skirt rumpled beneath her. She didn’t make eye contact, only shrugged.
I slipped a tie around my neck and worked to get the knot right. “It’s a funeral, so there will be a memorial before we go to the cemetery. You won’t have to go up there if you don’t want to, but people will come to pay their respects to Mr. Bowlegs.”
An unladylike snort came from her little body as her face scrunched up. “Bowlegs? That’s his name?”
“Just a nickname.”
“What’s his real name?”
I paused and laughed a bit to myself. I had no fucking clue.
“I’m not sure. I only ever knew him as Mr. Bowlegs. Usually just Bowlegs for short.”
Penny’s lips twisted. “Why did people call him that?”
Her hearty giggle was infectious, and I tried to embrace the lightness of her mood. Maybe it would ease the dread pooling in my stomach. “Well, I guess because he was bowlegged.”
Penny turned on the bed so she was lying on her back, her head dangling upside down off the edge. “Does everyone in your hometown have a nickname?”
I took a deep breath and shook my head. Ridiculous nicknames were only one of the utterly asinine aspects of Outtatowner, Michigan. Even the town name itself—Outtatowner.
What a joke.
I pulled the knot loose from my crooked tie and tried again. Penny waited for me to answer. Stubborn, that girl. She could outwait a monk if she put her mind to it.
“Not everyone,” I conceded. “But a lot of people.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Just something that started a long time ago. I think it’s a small-town thing.”
“Why?”
I quickly realized we were on the brink of playing the why game, and I’d walked right into it.
Not today, Daughter.
“I don’t know. The town’s just weird, okay?”
“You said it’s not nice to call people weird.”
It was annoying as fuck when your child threw your parenting back in your face. I looked over my reflection one last time and turned toward her. “You’re right. They’re just a little different. You ready to go, Pickle?”
She righted herself with a smile and bounced on the edge of the bed. “Is that why you call me Pickle?”
I stepped toward my precocious, pain-in-the-ass spawn. I tapped my knuckle on the end of her little upturned nose. “I call you Pickle because sometimes you’re sweet and sometimes you’re sour.”
Penny pretended to chomp at my hand.
“My point exactly.” I pulled her from the bed. “Let’s go, kiddo. We have a drive ahead of us, and I don’t want to be late.”
Thankfully, Penny was feeling agreeable, and we left the cramped apartment without losing a shoe or misplacing her beloved Blue Teddy. Once she was securely buckled in the back, I laid my suit jacket across the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.
After embarking from the outskirts of downtown St. Fowler, Michigan, I drove through the college town. Penny kept her nose to the window, watching the buildings flicker past as we drove, Blue Teddy getting strangled by the crook of her arm.