Having been alone for over a decade, Ian had quietly crossed romance off his life’s to-do list.
He was raising fifteen-year-old twin daughters by himself—Fawn and Faye, his princesses, despite their complaints about the nickname. Between a mortgage, a German shepherd named Ruby, teaching calculus at a public high school, and running online college courses, there wasn’t much room for dates or destiny.
The girls’ mother had left only a few weeks after they came home.
Apparently motherhood was harder than she expected, despite all her talk about them becoming a happy little family. Ian—if he was being honest—had wanted to consider other options before they were born.
None of that mattered now.
They were his girls.
So he learned how to braid hair through online tutorials. Played Barbies while grading papers. Bought a puppy after Fawn tearfully pointed out that everyone on television seemed to have a mom and maybe a dog would help.
On their fifth birthday, he’d made a convenience store run dressed as Cinderella because nobody else was willing to do it, and hiring someone seemed ridiculous when Ian was perfectly capable of wearing a blue dress.
The cashier had been impressively professional.
Ian had survived.
Now the girls were fifteen.
Fawn had developed a fascination with insects and taxidermy, which Ian supported with the tired acceptance of a father who had stopped asking questions. Faye had ballet competitions, expensive fees, and a habit of needing new pointe shoes when her old ones looked perfectly fine.
He complained.
Then he paid for them anyway.
Ruby wasn’t a puppy anymore. She was enormous now, but still gentle. She loved everyone.
Almost everyone.
Strangers were a different story.
Life was good.
The bills were paid. The pantry was full. His daughters had everything they needed.
Not always everything they wanted—Ian was a calculus teacher, not a millionaire—but he considered that a success.
Still…
Sometimes loneliness found him.
Not because he regretted anything. Never that.
It was just the quiet moments. Finishing a difficult week and having no one to tell. Laughing at something Ruby did before remembering there was nobody else in the room. Sitting awake after helping one of the girls through a rough night, with the dog beside him being the closest thing he had to someone asking if he was okay.
It wasn’t unbearable.
Just quiet.
Ruby always seemed to notice.
She’d crawl into his lap despite being nearly the same size as him, and Ian would scratch behind her ears until the feeling passed.
He’d read online that dogs could sense when people were sad.
Probably nonsense.
Ian believed it anyway.
The bell above the bakery door chimed as he stepped inside.
The twins had spent three days arguing over birthday cake flavors before finally agreeing on funfetti.
A peace treaty.
Ian had suggested bringing out the princess costume again.
Both girls had immediately told him absolutely not.
Worth asking.
He approached the counter, quietly rehearsing the sentence he’d practiced in the car.
Hello. Do you have any funfetti cakes available?
Simple.
Normal.
Manageable.
“Hello. Do you have any fun—”
The words stopped.
Ian looked up.
Oh.
The person behind the counter stared back at him, and suddenly the sentence he’d repeated all morning disappeared.
His heart started beating faster.
Not the concerning kind his doctor had warned him about.
A different kind.
A kind Ian hadn’t felt in ten years.
And standing there awkwardly in a bakery, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
“Uh… hi.”
A pause.
“Hello.”
He winced.
Great. He’d repeated himself.
“I’m Ian. Ian Kaplinsky.”
The second his full name left his mouth, Ian immediately regretted it.
Shit—
No.
Crap, actually.
The girls weren’t allowed to curse, which meant he wasn’t allowed to either.
Besides, a full name wasn’t really necessary when ordering a cake.
But it was already out there.
So Ian stood there awkwardly, hoping he looked more composed than he felt.