Page 1 of Falling Back to You

Chapter one

Cal

Mid-October

When you were a single dad with a ray of sunshine four-year-old daughter who didn’t believe in the social construct of time, there was no such thing as a sleep-in morning. Even on weekends.

Your day started at the crack of dawn. And sometimes even before that.

In the span of three seconds, I was transported from dreamland to reality by a small bony elbow impaling itself in my spleen and a very awake voice asking, “Daddy, can I get a puppy?”

I grunted at the rude awakening. My body protested, reminding me that my bruises from yesterday’s hockey game had not in fact miraculously healed overnight. Puppies? This was not a pre-coffee conversation. This wasn’t even an after-coffee conversation. This was a we-can’t-be-having-this-talk-again conversation.

“What time is it?” I slurred, rubbing my bleary eyes. After last night’s first game of the AHL season for the Caldwell Chargers against Abbotsford, I’d been hoping for a slower Saturday morning before game two tonight. Silly me to think my kid would be on board with that idea.

“The little hand is on the six.” Khia propped her elbows on my bare chest and stared me down in the dim predawn light coming through the sheer curtains.

Note to self: remember to buy blackout curtains. Today. Definitely today.

“Pretty please.” Her ocean-blue eyes, a mirror of my own, widened with pleading. She knew my weakness—which was her—but I needed to stand firm, or else we’d end up running a small hobby farm. Thank goodness she hadn’t discovered fluffy cows yet, but it was only a matter of time since some had recently moved into Serenity Springs.

“We’ve talked about this, Lovebug.” I groaned, brushing an unruly dark curl off her cheek. “I’m on the road too much. You already have Mrs. Pickles, and Uncle Grey and Auntie Paisley let you have sleepovers with Rosie Cotton.” I tickled her, and she flopped around on the bed like a beached whale, shrieking with laughter.

It was music to my ears.

Earlier this year, I’d caved to her pleading for a kitten, and Mrs. Pickles, a ginger tabby, had joined our little family. My older twin, Greyson, and his wife volunteered their two-year-old golden retriever for sleepovers when Khia’s puppy pleading kicked in. So far, we’d avoided the dog conversation for the last five months. Now, it was back in full force.

When the giggling stopped, Khia curled against my chest. One day she’d outgrow cuddling, and the thought of it had me squeezing her a little tighter.

“You’re squishing me!” she protested, wiggling.

Right. I was the sentimental one of this family, clearly.

“You said I need a nanny ’cuz Meemaw’s broken. I think a puppy would be better than a nanny,” Khia reasoned with the all-knowing wisdom of a pre-K brain. “Nana took care of Wendy in Peter Pan.”

I tweaked her nose. “And look at how much trouble the Darlings got into.”

“’Cuz their daddy locked Nana up!”

Couldn’t argue with that. You shoulda done better, George Darling.

But she was right on one point. We did have a nanny dilemma, and at this rate, given the lack of suitable candidates, an anthropomorphic dog might be the best option.

For the last four years, my mom had been Khia’s primary caretaker when I was with the team for away games, and my younger sister, Juliet, or one of my four sisters-in-law helped out as needed. My family was my village for surviving single dadhood while working a career that regularly took me on the road.

But last weekend during our family get-together to kick off the season early, Mama took a swan dive down the last two stairs in their house—thanks to a cowboy rubber ducky—leaving her with a severely fractured ankle and strapped down to the couch in a walking boot for the foreseeable future.

If there was one thing Mama hated, it was being told to slow down. In fact, you did not simply tell Delilah Satterfield to “take it easy.” Those words weren’t in her vocabulary. The woman had injured bones and was still trying to figure out how to climb a ladder because she wanted to DIY the crown molding in the kitchen.

And we loved her for it.

But chasing my almost-five-year-old around wouldn’t be beneficial to the healing process, something she reluctantly agreed on after Pops and I went through several rounds of trying to persuade her. (Which, on my part, included bribery and promising to give Pops a hand with the molding myself despite being the least handy brother.)

And while my siblings were fantastic, I couldn’t expect them to take over full-time care when their hands were full with their own lives.

Hence, the nanny.

If you ever get a mother, you can get a dog.