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  Single Dad

  Milford College, Book Three

  Noelle Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Noelle Adams. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Single Dad

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Secret Santa

  About Noelle Adams

  About Single Dad

  THE LAST THING I WANT is to partner on a library exhibit with Max, a hot new art professor at my college, but it’s part of my job as librarian so I don’t have a choice. My attraction to him is intense and immediate, but I’m taking a break from dating so I can focus on myself. I don’t need a distraction like Max.

  He’s a single father, and that’s the only thing he can focus on now. He’s never going to take a relationship with me seriously, no matter how much I want him to.

  Single Dad is the third book in the Milford College series, novellas about the faculty and staff of a small liberal arts college.

  One

  ON TUESDAY EVENINGS, I work until nine at the Milford College library. The hours aren’t as bad as they sound because it means I don’t have to come in until noon.

  Students tend to be night owls, so the late hours aren’t quiet. I’m a research librarian, and Tuesday evenings are when I have the most students come up to me for help with their papers and bibliographies. Tonight isn’t very busy, however. Midterms are over, and we’re not close enough to the end of the semester yet for most students to have incentive to work on their big essays and projects. So I help a couple of students who are working on an annotated bibliography for a government class and a baseball player who has to rewrite a research paper for a passing grade so he can keep his scholarship.

  It’s just after eight when I get up from the research desk on the ground floor and walk around the library to stretch my legs and make sure no one is smoking in one of the study rooms or having sex in the far corner of the upper floor by the theology collection.

  Everything is running smoothly tonight, and I pause by a big armchair in the fiction section to say hi to a girl who hangs out here every Tuesday evening.

  Her name is Rika with a k. She told me that specifically when I introduced myself to her in February.

  She looks around thirteen or fourteen with bushy dark hair and wire-framed glasses. She sits and reads here at least until nine, which is when my shift ends. The library doesn’t close until ten on weeknights, so she might stay until closing. I don’t know exactly what her situation is. When she first started coming in, I asked, and she said she was waiting for her dad.

  It makes me wonder if she’s got a difficult family situation and wants to stay out of the house, but she’s never given me any details. She’s old enough to be in the library by herself, and she’s clean and looks healthy, so I figure it’s none of my business.

  I like her though. We have similar tastes in books.

  “How far along are you?” I ask when she looks up at me through her glasses.

  She shows me the copy of Emily’s Quest she’s reading. “Hi, Katrina. Almost done with this one.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “You were right. I like these even more than the Anne books.”

  A few weeks ago I saw her reading Anne of Green Gables, and we talked for a while about L. M. Montgomery. I told her I liked the Emily books better than the Anne books and discovered that she hadn’t known they existed. So I found her copies of the three Emily books and gave them to her last week.

  “I read them for the first time when I was about your age. I loved them too. I still read them occasionally.”

  “This one kind of gives me a stomachache though.”

  I smile at her. “Yeah. I always felt that way too. That heavy feeling. It ends good though.”

  She nods. “I hope so. I don’t like to read all this way for an end that’s not happy.”

  “Me either.”

  “I would have been finished by now, but Dad didn’t want me to read this weekend.”

  That makes me frown. “Why not?”

  She shrugs. “He doesn’t like me to read all the time.”

  I try to control my initial annoyance at that claim. It’s entirely possible that her father is worried that she does nothing but read. That’s a reasonable concern for a quiet, bookish girl. It doesn’t necessarily mean her father is an asshole who doesn’t understand a person like Rika. “Oh well. You’ve still made good progress. It looks like you might finish tonight.”

  “I will.” She gives me her slow, grave smile. “What should I read after this one?”

  I think for a minute. “I don’t know. Montgomery has a lot of other books. The Blue Castle is my favorite, but you might be a little young to love it. I didn’t love it until I was a grown-up.”

  “Who’s your favorite author?”

  “Louisa May Alcott. Have you read her before?”

  “She wrote Little Women, right? I haven’t read that one yet.”

  “Well, you should give it a try. You might love it like I do. If you do, she has a bunch of other books too. I’m writing my master’s thesis on her.”

  “You’re getting a master’s?”

  “I am. Another one. I already have one in library science, but I want to get one in English too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve always wanted to get one, so I finally decided I would.”

  “Oh.” She seems to think about that for a while. “I didn’t think you could write about books like that for graduate school.”

  “You definitely can. You could even write about the Emily books if you wanted.”

  “Wow. I didn’t think they were important enough to write about in school.”

  “Of course they’re important. Think of how many women and girls have been inspired by the books over the years. They’re not usually taught in school because the people in charge of deciding would always leave them out, but that doesn’t mean they’re not important enough to write about.”

  “Why were they left out?”

  “Because it was mostly men making the decisions, and they didn’t think books written for girls were important or substantial enough.”

  Rika is shaking her head, clearly thinking through the issue with a seriousness that touches my heart. “That’s not right.”

  “It’s not. It’s getting better, but a lot of people still feel the same way. Things that are women oriented aren’t taken as seriously. I mean, look at me. I look like Tinker Bell, don’t I?”

  Rika snickers at that, although I can tell she knows what I’m talking about. She’s already taller than I am—and in addition to my short height and small frame, I have pale blond hair, large blue eyes, and delicate features. It’s been a struggle all my life for people to take me seriously when I look like a freaking fairy from a Disney movie.

  “Because I look this way, a lot of people assume I’m not a substantial person.”

  Rika’s expression sobers. “But you are.”

  I smile at that since the understanding and appreciation of this smart, quiet girl means something to me. “I know I am. I’m like those books for girls. We’re just as good as anyone, but we have to work a little harder to earn the respect we deserve.”

  She nods d
eterminedly. “I’ll read Little Women next.”

  I’m excited in that way I always am when I talk someone into reading my favorite books. “Hold on. I have a copy in my office you can borrow if you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’ll run and get it for you.”

  “Thank you.” Evidently believing the conversation is concluded, she raises her book and starts to read again.

  I’m laughing silently as I walk away. It’s impossible not to like the girl. She reminds me a lot of myself, although I was never as shy and reserved as she seems to be.

  I find a paperback copy of Little Women on the bookshelves in my office and run it back upstairs to her. I’m returning from my office when I run into my friend, Beck Wilson, who is an assistant professor in history here.

  I stop and wait for her to reach me. She’s grinning as much as I am.

  “Let me see it!” I demand as soon as she’s close enough for me to speak at an appropriate library volume.

  She holds up her left hand to show me a pretty diamond ring.

  Beck got engaged yesterday and texted me about it in the evening, but I haven’t seen her in person yet today.

  I admire the ring with all the oohs and aahs it deserves.

  I’m really happy for Beck. She’s one of the best friends I’ve made in the two years I’ve lived in Milford after moving to this small town in south-central Virginia from Durham, North Carolina. Beck’s round face is rosy and dimpled, and she’s so happy she can’t stop giggling.

  I remember daydreaming of a similar moment of pure giddy delight with my ex-boyfriend Ron. We were together for almost five years, the last two being long-distance after I took this job at Milford College. I had every reason to assume that we would eventually get married. We even talked about it some, and Ron always said he wanted to wait until he was out of medical school.

  I can be an idiot sometimes when my heart’s involved. I believed him.

  So six months ago when he broke up with me because he found someone else, I was shocked and devastated.

  And humiliated. That more than anything else, if I’m being entirely honest.

  I’ve always assumed I’m a smart, observant person, and not for a minute did I dream that I’d be cheated on and dumped unceremoniously like that after I invested so much time and emotion—so many dreams—into a relationship.

  It happened at the beginning of the fall semester, and it’s more than halfway through the spring semester now. But I still feel a full-body cringe whenever the thought of Ron crosses my mind.

  I immediately push him out of my mind so I can focus on Beck and her engagement. “When are you going to get married?”

  “We don’t have an exact date yet, but we’re thinking this summer. It won’t be a very long engagement, but we don’t want a huge wedding, and we want to get the wedding done and have time for the honeymoon before the fall semester starts.”

  “That makes sense. If you don’t want a big wedding, you might as well go ahead and get married. Where are you going to live? Both of you have houses, right?”

  “Yeah, but Evan is just renting his. Since I own mine, we’ll probably move into that one.”

  “You definitely should. It’s the cutest house I’ve ever seen. Evan won’t mind living in a pink house, will he?”

  Beck giggles. “I think he’d be okay with it. Mine is a little closer to campus anyway.”

  “It all sounds perfect, like everything is just falling right into place for you. Like your relationship is settling nicely around the life you’ve built for yourself. That’s what I want too.”

  Beck cocks her head to one side, her smile fading into a thoughtful expression. “What do you mean?”

  I shrug, a little embarrassed that I trapped myself into an admission of something very private. “I don’t know. Just like I’ve mentioned to you before. The way you went right ahead and got the life you wanted for yourself. You got your PhD. You got a good job in exactly the kind of college you want to teach in. You found a cute little house to live in, and you made a ton of friends. You made a great life for yourself long before you found Evan, and now he fits perfectly into your life. It’s never felt like that for me.”

  I clear my throat, pausing as I decide whether I want to say all this. But Beck’s eyes are sympathetic, so I continue. “I feel like I’ve done a lot of following guys around. I chose my college because that’s where my high school boyfriend was going, and then we broke up during my freshman year. Then I started going out with Ron my senior year, and I moved to Durham for graduate school because that’s where he was going to med school. I’d rather have gone to a different university where they had a dual program where I could have gotten a master’s in English at the same time as library science. But I didn’t because Ron needed to be somewhere else. Then I took this job because it was an easy drive to get to him, even though I liked the other job offer I got better. It was farther away from Ron, so I didn’t take it. And then I ended up getting cheated on and dumped anyway. You see what I mean?”

  Beck nods. “Yeah. I see what you mean. But I’m sure you made the best decisions you could based on what you knew at the time. It’s reasonable to try to be close to the guy you thought you were going to marry.”

  “I know. But because I’ve always made decisions like that, I feel like I’ve always been on hold, not really building the life I want for myself because I’m waiting for the right time. So I don’t have what I want. I don’t have the master’s in English. I live in a cheap apartment because it didn’t seem worth spending money on a house, even though I’d love to have a little two-bedroom bungalow like you have. I never really started making friends until I broke up with him because I didn’t think I’d be staying here for very long.” I scratch my head in a restless gesture. “I don’t even have a dog!”

  “Well, you’ve started your master’s. And you can always get a dog.”

  “I can’t have one in my apartment.”

  “There are always some of those little houses available for rent in the summer, so you can get one in a couple of months if you want. Then you can get a dog. I know what you’re saying, but just because you haven’t done it before doesn’t mean you can’t do it now. So start now.”

  “I am. That’s what I’m focusing on right now. I’ve even put the dating thing on hold for a while.”

  “I thought you’d met a couple of guys through that dating app I suggested.”

  “I did. One of them I liked pretty well. But I could feel myself starting to do the same thing—building plans around the possibility of getting together with him rather than what I want for myself. And I’m not going to do it again. I’m not going to be led around by a man again. So no more dating for me until I’ve got my life the way I want it.”

  Beck gives me a friendly half hug. “Good for you. I fully approve. Just don’t say no to a good thing if he happens to appear in the meantime.”

  “Not much sign of that. Right now I’m enjoying being on my own and doing only what I want myself.” I glance at my smart watch and notice that it’s only a half hour before my shift is over. “Why are you here so late in the evening anyway?”

  “Evan teaches a Tuesday-night class, so I thought I’d stay and finish grading a batch of papers.” She chuckles. “It was too ambitious a goal. I did a few and then gave up and have been killing time ever since. But I better get going so I can be in my office and pretending to grade when Evan gets back so he won’t be disappointed in me.”

  She’s obviously teasing. Not for a second do I believe that Evan would be disappointed in her for something like that—or anything else. He’s as smitten as a man can be.

  One day, maybe a man will look at me the same way.

  Or maybe not.

  I’m not going to shape my life around the possibility.

  I don’t need a man to have the kind of life I want. And I’m not going to backslide into assuming that I do.

  I LEAVE THE LIBRARY at five min
utes after nine.

  I live in a one-bedroom apartment in a converted Victorian right across the street from campus. It’s a cute apartment with lovely hardwood floors and big windows. It’s relatively inexpensive but not cheap enough to attract undergraduates. The tenants in the other three units in the house are all at least thirty, so it’s a quiet, well-kept building.

  I’ve had no complaints about my place except I want a dog and can’t have one, and I don’t have a spare room for when one of my sisters, out-of-town friends, or parents visit.

  The best thing about it is the location. It’s a five-minute walk from the library if I cut through the classroom building.

  Milford is a small college. There are classrooms in every building on campus except the dorms. But one of the buildings is made up mostly of classrooms except for the art and psychology departments, which have offices in the basement. It’s named after a donor, but everyone just calls it the classroom building.

  I’d never walk through the main hallway of the building during the day since it would be filled with students making a quick escape or last-minute dash to classes. But after nine in the evening, it’s mostly empty. Even the few night classes being taught have already dismissed.

  There’s only one classroom off the main hall currently occupied as I walk through, which is usually the case on Tuesdays after work.

  I know what class it is.

  An art studio class.

  Taught by Maxwell Wentworth III.

  That’s actually his name, although evidently he always goes by Max.

  He’s a local graphic artist who they hired as an adjunct instructor. This is his first semester teaching at Milford, and he’s already made a big impact.

  I hear students and faculty talking about him all the time, even though he only has one relatively small class. He talked Martha, my boss, into converting one of the wings of the ground floor room of the library into a gallery space to showcase student art. I’d suggested something similar when I first started working here, and I got a definite no.