Page 19 of The Single Father Upstairs

Operation distract myself, it was. I vacuumed, fluffed my pillows, ran a load of laundry, and fed Marmalade too many treats. I explained my itinerary for the night to her. One great thing about her was that she pretended to listen to me most of the time.

Finally, the timer on my watch went off. It was time to go. I opened the door to head upstairs, only to see Stellan standing there, his hand ready to knock. He looked freaking incredible. I wanted to pull him inside and offer to cook him dinner… and possibly give him more than a meal. I immediately pushed that impulse down. This was friends going to dinner. No, not even friends. This was neighbors going to discuss Rudy, for a reason I still didn't understand.

“Are you ready?” He smiled, and that smile melted away some of my nerves.

I could do this. I could just be a normal guy going out with a neighbor. I didn't have to make this weird.

“Yeah. Where were you thinking?” I stepped out and shut the door behind me, reminding Marmalade to be good as I did.

“There's a nice place a few blocks from here. I figured we could walk. Easier than figuring out cars and parking.”

“Works for me.”

The restaurant was one I hadn't known about yet. It was in the opposite direction I usually ventured. I enjoyed exploring the new-to-me area of town. You saw things differently when walking. Stellan was a great guide, pointing out different places I might be interested in, from a convenience store that had the best donuts to a dry cleaner that, on Tuesdays, had a same-day service that was cheapest in the city. I didn't wear a suit often, but I filed that away as something useful for the times I did.

The conversation flowed pretty easily. A few times, Moonridge Place came up, but mostly in the context of location. “Going north, half a mile from Moonridge Place,” etc. Not the kind of things I wanted to know, like how long people had lived there, and if there'd be a time when I would feel like I was part of the group and not just someone who everyone was fine being there.

“Here it is.”

We stopped in front of a Greek restaurant, one I might have missed if I’d driven past it because the sign was old and faded.

“It’s third generation, and the food is amazing.”

I inhaled deeply. “It smells fabulous.”

We went inside, found a small table with mismatched chairs, and picked up the menus. I was so distracted that by the time the waitress came to see what we wanted, I just said I'd have the three-course special.

“Shall we bring something back for Indigo?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s getting baklava. They make her favorite here.”

“I’ll have to try some too.”

Something about me asking that question changed the atmosphere of the conversation. It hadn't been forced before, but now it was much freer. My favorite part was when he talked about his woodworking. You could see how much he loved it, and I couldn't wait to see all the things that he created by hand.

“I’m not good at things like that,” I admitted. “But merging spreadsheets, finding files people lost because they made a stupid mistake—I'm your guy.” It was hardly the same thing, but we all had our strengths.

“Is that what you've always done?”

“Pretty much. But at my old job, they expected me to do the work of multiple people with no chance of moving up, and I was ready for a change.”

“Do you like it here?”

That was a loaded question.

“Yeah, it's taking a lot to get used to. Learning a new city isn't easy, and making friends at work always takes time, especially when you decide to drink unlimited margaritas.” I was no longer ignoring that night. Making light of it felt better than shoving it into a dark corner, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t know already.

“Is that how that happened?” He chuckled.

“Their office culture includes people topping off everybody’s drink when they pour from the pitcher for themselves, and I didn’t notice it until it was too late. Not my best move.”

“Nah, it wasn't. But it led to us here.”

“Yeah, it did.”

Every now and then, the conversation drifted back toward Rudy, and I would say, “Oh, well, is this what you wanted to talk about?” And he'd instantly move us in another direction. I noticed, but I didn't try to steer us back. Whatever it was he wanted to share with me sounded important and also personal. He'd tell me when he was ready. Or maybe not.

In the back of my mind, I suspected it had something to do with Indigo's birth father possibly being related to Rudy. Fair to say I was influenced by reading too many Wattpad stories where there were secret relatives in every corner.