Single Daddy of Three

Joanna never expected her Tuesday to involve playground diplomacy, but there she was—kneeling on the sidewalk outside the Riverside Convention Center, wiping tears off a stranger's kid.

The little girl had been standing near the entrance, clutching a stuffed rabbit, when another child shoved past her. Down she went, knees scraping the concrete, wailing like a siren. Nobody else moved. Typical. A hundred lawyers within fifty feet, and not one of them could object.

"Hey, sweetie," Joanna said, crouching beside her. She dug into her purse and found a cherry lollipop—leftover from her last settlement celebration. "Want this?"

The girl sniffled, nodded, and grabbed it with both hands. Tears stopped. Crisis averted. Joanna dusted off the kid's knees, made sure she wasn't seriously hurt, and pointed her toward a woman who seemed to be watching from a bench. Nanny, probably. Problem solved.

She adjusted her blazer and walked inside.

The venue was packed. Joanna found a seat near the middle and pulled out her notebook. The annual Legal Ethics Symposium wasn't exactly thrilling, but the keynote speaker made it worth the drive.

Joseph Calloway.

She'd followed his career for years—the man had built a reputation as one of the sharpest corporate attorneys in the state. His divorce had made headlines, mostly because he'd fought for and won primary custody of his three children, which apparently shocked everyone who assumed powerful men didn't want that kind of responsibility. Joanna had read every interview. Watched every panel. She might have had a small folder of saved articles on her laptop. A very organized folder. Labeled "Research."

She was not prepared for what he looked like in person.

Joseph stepped onto the stage, and Joanna's pen froze mid-air. The photos didn't do him justice. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair pushed back from his forehead, jaw sharp enough to open envelopes. He wore a charcoal suit that fit like it had been sewn directly onto his body, and when he spoke, his voice carried the kind of quiet authority that made people lean forward without realizing it.

He talked about integrity in corporate law. About the intersection of family and professional responsibility. About building something worth protecting. Joanna didn't write down a single word. She just watched his hands move as he spoke—long fingers, confident gestures—and tried to remember that she was a grown woman with a career and not a teenager at her first concert.

The speech ended. Applause. Joanna joined in, maybe a little too enthusiastically. The crowd dispersed, and she headed for the parking lot, replaying his words in her head and mentally kicking herself for not finding a way to introduce herself.

She was halfway to her car when something grabbed her knees.

"Daddy! This pretty lady gave me lollipop!"

Joanna looked down. The same little girl from earlier, cherry lollipop still in hand, was clinging to her legs and beaming up at someone behind Joanna.

She turned.

Joseph Calloway stood three feet away, holding a diaper bag over one shoulder and a toddler on his opposite hip. His eyes moved from the child to Joanna, and something flickered across his face—curiosity, amusement, warmth.

"You gave her that?" he asked, nodding toward the lollipop.

"I—yes. She fell outside earlier. Another kid pushed her."

His expression softened. "Lily, what do you say to the nice lady?"

"Thank you, pretty lady," Lily said, still attached to Joanna's knees like a barnacle.

Joanna laughed, flustered. "You're welcome, Lily."

Joseph shifted the toddler on his hip. "I'm Joseph. And I apparently owe you. She's been cranky all morning—something about not getting ice cream for breakfast. You're the first person who's made her smile today."

"Joanna," she said, feeling her cheeks warm. "I'm an attorney. Well, I was in the audience for your talk. It was excellent."

"An attorney who carries lollipops." He smiled, and Joanna felt it land somewhere in her stomach. "That's a first."

They stood there a beat too long. Then Lily released her knees, and the moment broke. Joseph gathered his kids with practiced efficiency—the toddler, Lily, and a boy who appeared from nowhere claiming he was hungry—and Joanna watched him transform from commanding speaker into exhausted father in real time.

She drove home thinking about his smile.

Two days later, her phone rang. A man on the other end introduced himself as Joseph's assistant and said Mr. Calloway would like to extend a dinner invitation. Joanna said yes before the man finished his sentence. Then she called her best friend and screamed into a pillow for approximately four minutes.

Dinner became a habit. They met at a quiet restaurant downtown—neutral territory, Joseph insisted, because his house was "a war zone of Legos and juice boxes." They talked about law, about parenting, about the absurdity of depositions. Joseph was funnier than she expected, drier, more self-deprecating. He told stories about his kids that made her laugh until wine came out of her nose. She told him about her first case, which involved a disputed parrot, and he didn't let her live it down for weeks.

By the fourth dinner, Joanna had stopped pretending this was networking.

By the sixth, Joseph stopped pretending too.

"Come to the lake," he said one evening, sliding a key across the table. "Private property. No cell service. No kids this weekend—they're with their mother."

Joanna took the key.

The lake house was stunning—cedar and glass, nestled against dark water, surrounded by pines. Joseph was on the dock when she arrived, sleeves rolled, watching the sunset paint the water gold and orange. He turned when her car door slammed, and the look he gave her was unhurried. Appreciative. Intentional.

"Glad you came," he said.

"I almost didn't," she admitted, walking toward him. "I almost talked myself out of it."

"What stopped you?"

She stopped an arm's length away. "I would've regretted it."

Joseph reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jaw. "I've been wanting to do that for weeks," he murmured.

"Take your time," she whispered back.

He did.

His mouth found hers—slow at first, testing, then deeper when she opened for him. Joanna's hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. He walked her backward until her shoulders met the cabin wall, his body pressing against hers, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate patience.

"Inside," he said against her lips.

The bedroom was warm, dim, smelling of cedar. Joseph undressed her like he was unwrapping something precious—each button, each layer removed with attention. His lips followed his hands, trailing down her throat, across her collarbone, over the swell of her breasts. Joanna arched into him, fingers in his hair, breath coming faster.

He stripped off his own shirt, and she finally got her hands on him—the hard planes of his chest, the muscles of his back, the way his stomach tightened when she traced her nails along his skin. He groaned, low in his throat, and pressed her down onto the bed.

His mouth traveled lower. Across her ribs. Over her hip. Between her thighs. Joanna gasped and grabbed the sheets as his tongue found her, deliberate and thorough, taking his time, reading every response. She bit her lip, then stopped bothering, letting the sounds come freely because there was no one to hear them except the pines and the water.

When she shattered, he held her through it, murmuring her name.

Then he was above her, and inside her, and the world narrowed to the place where they connected. He moved slowly at first, then deeper, harder, driven by the way she wrapped around him and pulled him closer. Joanna met him thrust for thrust, nails raking his back, legs locked around his hips. The headboard knocked against the wall. Neither of them cared.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, sweat cooling, hearts pounding. Joseph traced lazy circles on her shoulder. Joanna listened to his breathing slow.

"Stay the weekend," he said.

She smiled against his chest. "Was that a question?"

"It was a strongly worded request."

The weekend was perfect. They swam naked in the lake at midnight, cooked breakfast in his shirts, fooled around in the shower until the hot water gave out. Joanna kept reaching for her phone out of habit and finding she didn't care about anything on it.

Sunday morning, she was in the kitchen making coffee when her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at it automatically—a text notification lighting up the screen.

**Kyle:** *Had fun last night. When can I see you again? 😘*

Joseph walked in behind her, reached for a mug, and froze. His eyes locked on the screen.

The silence lasted exactly three seconds.

"Kyle?" he said, voice flat.

Joanna grabbed the phone, face flushing. "My brother. Kyle is my brother. He came over to help me move furniture last night. That's—it's not—"

Joseph stared at her.

"His name is Kyle, he's twenty-six, he lives in Sacramento, and he uses that emoji with everyone. Ask my mother."

Joseph's jaw worked. Then, slowly, his mouth twitched.

"You should probably call him back," he said. "Let him know you're busy."

Joanna raised an eyebrow. "Busy doing what?"

He took the coffee from her hand, set it down, and pulled her toward the bedroom.

"I'll show you."