Daddy Sized

Wherever I am, I'm the biggest guy in the room. People don't just gawk when they see me. They keep their distance, which is fine by me. Why do you think I bought a fixer-upper in the country? I don't mind the manual labor, just like I don't mind the solitude. I've got my own business and projects, and no room for anything—or anyone—else. That is, until an angel shows up on my doorstep, clutching a month-old advert touting a room for rent in my house.

Some guys take the easy way out. Not me. I work hard and I work out even harder. My sister would like to see me settled down with a family, but running a successful gym while building a fitness empire takes time, sweat, and discipline—three things I can't afford to spare even for a chance at happy ever after. Then the new yoga instructor struts into my gym looking like the ultimate cheat day.

Healing takes time. Whether it's a broken bone or a laceration, patience is potent medicine. The same goes for relationships. I moved back to town hoping to patch things up with my son. Imagine my surprise when I meet his gorgeous best friend on the exam table at my OB/GYN office, hell-bent on ditching her V-card as quickly as possible. That's not going to happen.

I never claimed to be a saint. But it wasn't until I found myself in cuffs that I learned the damage I was capable of. The only sunshine on those gray prison days came in the form of letters from a hopeful teenager with a quick wit. But the letters weren't addressed to me. They were meant for my bastard cellmate, who'd sooner toss them on the floor with the rest of his trash. So, I picked them up, read them, and wrote back, signing each letter, Love, Dad.