Page 120 of Scouting the Single Dad

Meeting Grady, who moved here two weeks ago from Seattle and has barely unpacked his crap. He works for an outdoor company but remotely, and has wanted to move out of the city for years.

He will be a unicorn in this town when the single women discover him.

Fresh meat. New blood, ha ha.

“Cute boots because obviously it’s raining. And a black turtleneck tucked into jeans.” It’s definitely more chunky-sweater weather, but I did not wear one because I didn’t want this to feel like two pals having coffee. I want to be in the first-date frame of mind . . .

The sign for the café swings in the breeze, and I manage to find a spot out front, easing into it with the ease of someone who enjoys parallel parking. Flipping down the sunshade, I check my lip gloss in the mirror. “I told him I had a half hour.”

Butterflies churn in my stomach.

Hayes’s handsome face flashes in my brain.

“You can do more than thirty minutes,” Faith chastises me. “If it’s great, make it sixty. If it’s weird, fake a headache and text me immediately.”

We go over this drill every time she has a date. She, who is more outgoing and adventurous than I am.

“I’ll text you regardless,” I promise before I end the call, not sure my heart is in this date, but you know what they say: The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

I repeat that to myself three more times as I pull open the door and step inside Loon Landing, the smell of coffee and hot chocolate assailing my senses, my eyes scanning the place.

A man is seated at a table near the window; he stands as I approach, which earns him several points from the governing board in my head. Flannel, yes. Forearms, yes. In person he has kind eyes, a crooked front tooth—and he’s holding a small bunch of flowers.

The knots in my stomach tighten.

One point for Grady . . .

“Layla?” he asks.

“Yes. Hi!” Oh jeez, my voice is way too high pitched. I was calmer and more comfortable with Hayes when he and I first met, but then again, he was more or less rescuing me. I didn’t have time to be nervous when pumpkins and hay were being blown all over the hotel parking lot.

“Nice to finally meet you,” he says, and the way he holds out the flowers makes my chest go tight. Not roses, not a store bouquet. Just sunflowers and greenery, wrapped in paper from the farmers’ market.

We’re off to a good start.

“Wow, thank you.” I take them, and let myself sneak a peek at him while I lift the flowers to my nose. “This is thoughtful of you.”

Grady is better looking in person than he is online; he is no doubt going to be a hot commodity in Star Lake if he and I don’t have chemistry.

I watch him go to the counter to order our drinks: broad shoulders, easy stride, nice ass. Coach myself to breathe, be present, and for the love of God, stop grading him against a man who lives in another time zone!

When he’s seated across from me, Grady smiles. “So. Come here often?”

I smile back. “Actually, I do—almost every morning. So your odds of seeing me regularly are high, unless you don’t plan on coming into town.”

“Do you live in town?”

I nod. “I do. What about you?”

“Bought a cottage about eight miles away? Closer to the sandbar by Dunham’s Landing.” Dunham’s Landing is the marina where most of the tourists rent Jet Skis and boats, and is situated halfway around the lake toward the other side. He laughs. “Listen to me, trying to sound like a local.”

“You’re getting the hang of it.”

“I’ve already established that the food truck by the marina—the smash burgers—are my new favorite thing.”

“Wally’s.” I nod, very familiar. “Those can be dangerous.”

We settle in. The café hums—milk steaming, spoons knocking. His attention stays on me, not the room, not his phone. The easy back-and-forth calms my nerves, and I realize I like this version of me. She’s the type of girl who enjoys having a bouquet of sunflowers on her table for no reason.