Page 122 of Scouting the Single Dad

Grady nods. “For sure. What about you?”

Definitely, especially now that I know how fun they are as they get older.

“Two would be neat,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush, eyes straying to his broad chest. His arms. His big, strong hands . . .

Okay. Now I’m doing my best to have dirty thoughts, and all the things he could do with those.

I Am Moving on With My Life!

“Two.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then slides lazily down before meeting my eyes again. “I could get behind that.”

The way he says the words has me squirming in my chair, thighs pressing together under the table. Not because of the kid talk, but because of how my brain wants to spin from the conversation to comparing him to Hayes.

You’re doing great, Layla. This is good.

Faith and Margo are going to be so thrilled you put yourself out there, and the date is going great.

My phone buzzes again, vibrating on the table.

Grady tips his chin at my purse. “You can grab that.”

“I’m good.” I press on the side button to quiet it. “Tell me more about your very impressive résumé: outdoorsy company? Which one? The North Face? REI? Do tell.”

He shakes his head. “How about I tell you more about what a good cook I am. And by ‘cook,’ I mean chef. I meant what I said about carbonara. Can I make you pasta?”

My pulse skips a beat or five. “Like—at some point?”

“Like tonight.” His smile is careful, the kind that says he’ll survive a no but would really like a yes. “If you’re free.”

I am free.

But . . . isn’t it too soon to see him again?

Is this too impulsive? He’s a stranger.

“What if you’re a murderer? All the best serial killers were good looking and handsome, aren’t they?”

“Good looking and handsome?” His grin goes full toothpaste commercial. “Is that two compliments or the same one twice?” His toothy grin has me blushing. “For the record, my knife skills are only deadly in the kitchen.”

“Mm. That’s exactly what a murderer would say.”

“True.” He tips his head. “Or we can push to another night. Or do a walk in public somewhere well lit with many witnesses who could testify against me.”

“Sure.” I feel my head moving up and down. “Yes. Tonight works.”

His shoulders ease. Mine do not. Because I glance at his hands—those capable, competent, “can do so many things with them” hands—and my thoughts go sprinting toward the wrong set of fingerprints.

Relax, girl. They’re just hands.

Besides, there is no way his feel as good as Hayes’s did sliding across your bare skin. And that thing he did with his mouth? Um . . . zero contest.

Stop Thinking About Hayes Fielder!

He is gone, and he’s not coming back to Star Lake. I release what no longer serves me, even if what no longer serves me had a chiseled jawline and soft lips and knew exactly where to put them.

“Six?” he asks, pulling me out of my spiral with a hopeful lift to his eyebrows. “Not too early, not too late. I’ll have wine or hot chocolate.”

“Both sound delicious.”