Page 123 of Scouting the Single Dad

Grady feels easy.

Solid.

Present.

A man who offers plans instead of uncertainty. A man who didn’t kiss me and make the ground feel unstable.

Which is safe. Which is exactly what I need.

Chapter 31

Hayes

I drop the bag by the mudroom hooks and open the fridge like it’s going to fix my life.

Bottled water. Half a rotisserie chicken. A slice of cheesecake Benny left three bites of and didn’t finish because it felt weird.

A sticky note in her handwriting: Dont Eat My Pudding Dad I Licked It. There are three pudding cups lined up on the left side of the bottom shelf—she definitely did not lick them.

I twist the cap off a bottle, drink, lean my hip against the counter. Read the note again until the corners of my lips curve into a reluctant smile. Humor sneaks in even when it shouldn’t. That’s the thing about Benny—she leaves little reminders of herself all over the place.

But me? I’m empty.

Tired—so fucking tired. Muscles dragging, head full of static, chest tight like I’m carrying something I can’t set down.

And you know what I wish I could do? Forget about Layla.

My body doesn’t listen. It still sees her in my dreams.

Still hears her laugh. Still remembers the sharp little gasp when my nose teased her neck, remembers the way she opened for me when I went down on her, the taste of her pussy, the sound she made when I made her come.

It’s everywhere. In my blood, my lungs, my skin. Memory like a runner’s stitch—and I haven’t changed the sheets on my bed for a reason, wanting to smell her.

“Stop.” The word scrapes my throat as I scrub a hand over my jaw, like I can physically erase her. “You’re done.”

Except I’m not.

Because the second I let go, my brain whispers, Text her. Just a quick hey.

“Terrible idea.”

She deserves better than me popping in like a ghost when it suits me.

So I do the only thing I can: I lace up my sneakers and head back out. Streetlights blur past as I run, pounding pavement like I can outrun what I left behind.

I try to outrun it. Pump harder. Push until my lungs burn and the air rasps in and out like sandpaper. Streetlights blur past. Houses with warm squares of yellow in the windows, families inside, laughter muffled by walls I’ll never walk through.

My own feet echo too loud in my ears. Heart in my throat, sweat in my eyes, and still—still she keeps pace.

Layla.

The shadow I can’t outrun . . .

By the time I loop back to the house, my shirt clings damp to my back. My body aches, but not in the way I was hoping for. This kind of pain doesn’t numb anything. It sharpens it.

I bend forward, palms braced on my thighs, and spit onto the pavement. My chest heaves from the pace.

I didn’t lose her. I drove her to the damn airport.