Page 125 of Scouting the Single Dad

Sort of but not really.

Ahh. Of course.

Jealousy is a quick, mean heat, the kind that makes you want to do the dumb thing. I breathe through it until it cools into something bearable.

Me:

Nice. Hope it’s fun.

I hit Send before I can dress it up with anything else—like a joke or a tease or words that show what I’m actually feeling.

Layla:

Thank you. I’ll let you know how it goes.

I want to say, Don’t. I also want to tell her not to go. Stay home, wait for me. I want to say I’m the one who makes you weak in the knees and knows how to make you come by using my fingers.

Me:

Be safe.

I hit Send and stare at the microwave door until my reflection looks like a stranger, unable to face myself in an actual mirror, barely registering when she responds with a Thanks.

Be safe?

I am a fraud.

I want everything. I want impossible: proximity, ordinary mornings, her mouth, her laugh in my kitchen, someone to tell me to throw out the damn rotisserie chicken. Who crawls into bed with me at the end of a long day and lays their head on my chest, or climbs into the shower with me. Someone I can fuck before we sleep, who smacks my ass in the kitchen once breakfast is served.

Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

Chapter 32

Layla

Grady’s house is cute.

Cottagey. Exactly the type of place I envisioned him in: the kind of place where you sit around in plaid flannel and add logs to the fire, that has log timbers on the inside and out.

My stomach flips for three different reasons: dating-a-new-guy nerves, the fact that I’m at his house and we’re totally alone, and Hayes’s random text that has thrown me a curveball.

“It doesn’t mean anything, Layla,” I tell myself, sliding my cell into the back pocket of my jeans as I stand on Grady’s porch and knock on his door. “If he gave a shit, it wouldn’t be days between messages.”

Hmph.

And that’s that.

The door opens, and I was right; he’s wearing a plaid flannel, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His smile is easy as he stands there looking down at me as if he hasn’t spent the entire afternoon overthinking this invitation the same way I have.

“Hey,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “You made it.”

“I did. Didn’t take me long either.”

“Good. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.”

I brush past him and enter, gazing around. Hardwood floors. Leather couch. Tweed accent chairs. Vintage kitschy knickknacks. Honestly, I’m shocked by how preppy it is, straight out of a Ralph Lauren catalog, as if it was decorated by a professional.