Page 127 of Scouting the Single Dad

I gaze at my surroundings, at the beautiful, polished wood and designer rustic furniture and the decorations that look like they could be in a showroom.

“The sex was good, but otherwise we had very little in common.” He takes a drink of wine. “We met through friends, and dating in the city is easy because it’s dinners and parties and . . .” He shrugs. “It wasn’t reality.”

Wasn’t reality.

I raise a glass. “Cheers to that.”

He catches me smiling above the brim of my wineglass as I, too, take a sip. “What?”

“This is nice,” I say, embarrassed by how earnest it sounds.

“It is,” he agrees, like he doesn’t need to qualify it. Then: “You want more?”

I do.

We continue eating, forkfuls stolen from each other’s plates even though our plates are the same, fire in the next room crackling, and the music changes to something older, slower.

“Okay,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “My turn to be honest: I’m a tiny bit tipsy.”

“Same.” I hold my fingers a fraction apart. “Like this much.”

“Have you ever danced in a kitchen?” he asks, almost shyly.

“I have never. But I’m willing to dance in yours, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He stands, pushes back his stool, and offers his hand like it’s not a big deal. Maybe it isn’t to him, but it is to me. So I slide off my stool and slide my palm into his.

So different from Hayes in a more rugged, mountain-man kind of way. Grady’s smile has me smiling back. His hands bracket my waist and tug me in—my fingers climbing his shoulders, the flannel soft under my touch, the man underneath decidedly not. He smells like soap and bourbon and cinnamon from the dessert we haven’t started yet . . .

He’s so close.

“You’re good at this,” I say, pretending my pulse isn’t in my mouth.

“At dancing?”

“Mm-hmm. I don’t do this enough.”

He hums low in his chest. “I don’t remember even dancing at weddings.”

The space between us shrinks a tad. I press closer. He presses closer. My knuckles brush the hair at his neck, and a shiver trips down his spine like I’ve found a switch. He feels me feel it; his hands tighten around my waist. An inevitable pull . . .

The song ends. Another begins.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Can I—” He gestures, the tiniest flicker toward my face. “If it’s okay.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, pulse in my mouth. Please do.

I want to see what it feels like kissing someone else.

Take away the memories of him.

Grady kisses me—gentle first, like he’s testing a lake with his toes. His mouth is warm and patient and then not patient at all, the kind of kiss that learns you quick and then decides to graduate early.

Damn.

I open for him on a startled sound I don’t mean to make, and the kiss deepens—lazy turns hungry, sweet turns sinfully curious. Grady tilts his head, and I swear I feel it in my spine. My hands end up in his shirt, fingers curling in flannel, tugging him closer because why the hell not?

Hayes is nowhere to be seen, Is He?