Page 131 of Scouting the Single Dad

On the plane later, I take the window and lean my forehead to the glass. The wheels lift. The city shrinks. Phoenix slides under us, desert to mountains that turn into clouds.

I let myself admit things out loud that I’ve never admitted in private—to myself, and to the woman asleep next to me with her mouth hanging open.

A snore escapes.

“I can’t live without you,” I tell the glass, voice low enough to disappear into the engine hum. Saying it out loud doesn’t fix anything; it just snaps every piece of me into alignment.

The ache under my ribs shifts—same pressure, new purpose.

I pull out my phone. A text thread with her name stares back, the last message unbearably polite. She never texted me to tell me how her date was.

Her date.

Ha! I snort, irritated.

Some dude from Star Lake? Someone from the town an hour away? Who the hell could she possibly have gone out with?

Jealousy prickles at me again, a feeling I’m growing accustomed to—then I snuff it out: I left town, I let her leave Arizona without a commitment. Never made future plans. I made it easy for her to stop messaging me. She doesn’t owe me updates or assurances or delicate handling.

She owes me nothing.

Want is not a contract.

I also don’t want to interrogate her about a date she went on. I want to give her reasons I’m the only one worth having a hundred more with.

Be the man who shows up from hundreds of miles away.

The pilot announces our descent. My stomach churns nervously, unsure about what I’m walking in to.

She’ll be happy to see me. I know she will.

Layla is crazy about me.

Whoever her date was, he can keep the memory of buying her fucking dinner.

I’m here for the future.

Chapter 34

Layla

A storm stalls over the ridge and turns the cabin into the coziest place to be—quiet, toasty, and dare I say . . .

Sexy?

Grady throws another log into the fireplace to warm my frozen nubs, orange light licking across his forearms. He goes to the kitchen and returns with two mugs filled to the brim with ooey, gooey marshmallows and chunks of chocolate. My mouth waters.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he says.

We sink onto the couch. The wind whips against the windows, rattling the panes. Our original plan was to go hiking, but an hour into the woods, dark clouds in the distance grumbled—and the cold front turned my warm fingers into little icicles.

I try to wiggle my toes. Shiver.

Grady tips his chin at my feet, slurping from his mug. “How cold are you right now?”

“Frostbite adjacent.” I smile. “Is that a thing?”

“That’s a medical emergency.” He sets his mug down, pats his thigh. “Feet. Here.”