Page 136 of Scouting the Single Dad

—and plow into a small body.

Both cups seesaw. I twist, catching them before they swan dive, a hot ribbon of latte licking over my knuckles, spilling to the floor.

“Sorry—” I start, automatically.

“Hayes?” a shocked voice asks.

Layla.

My eyes drink her in, and my first instinct is to take her in my arms and hug her to my body, but her face is registering such stunned astonishment—and not the good kind—that I resist temptation.

She’s beautiful. Red wool coat, red cap with a flirty, fur pom-pom, hair slipping free in glossy waves. Wind-kissed cheeks. Lips the soft pink I’ve missed having my mouth on.

“W-what are you doing here?”

“I . . .” Feel like a fucking asshole. “Came to see you.”

Her eyes flick from the cups in my hands. “You came to see me?”

I swallow. The lines I practiced on my way here feel idiotic now, jangling around in my head like loose change, but now would be the perfect time to answer her rather than standing here with my dick in my hand.

“Of course I came to see you. What else would I come to Star Lake for?”

Her lips part. “I . . . but . . . why?”

“Because I missed you,” I say, too honest, too fast. “Because I should’ve kissed you longer before I left.”

Her mouth parts; confusion and something warmer chase across her face. “You flew here to say hi?”

Yes.

No.

“No.” I shake my head.

Her lips part.

“Can we go to dinner? I’d love to discuss all the things we should have discussed before you left Arizona.”

She doesn’t move. Just blinks like her brain’s malfunctioning and does not compute my presence, or my words.

“I know it’s unfair to show up unannounced, and trust me, my coach is pissed,” I add, gentler. “So if tonight doesn’t work, then we can do it tomorrow. Or the next day.”

“Hayes . . .” My name is a catch on her breath. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“I miss you, Layla.” I whisper. “If we could—”

The bell behind her tings. A voice behind me cuts clean through the moment.

“Hey, you.”

I watch in slow motion as a large masculine dude puts his arm around her waist.

Tall. Beard. Flannel. The kind of guy on Pacific Northwest postcards. The fingers of his hand brushing the sleeve of her red coat, and the tiny, reflexive way she leans toward him knock the air out of my lungs.

Layla goes still. Eyes wide.

My face is a polite mask; my ribs are a breaking board.