Page 137 of Scouting the Single Dad

She looks between us, scrambling for neutral ground that doesn’t exist. “Grady—this is Hayes.”

Well. This just got real fucking awkward.

“Hayes.” He already has his hand out for a shake, his other one not moving from her waist. The shake is solid, no malice in it. He looks like the kind of guy who can fix a cabinet hinge before breakfast, climb a mountain at noon, then cook a three-course meal on the summit without breaking a sweat. “Good to meet you.”

“Yeah.” My voice is rougher than I want. I’m trying not to be a jealous prick—swear to God I am—but the effort scrapes at my throat.

This is so fucking far from how I pictured this going.

His gaze drops, casual but cutting, to the two cups in my hand. To her name written on the lid. To the thin thread of latte drying across my knuckles. And in that quick flicker, he understands; he knows exactly what I flew hundreds of miles to do.

“I’ll grab you some napkins,” Grady says easily, strolling toward the counter. He leaves her with me, like he’s testing the situation.

The silence that falls is brutal.

“You came to talk?” she asks finally, voice quiet. “Is that what this is?”

I nod robotically, glancing over her shoulder at the guy she’s now seeing. “I had no idea you were seeing someone seriously.” A beat. “I wanted you to know I . . .”

I can’t finish my sentence.

Seriously, what would be the point? She’s got a mountain man of a boyfriend now. What does she want with a single father who doesn’t even live in the same zip code?

Her mouth purses, the kind of expression that cuts deeper than raised voices ever could. “You haven’t called.”

“I know.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“I know,” I repeat, the cups hot against my fingers. “I’m sorry.” I step back, tossing them into a nearby trash bin, unable to stomach the thought of bringing one of them to my lips. “You’re right—I shouldn’t have come.”

It feels like I just threw away the last chance I had.

Her brow pinches beneath the brim of her red hat. “I didn’t say you shouldn’t have come. I’m just . . .” She exhales. “I’m confused, Hayes.”

My fault.

Totally my fault.

Guilt is a luxury I can’t afford. I’m built for snap decisions and clean cuts—first and ten, first down, if something’s not right for Benny, I change the plan. No second-guessing. In my world, hesitation gets you benched or, worse, hurt.

But guilt is what I feel in this moment. Not guilty for wanting Layla. I’m guilty for how I didn’t tell her. For modeling the exact kind of behavior I don’t want Benny to think is love.

“I understand,” I say, swallowing my pride.

Digging the hotel key card from my pocket, I thumb the raised letters and hold it toward her. “I’m at the lodge, room 402. If you want to talk, I’ll be there tonight. If you don’t . . .” My chest tightens. “I’m glad I got to see you.”

She stares down at it. Remains still.

That’s when Grady returns. The bastard brings a brown paper bag that’s obviously baked goods, holding it between us like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He breaks the silence with his irritatingly deep drawl.

Who is This Fucking Guy?

“Blueberry muffin,” he tells us. “They were out of chocolate.”

“Tragedy,” I say sarcastically, stuffing the room key back into my pocket. I back up a step, having worn out my welcome, then another, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “All right, well. Take care.”