Page 145 of Scouting the Single Dad

My intention was to say goodbye. That was the plan. The adult thing to do. Walk up here, thank him for introducing me to Benny, for treating me in Arizona, for making me feel special and desired, for what we almost had.

Then I was going to go home to Grady and trick myself into believing I did the right thing.

Except somewhere between the driver’s seat and the fourth floor, my resolve cracked. Between my apartment and the stern lecture from Faith about following my heart and the reminder to myself that I’ve known both men the same amount of time . . . something inside me shifted.

I don’t want to say goodbye.

Not to him.

The door swings open and there he is, standing in bare feet, gray sweatpants, white T-shirt. His hair is mussed from restless hands, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are cautious and hungry all at once.

I swallow hard. “Hi.”

He doesn’t make me explain myself in the hallway. He steps back, leaves the door in an open invitation, lets me cross the threshold on my own accord.

We stare at each other in that awkward, breathless way of people who have already done the hard things—kissed, said too much, said not enough—and still don’t know what to do with themselves.

It’s awkward in an emotional way.

“I . . .” He speaks first, pausing. “Can’t fucking believe you came.”

“I did.” I nod. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

Hayes waits to see if there’s more to my sentence, and when there isn’t, he repeats himself. “I seriously cannot believe you’re here.”

Yeah. Suddenly I feel . . .

Brave.

Is that weird? A woman with convictions who’s able to make hard choices for herself, knowing they’re going to hurt others.

“Are you here to say goodbye? Is that what this is?” He continues to watch me before moving to the window and sliding open the patio door to let in fresh, mountain air.

“No, I’m not here to say goodbye. I’m here because . . .”

Patiently, he waits, brows rising in expectation for me to spit the words out.

“I choose you. I choose . . . Benny.”

He drags a palm over his face, a rough laugh escaping like it surprised him on the way out. “This is wild,” he tells me. “I was freaking the fuck out.”

We’re still too afraid to touch one another; the hesitation is palpable in the room, but I move closer to where he’s standing to close the gap.

“Trust me, I was freaking out too.”

“Okay.” His fingers flex against his thigh like they’re aching for something to do. “Can I—?”

Touch me. Kiss me. Wrap your arms around me?

“Yes.” I close the last inch.

His palm lands warm at my jaw, cautious as a first step on cracking ice. The world tilts; the mountain air slides past us, cool against my neck. He studies me up close, voice rough. “You’re shaking.”

“So are you,” I whisper.

We stand like that, just touching faces, breathing each other in, until the danger of bolting evaporates. He lets his thumb trace beneath my eye, reverent. “’Cause I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“We won’t.” I smile, feeling more in control than I did before I met him. “We make a plan before we make out.”