Page 150 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Yeah, kiddo.” My throat is tight. “She’s the surprise.”

Layla crosses the threshold and folds Benny into a hug—tight enough to say I missed you, not so tight a nine-year-old has to pretend she hates it.

“I was hoping you’d help me figure out where to put my toothbrush,” she says into Benny’s hair, kissing the top of her head. “Because I’m staying. If you’re okay with that.”

Honestly? We were really fucking nervous to tell Benny. Not because we thought she’d hate it—my kid is nine going on diplomatically thirty—but because news like this comes wrapped in a thousand what-ifs. Caution.

Never having done this before, I’ve second-guessed myself and our decision almost daily since Layla boarded her plane, worried I was going to fuck my kid up if things with us didn’t work out.

I never worry about myself; I worry constantly about her.

“Okay with that?” Benny’s head snaps between us so fast I’m worried about her neck. “Like, staying staying?”

“For football season,” I say. “She moved all her stuff into storage and she’ll . . . visit Washington sometimes, but will be mostly here. With us.”

“I think my brain is going to explode,” Benny says. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.” I reach out and tug the end of her ponytail. “Tonight we’re having dinner with Nana and Grandpa so they can meet Layla—and tomorrow she’s taking you to the game.”

Benny fist pumps. “This is so cool!”

I pull them both into my body and wrap them into a hug just as the doorbell rings.

Benny jolts out of the hug. “That’s Madison! I forgot about gymnastics!”

Shit, that’s right. I forgot today’s the day she gets launched into the foam pit for two straight hours.

Timing: perfect.

“Go, go, go,” I clap, and the house turns into a tiny relay. We hit our marks like a seasoned crew: Benny sprints upstairs for her leotard; I grab the duffel from the hall closet. Water bottle, hair tie, outfit for afterward.

Snack. Backup snack. Emergency backup snack. Kisses, a flurry of see-you-laters, and she’s out the door. We watch from the window as she does a shimmy down the walkway, then launches herself into the minivan. Skylar gives us a thumbs-up and pulls away.

Ahhh, alone at last.

I turn to Layla, giving her a once-over, determined to get her naked. “Have I ever given you an in-depth tour of your new bedroom, Ms. Monroe?”

Layla blushes. “Why, no, sir, you haven’t.”

“Now seems ideal.”

She’ll soon learn we have to sneak moments when we can. Living with kids is like living with someone out to ruin your privacy. I can barely take a shit alone; Benny kicks the door open to report on lost hair ties like it’s breaking news.

Layla steps closer, hands sliding up my chest, teasing my collar of my shirt. “Is this one of those tours with a gift shop at the end?”

“Better.” I hook a finger in the hem of her T-shirt. “Comes with complimentary hands-on demonstrations.”

She laughs. I steal the sound with my mouth, kissing her slow for one heartbeat and then deeper, not nearly as polite. She melts into me, and I’m tempted to haul her up and carry her.

“Upstairs,” I murmur against her lips. “We have two hours.”

She stumbles, giggling when her hip bumps the banister, quick, clumsy, unwilling to waste a second. Halfway up, she fists my shirt again and I press her into the wall at the landing, mouth on her throat, hands braced on either side of her head.

Pulse, sweet and frantic, beats against my lips. She rolls her hips into mine, and there goes my plan for a gentle tour . . .

“Show me my new room,” she whispers, dragging her mouth along my jaw, sucking a mark that will have me mocked in the locker room by my teammates tomorrow afternoon.

“You’ll get the premium package.” I press my erection into her joggers, hard as a rock. “All inclusive.”