Page 29 of Scouting the Single Dad

“I don’t even know her.”

Benny smirks. “Doesn’t mean you don’t like her.”

I lean back in my chair, scanning the restaurant just in time to catch Layla coming back from the restroom. And damn it all—she’s different now. She’s more put together, glowing under the soft light; a new braid drapes over her shoulder, flirty and sweet.

I lower my eyes to the front of her sweater. It’s cream colored, simple, and makes her skin look warm—and outlines the shape of her breasts.

Do not stare at her tits . . .

Layla is cuter than she has any right to be, which makes this circus with my daughter a whole lot worse.

A grumble leaves my chest. “Do me a favor, Benny. For the next sixty minutes, eat your food and please try to have manners.”

She gasps dramatically, clutching at her chest like I’ve wounded her. “You want me to sit here in silence?”

“Do your best.”

My child has the audacity to snort. “Dad—do you know how much torture silence would be?”

“Be polite and behave. You can sit through dinner in silence.”

“Dinner with your future wife,” she mutters under her breath, shoving more bread into her mouth as if it’s the only meal she’s had today.

I gawk at her. “What did you just say?”

Her smile is all teeth. “Nothing.”

My jaw works as I gape at her, but before I can lay into the little menace, Layla is sliding back into her chair with the kind of calm that makes me wonder if she overheard any of our argument. She smooths her napkin across her lap, eyes flickering between the two of us. “Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” I bite out.

Benny beams, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk with a face full of acorns. “Dad was just telling me to sit in silence for the rest of dinner.”

I gape at her in horror. “That is not what I said.”

All she does is shrug.

Layla bites the inside of her cheek, clearly fighting a smile. “You know,” she says gently, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Conversation is usually encouraged at supper clubs.”

Benny peacocks triumphantly at her ally. “See? She wants me to talk.”

I open my mouth to protest, but snap it shut. I am powerless against her devious ways.

“Ignore him,” my daughter informs our guest. “He’s always crabby when he’s hungry.”

I feel my jaw tic. “I am not crabby.”

My eyes snap to Layla, and sure enough, she’s covering her mouth with her napkin, shoulders shaking.

“Sorry,” she says between muffled laughs. “I shouldn’t be laughing.”

Benny lights up, delighted. “Yes, you should. He’s hilarious when he’s mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I bark, which only makes them giggle harder.

Now they’re feeding off each other as I sit, scowling into my menu, barely registering any of the items. Steak, steak, where is the goddamn steak listed?

“This is not funny,” I grind out.