Page 33 of Scouting the Single Dad

No secrets.

“We’ll sit in silence,” I promise, crossing my heart and holding my hand up, Scout’s honor. “You won’t miss out on anything.”

Her FOMO is real. With a nod, Benny saunters off, head held high, braids swinging, giving us one cursory backward glance.

I wiggle my fingers at her. Lift my fork and resume eating, not sure where to rest my eyes. An uncomfortable silence settles between Hayes and me before he clears his throat, reaches for his beer, stops halfway to his mouth. Sets the glass back down.

“We don’t have to”—he gestures between us—“talk or whatever.”

“That’s one of my best skills. Not talking,” I lie, because talking is what I do best and why I’m in this mess in the first place.

I’m chatty.

Personable.

Charismatic.

It’s been a blessing and a curse my entire life! And there is a hulking, broad-shouldered pothole across from me named Hayes Fielder, and I am determined not to drive my personality directly into him at eighty miles an hour by filling the space with babble!

Life is hard.

The corners of his gorgeous lips twitch at my announcement at the same time our server glides past with an empty tray; Hayes lifts two fingers without looking away from me. “Excuse me—hi, sorry. The kiddie cocktail for my daughter? Can you make sure it’s heavy on cherries?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Fielder.” The server bobs his head enthusiastically in the presence of a celebrity. “Extra cherries. Got it.”

“She’ll check,” he murmurs to me once the server goes, voice softer, meant just for the two of us. “They’re her favorite part of the cocktail.”

I don’t blame her. I love a delicious cherry too!

“I get that impression,” I say, trying not to melt at the affection tucked inside his gruff tone. “Is there a number that satisfies her? Like, what’s her cherry quota?”

“Three is a score.” He spears a neat square of steak he’s cut with his knife, pausing before lifting it. “More than that would make her face melt off.”

Hayes pops the meat into his mouth. Chews. Swallows.

“Benny is blunt,” he begins by way of apology. “It’s always just been me, and her two grandmas as female influences. She doesn’t mean any harm.”

“I like blunt,” I tell him with a sip of my water. “Saves time. Cuts down on bullshit.”

He sets the steak knife parallel to his fork and looks at me—really looks at me good and hard. Drawing a mental blueprint. Scanning my face, eyes. Mouth. Assessing me in a way that has my spine straightening under the weight of it; I let it.

Meet his eyes like I actually have courage.

As if I am used to dealing with men like him.

Slowly, Hayes nods. “I bring her everywhere because I don’t like leaving her. People say I’m overprotective. Maybe I am.” His gaze drops to his plate as he says, “But she knows where I am. And I know where she is. That’s all that matters.”

The honesty nudges something soft in my chest. “‘Overprotective’ reads as ‘caring’ from where I’m sitting.”

He tilts his head, like he wants to believe me but has learned to audit compliments. “Her mom’s not around. So if I screw this up, there isn’t a net.”

“Oh.” I rest my fork, the room fuzzing at the edges for half a second. “That’s a lot to carry.” I want him to tell me so badly where Benny’s mom is and what the story is behind her absence.

“It is what it is.” He shrugs. “Her, uh. Mom died giving birth to her.”

Oh . . . My mouth opens. I press a hand to my heart.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, soft enough that it barely makes it across the table. “I didn’t know.”