Page 54 of Scouting the Single Dad

Layla cuts me a sideways glance, amusement and heat braided together. “Think we can take her?”

“Not a chance,” I say. “But you can bet your sweet ass she’ll crash early tonight.”

Layla and I share a look that’s more conspiracy than strategy and push off together. We don’t have a plan, unless “try not to drown while we’re distracted by each other” counts as one.

Benny fakes left, squeals right, and I go for the tag—miss by inches. Layla darts in, quick and sure, cornering Benny against the cove. For a second I forget to be impressed with the defense because Layla’s laugh flashes out, bright and surprised, and the sound hooks me like a hand in my shirt.

“Got her!” Layla crows.

“Traitor!” Benny wiggles free and dives under the unicorn. She pops up behind us, triumphant. “You two are terrible at this.”

“Disagree,” I say, eyes on Layla. “I think we’re excellent.”

Heat sparks in her eyes. She wipes water from her mouth with the back of her hand, then flicks a drop at my chest. “Focus. And take off that damn shirt.”

I hook a brow at her, then at Benny, then peel the soaked T-shirt over my head. It hits the surface with a wet slap. Layla’s heated gaze drags over me—quick, but not quick enough—and my pulse answers like a show-off.

“Better?” I ask.

“Yup.”

Benny jukes and sprays us both, and the game devolves into splash warfare. Layla feints, slips behind me, and plants her palms on my shoulders to use me as a shield.

The touch is small.

My reaction is not.

Benny launches a tidal wave at our faces, cackles, then abruptly announces, “Okay, I’m done,” in the same way she declares she’s tired and ready for bed.

She grabs on to the unicorn, tows it to the steps, and climbs out, water streaming off her tiny body. Her feet slap across the warm stone patio, and we watch as she takes a towel, dries off, and disappears into the house without so much as a farewell.

The pool is quiet.

We drift aimlessly. Ease toward the deeper end—and toward each other—inch by inch so we can talk without raising our voices. Layla wafts over, one hand holding her steady, clinging to the edge, while I stand, tall enough that my head and shoulders are above water.

She bobs.

My eyes wander . . .

Do not look at her boobs, do not look at her boobs, do not lo—

I look at her boobs.

There are droplets of water gathered at the hollow of her collarbone that refuse to fall.

I consider volunteering to lick them off.

“Sorry about telling you to take your shirt off before,” she says, smile tilting. “That was very bossy of me.”

Go ahead and boss me around as much as you like . . .

I watch as the drops at her collarbone finally give up and slide down her cleavage, and I track them like an idiot, openly appreciating her tits now as if I’ve never seen a pair before a day in my life.

Plus, her mouth is right here—close enough that if I breathe too loud, she’d feel it on her skin.

Don’t do it . . .

Don’t.