Page 55 of Scouting the Single Dad

Don—

A light flips on inside before I can move an inch forward. Benny’s small silhouette crosses the kitchen, and from the pool, I see her rifling through the pantry fridge, then climbing onto the counter stool and dipping a chip into the salsa. She’s in her jammies.

I affix my gaze back on Layla.

“Thanks for flying me here,” she finally says. “It’ll be a nice getaway from all the . . .” Her hand lifts above the water and gets waved around. “Chaos.”

“You deserve a breather.”

“And a pool,” she adds, lips quirking, meeting my gaze straight on. “It was very kind of you.”

“Kind,” I repeat. “Not a single person has used that word to describe me a day in my fucking life.”

Her smile is punctuated by a small laugh. “I think there’s more to you than you’re willing to admit.”

Oh, I admit plenty.

I admit fame and money don’t touch the parts of me that ache. I admit I’m bored in a life people would auction their souls to live. I admit the quiet is the worst—because that’s when the guilt crawls in and reminds me my daughter brushes her teeth, packs her backpack, and loses baby teeth without a mother to cheer for her.

I shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

“Welcome to the club.” Her smile is tender now. “The trick is to keep doing it anyway.”

I grunt in reply.

“You’re not as mean as you pretend to be.”

“Mean?”

Layla nods. “Yes. You stomp around grumbling and scowling, but you’re a big softie, aren’t you?”

My head shakes. “No.”

Her laugh is low. Amused. “Grumpy marshmallow.” Her eyes are dancing. “Lightly toasted.”

“Absolutely not.”

She hums. “Soft center. Crispy edge. Very bitable.”

“Muscle isn’t soft.”

“Right, but the part that put out snacks in the kitchen and extra towels in the guest bedroom because a certain someone was coming to visit?” She tilts her head toward the steps, where a neon seahorse leans against the tile. “That’s thoughtful.”

Pfft. Whatever.

She studies my face, something softer slipping through her teasing. “You’re doing fine, you know. With her.”

I almost roll my eyes. “You’ve known us for three days.”

“I’ve seen enough to know she trusts you.” She pauses. “And enough to know you probably don’t always trust yourself.”

I look away, to the squared glow of the kitchen window, to the outline of a kid sitting crisscross on the stool, happily decimating chips, oblivious to the world around her. Carefree.

Pretending to be bored by the pool in order to leave me alone with Layla.

Matchmaking little shit . . . She’s as subtle as a marching band.

I grin, letting my gaze slide back to Layla’s pretty face.