Page 69 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Way to rally,” Faith says, pleased. “Add: You’re generous to a fault, and you give the best gifts. And not only do you have great boobs, but your legs are great and so is your ass.”

A laugh snags in my throat. “I accept those compliments.”

“You’re welcome.” She pauses. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

She yawns. “Now try to get some sleep.” Pause. “Or give yourself another orgasm before bed. Whichever.”

We both laugh as we say more goodbyes; I promise to keep her updated with pictures before we disconnect the call. Then I set my phone on the nightstand next to the bed and lie here, palm resting on my stomach, feeling the flutter settle into something else.

Nerves.

Hope.

Desire?

I pull the hotel-white sheet to my chin, smile into the dark, and let myself believe I’m worth being looked at the way he looked at me.

Chapter 15

Hayes

Today we’re going hiking.

After breakfast muffins and coffee chatter, I arranged to have the nanny drop Benny at school so Layla and I can get started before the heat wave hits the valley. I hand over a lunch box, kiss the top of my kid’s head, and try to look like a man who slept.

News flash: I did not sleep. The evening kept playing on a loop in my mind.

Dry humping Layla like a teenager? Check. Showering at midnight to chill myself the fuck out? Check. Checking to make sure all the doors were locked for the second time? Check. Telling myself I made an ass of myself? Check, check, check.

Having her here contradicts every rule and expectation I’ve set for myself since Benny was born: Do not bring any woman into our lives that is not going to stay in it.

Last night I was stupid.

So no, I didn’t sleep. I did a skin-care routine, folded laundry that didn’t need folding, texted the nanny to confirm the morning schedule, and lay there trying not to be the man who rewrites his own rules because of a pretty smile and dimples.

But the thing about rules is they’re only as good as the reason you made them. Mine were about protecting Benny. About keeping the crazies and chaos out. Layla doesn’t feel like either of those things; she feels like the opposite.

She’s not looking for me to take care of her. She’s not looking for a handout, or clout, or to accidentally get pregnant for a hefty payout and child support for the next eighteen years.

Layla returns to the kitchen after saying goodbye to Benny, padding in black biker shorts and a tight cropped yoga top, hair in a knot at the top of her head, clean face, freckles on display—which is somehow the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen. Sneakers dangle from her fingers. “Ready?”

I nod, because my voice isn’t trustworthy.

Three minutes later we’re in the truck, windows cracked for the cool that hangs on before the sun gets mean. She scrolls through a playlist, settles on something bright and upbeat, and hums along.

I grip the wheel and make peace with the fact that I’m already happier than the man I was last week.

Sneak a peek at her.

She catches me looking and grins. “What? Do I have muffin on my face?” Layla swipes at her skin, and I face the road, doing my best to ignore her boobs and thighs and smooth skin.

Just kidding. I look again.

She’s smiling out the window like the desert told her a good joke. The sun hits the curve of her cheek, and I have to face front before I miss the turn.

“Do you have a prehike ritual?” she asks. “Or do you just grunt it out?”