Page 72 of Scouting the Single Dad

We pass the rest of the bar back and forth. The wind’s steady enough to cool us but not so windy we actually feel cool. A hawk drifts across the sky like a hang glider.

“I’m not great at . . . talking,” I admit after a minute.

“And I get chatty, so that evens us out.”

I contemplate these next words carefully. “What is it exactly you’re looking for, Layla Monroe?”

Okay. Not exactly subtle.

She doesn’t flinch or balk at the random question; she watches the hawk until it’s a dot and then finds my eyes.

“Honest answer?” she says. “I don’t know what I’m looking for. Not yet. I do know I want to like my life. I want work I’m proud of, people who show up for me, a house with a yard.” A breath. “And I want kids. Someday. I always pictured lots of noise, especially around the holidays.”

She studies my face, then asks, “Is that off the table for you? More kids?”

I look past her down into the gulch to buy myself a beat before responding.

“I didn’t think I wanted more kids,” I admit. “Benny has always been enough, and for the longest time it was about survival.” I laugh, remembering how fucking panicked I was when she was a baby. Every day I thought I would fuck something up, but, somehow, we managed. “I keep Benny steady, keep the schedule tight, keep the house calm. I write the rules and live inside them.” I rub the back of my neck, shifting my gaze to her face. Her legs. The ground. “I’m now realizing some of those rules were about fear, not reality.”

“Fear of what?”

“Losing ground under her feet. Under mine.” I glance into Layla’s beautiful face. “Losing someone after letting them in.”

“Do you mean . . . losing them like you lost her mom?”

Yes.

No.

“Honestly, Benny’s mom and I probably weren’t going to last. If she were alive, I’d be wiring child support, splitting holidays, grabbing Benny every other weekend when I wasn’t on the road. We were two decent people who weren’t right.”

I watch a chipmunk dart from one rock to another. “What wrecked me wasn’t losing her. It was becoming the only net under a six-pound human who didn’t know I was guessing.” I had no idea what I was doing.

Her knee bumps mine. “You’re allowed to want more than living to survive.”

“I’m starting to.” I hold her gaze. “Doesn’t mean I’m making a promise I can’t keep. Just that the doors aren’t welded shut anymore.”

“I definitely want a family.” Layla says again.

“If the person’s right, I’m not a no,” I answer, crushing the wrapper for the protein bar and stuffing it into my bag for safekeeping until we can hunt down a trash can. “I love the idea of making babies. The version where you can’t walk straight afterward.”

Sweaty, dirty fucking.

Layla’s head snaps toward me, eyes flaring, red blooming high on her cheeks over what was already pink. For a second, the whole ridge goes quiet—just wind, sun, and the reckless thing I said hanging between us.

And now I know she’s visualizing sex.

With me, specifically.

She licks her lips, casting her gaze around, not sure where to look or what to say.

Shit. Was that over the line?

Jesus Christ—I spend way too much time with grown idiots who grunt and speak in innuendos and too little time with mature, classy women.

“I like it when a man says exactly what he wants, in plain language so there’s no guesswork,” Layla says slowly, eyes on the horizon. “Makes it easier to decide if I want it too.”

“You do?” It comes out rough.