Page 85 of Scouting the Single Dad

My brain starts speed-scrolling through every possible subject a nine-year-old could announce over chicken tenders and fries, my mind coming up blank.

Did she announce I’m sleeping in the guest room? Did she tell Madison’s parents her dad and I kiss? Did she tell them she hates me and wants me to leave?

Wait.

Why am I assuming I’m involved?

This could be about Christmas. Or a sleepover. Or volleyball.

But if that was the case, he wouldn’t look so serious, would he? He’d be flirting and touching me and possibly kissing me with his hand up my shirt . . . He rubs his thumb along the pillow again, eyes on the seam.

“Nobody’s in trouble,” he says finally. “She’s happy. Perhaps too happy, maybe, putting the cart before the horse.”

“How is she putting the cart before the horse?” I’m still trying to add up what little info he’s given me.

He huffs a laugh that isn’t one. “Future tripping.”

“About . . . ?”

“Weddings.”

My brows rise into my hairline. “Excuse me?” In Benny’s defense, lots of little girls daydream and plan their weddings.

“She told Madison’s parents you’re going to be her new mom.”

Oh shit.

I was not expecting him to say that.

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” he continues quickly. “I mean, she’s a child. She doesn’t realize that we’re just friends, you know? This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

Just friends . . .

The words linger, hitting places and emotions I did not know I was developing, given this trip to Arizona was supposed to be casual and fun—for Benny. Not for Hayes and me.

He is not wrong: We are just friends.

I keep my face neutral and nod as if I agree completely and my stomach and heart aren’t just a bit bruised. “She’s nine. Everything is a big deal at that age.” I force out a laugh. “Wait until she’s in middle school. Yikes.”

“I don’t want to feed into her imagination by playing house. I’m trying to do this parenting thing right.”

Feeding into her imagination . . . Right.

Once again, I can’t stop myself from being offended. Hurt.

He must sense the change in my face because he quickly adds, “That came out wrong.”

“Oh, did it? I hadn’t noticed.” I pull the blanket higher, buy myself a second to think. “For what it’s worth, I think she’s reading a room where two people like each other and wishing . . .”

Silence. An exhale.

“I’m not trying to minimize this,” he continues. “Or you. I’m trying not to sprint to a finish line and make a mess of it.”

A mess.

His dark, serious eyes meet mine. “I like you, Layla. I hate the way calling us ‘friends’ made you look.”

“This makes me feel twelve,” I confess awkwardly. “And I wasn’t my best self at twelve.” My hair was overstyled, my clothes weren’t flattering, and I went through an experimental phase with blue eye shadow. Yeah, not great.