Page 101 of Scouting the Single Dad

She scoffs through her nose. “He does like to jog.”

We’re cross-legged on the small rug spread out on the floor, our knees touching, and I clear my throat, racking my brain for how to best articulate my next words.

“Benny?” I keep my tone serious. “Can I tell you something very grown up?”

She lifts one shoulder. “Of course.”

“When . . . two people like each other like your dad and I do, it’s tempting to jump into things headfirst without thinking too much about it—because it feels perfect. But the best things usually take time.”

She studies the scuffed floorboards. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Your dad and I just met last week, sweetie. We thought we were just going to be friends, and we’re learning each other, but we need more time to know what it looks like because I live too far away.” I hope I’m making sense.

“Dad is usually so grumpy,” she says, which earns a tiny laugh from me. “But he hasn’t been.”

That fills my stomach with warm heat. “Yes, I realize that. But going back to Star Lake is me giving your dad and me a chance to think about things. We don’t want to mess things up.”

“You’re not,” she insists. “You and Dad are perfect.”

I put my hand on her arm. “Oh, sweetie, if only you knew how far from perfect I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . .” I hesitate to think of an example. “I kill every houseplant I’ve ever owned, including herbs. I forget laundry in the washer until it reeks. I cry at reality TV.”

Benny scrunches up her nose in confusion. “How is that bad?”

I . . . it’s not. But I’m scrambling for something to say and cannot very well admit I let her father bang me without a condom, now, can I? Talk About Imperfect and a Lack of Planning.

Outside, a footstep crunches in the gravel, close. She lifts her chin. “That’s him.”

I nod. “He found us.”

“Dad.” She rolls her eyes.

Hayes appears, big and strapping and so much better looking than he was yesterday; something about him being a hot dad is messing with my ovaries . . .

“Hey, ladies.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. He crouches to fit inside the doorframe, one palm braced on the flower boxes. “You doing okay?”

Benny lifts her chin. “We were talking.”

“I can see that.” His gaze flicks to me—Are you okay?—and I nod.

“Layla was explaining how relationships are supposed to take time and shouldn’t be rushed,” Benny reports, easily summarizing our conversation.

Hayes ducks lower, the frame groaning under his hand as he leans in, filling the playhouse with too much body for too small a space. “She was, huh?”

“Exactly.” Benny crosses her arms, pleased with her summary. “She said it’s tempting to jump into things without thinking about them, but the best things usually take time.”

Damn, she’s good. That’s literally what I said.

Hayes huffs a laugh, low in his chest, then reaches for her hand. “That sounds about right.”

She lets him take it, then leans her head against his shoulder, her verdict rendered. “Okay. I’m satisfied. You can take me to school now.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, surprised. “Now? You don’t want to go back into the house and talk about this some more?”

“Nope, we’re good.” Benny is matter of fact, already climbing to her feet and dusting her knees as if they were covered in dirt. “I’ll grab my backpack.”