Page 102 of Scouting the Single Dad

We stare slack jawed after her once she’s trekking across the yard, her ponytail swaying jauntily back and forth. I drag my gaze from her retreating figure back to Hayes, and we both blink, caught in the absurdity of it.

His mouth quirks first. “Did she just dismiss us?”

“Yeah. Like a boss.” I am a little stunned, but what do I know about having kids. Is it normally like this? Wouldn’t know.

Hayes scrubs a hand down his face, laughter tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Ten minutes ago she was traumatized you’re leaving, and now she’s demanding to be taken to school.”

I huff a laugh. “Whiplash is real.”

He angles toward me in the tiny doorway, voice dropping so only I can hear it.

“Hey—stay here. Do whatever you need to do—drink more coffee, rub lotion all over your tits, return emails.” His eyes flick to my mouth. “I’ll run her to school.”

“Okay.”

He leans in, thumb brushing my jaw, and the look he gives me makes my knees weak. “And when I get back,” he says, heat threaded through every word, “you’re going to be naked and waiting in my bed.”

Slowly, I nod. “Yes, Dad . . .”

Chapter 25

Hayes

My fingers drum the steering wheel on my way back from school, a leftover jitter I can’t shake. Part adrenaline, part relief, part . . .

Anticipation.

Benny marched into the building on a mission—over an hour late—backpack bouncing, crisis closed. She only looked back at me once after I’d signed her in at the office, two fingers to her eyes, then to mine: I’m watching you.

I did it back.

The light turns green. I roll through, jaw unclenching for the first time all morning. Ten minutes ago I was counting the beats between her breaths in a playhouse. Now I’m counting the streets between me and Layla.

Be naked . . .

I make myself drive like a person who deserves a license.

The neighborhood is ordinary in a “wealthy community” way that makes me proud to deserve this. I’ve been working my ass off the past decade to get here, and damn if I don’t enjoy seeing my house every time I round the bend and it comes into view.

Desert landscape. Low, sprawling, and expensive sand-colored exterior. I bought it because I fell in love with the stacked stone. So different from where I grew up in Ohio, where you won’t find crushed granite, agave and aloe plants, and boulders.

Charcoal pavers lead to my four-car garage with frosted-glass doors; steel house numbers ride the wall beside a tall, up-lit saguaro. Black steel window frames, a hint of a courtyard beyond the gate at my entrance. It’s also nothing like I’d find in Layla’s Washington state with its crowded pines.

Very Scottsdale coded, very bougie—and it’s mine. All mine.

I pull into the drive. Engine off. Keys in my palm. Dick already twitching.

I wonder if she’s going to actually be naked . . .

Once inside the mudroom entry, I kick off my sneakers. Tug off my socks and let them drop to the floor, leaving them like breadcrumbs as I make my way through the kitchen.

Pull my T-shirt over my head.

Sure, I may be laboring under the assumption that Layla will be lying in the center of my bed, legs already spread, so I can climb on and eat her sweet pussy—but a guy can dream, yeah?

Let the shirt fall to the foyer floor.

I take the stairs as slowly as I can, thumb hooked in the waistband of my track pants, pulse banging in my throat like a fist on a door that won’t open fast enough.