Page 109 of Scouting the Single Dad

I laugh into my wine at the memory, bubbles from the jets tickling my skin. “I prefer to err on the side of caution.”

“Mm, caution is for crossing the street. This is texting a hot single dad with great hands.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Not exactly life or death.”

My face flames hotter than the water. “I realize this, Faith. You don’t have to belabor the point.”

“Oh but I do,” she says cheerfully. “Only ’cause I know you. You like him, and he likes you. So if you wait too long, that’s not being cautious—that’s self-sabotaging.”

I tip my head back against the edge of the tub, staring at the sky. “Okay. Fine. Later tonight. At home. When I can obsess over punctuation without you breathing down my neck.”

I sink deeper into the water, letting the bubbles roar in my ears for a moment before surfacing again. “This feels different, though. Plus, there is a child involved.”

“Sure,” Faith says, softer now. “But don’t turn that into a reason to hold back so long you miss your chance.”

I hate when she’s right.

Chapter 27

Hayes

An entire day has passed since Layla left.

I feel like a complete asshole because

I didn’t check to see how she was doing when she landed.

I didn’t check to see how she was doing when she arrived home.

Fact is—I haven’t checked in with her at all.

Why?

Good fucking question.

Here’s the ugly, ordinary truth: I was gonna.

I even drafted something while Benny brushed her teeth—Had a great week. Text me when you’re home?—but then bedtime morphed into an earache, which turned into my daughter waking me up in tears at 11:40 p.m., which turned into a low fever and me sitting on the bathroom floor with a wet washcloth and a kid who wanted to sleep upright on my chest like she did when she was three.

It wasn’t until around 2:00 a.m. that the fever broke.

By three, she finally passed out in my bed. I slid out like a ninja, tossed a load of her bedsheets and towels in the washer, and set my phone on the dryer while I was loading it.

Then I fell asleep on the couch. Phone stayed in the laundry room.

Morning came and went, and Layla hadn’t messaged me, either—because she’s sane and has a life—and I told myself I’d send the message once I’d showered and shaved and I wouldn’t overthink it.

Then I overthought it.

Then . . .

Something wild happens.

My phone pings, and I grab it, assuming it’s my agent, or my publicist, or one of my teammates giving me shit. Or Benny’s nanny. But it’s not.

It’s her.

Layla:

Hey. Just checking in—how are you and Benny doing now that you have the house back to yourselves?