Page 119 of Scouting the Single Dad

Who is this handsome face I don’t recognize?

A local man I’m not familiar with? Could it be true?

Grady G., thirty-four. He’s in a flannel, forearms front and center, looking like a brochure titled “Dependable Local Man.” His bio reads, Looking for someone who loves the outdoors and small-town life. No kids yet but would like a few.

Well crap. That’s mostly me!

I read the bio again—outdoors, small-town life, wants kids one day—and my brain does the quick math of compatible on paper while my chest mutters, Not Hayes.

Still. I don’t have to marry him. We can talk and possibly go on one date.

One! Harmless.

Besides. We might not match.

My thumb hovers over the heart. Swipe right.

The screen explodes with confetti—It’s a Match! Say hi to Grady.

And so, it begins . . .

Chapter 29

Hayes

I haven’t been able to sleep.

Do the thing where I can’t get comfortable. Flip the pillow. Roll from one side to the other. Stare at the ceiling fan and count how many reps I did in the gym.

I should be passed out—practice wore me down, watching film fried my brain, and Benny talked for twenty straight minutes during tuck-in about how cereal tastes better in a mixing bowl.

My body is tired.

My head is a stadium with the lights on.

Layla is everywhere. In the stupid way I check my phone for no reason and stare at her name. The last messages we sent before we gave up.

I am a grown man with a mortgage and a kid who trusts me. I know how to make choices. Commitments. I do not know how to do this: want someone who isn’t here and may never be again. And if I’m being honest with myself, I have no idea how to navigate this. Or if she wants me to annoy her with messages. Plus, it’s not as if I have free time to pull out of my ass.

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow with a fucking clue.

In the meantime, I’ll just do what I do best: Put it out of my mind and move on.

Chapter 30

Layla

I’m two blocks from Loon Landing Café, and Faith picks up on the second ring—thank God.

“Talk to me,” she says. “How are we feeling?”

“Nervous. Good nervous, I think.” My windshield wipers squeak against the drizzle that started early this morning and hasn’t let up. “I feel cute?”

“You’re always cute,” she tells me. “What are you wearing?”

I’m doing it.