Page 141 of Scouting the Single Dad

“It isn’t.” He shakes his head. “It’s clarity. Either option is allowed. I’m telling you what my option looks like if you pick me tonight: food, laughter, and yeah—the part where we finally have sex all night and don’t stop halfway there because you’re holding back on me.”

“I didn’t ask him to show up here,” I whisper.

“I know.” He tips the muffin bag toward me. “Here. Sugar will help get you through the rest of the day.”

Not likely. Still, I take the bag from his hands and pat him on the rear end.

We’ve reached city hall, and we pause at the bottom of the steps. I climb one and turn to face him so we’re nearly eye level, and put my hands on his shoulders.

“Say the words again,” I hear myself ask, because I am pathetic and needy and human. “Your dinner plans.”

He leans in just enough that I can’t mistake his tone for anything but desire. “If you don’t go to the lodge, come to my place. I’ll cook for you. I’ll get you naked. Suck on your tits. Take my time and make you come so hard your legs will shake . . .”

I didn’t know this version of him existed—the soft-spoken man with the dirty mouth who can also set a boundary without flinching. It short-circuits something in me in the best possible way.

It’s so . . .

“I—wow.” Brilliant, Layla. Pulitzer Prize–winning material.

He gestures to the grease-spotted bag between us like evidence of his good intentions. “Eat this. Do your work. Text me later.”

He tips an imaginary hat and turns away, leaving me staring after him wordlessly, watching as water darkens the back of his jacket, plastering it to his broad frame.

I stand there.

Why does this feel like the beginning of an ending to yet another unfinished story?

Chapter 37

Hayes

Have I always been this restless?

I can’t sit still. I pace the hotel room, going to the window to glance out into the parking lot for any sight of her. Nothing but pickup trucks and several sedans, and a Subaru with a kayak strapped on top.

I check my phone. No new messages. Not from Skylar, not from my mother, not from Coach checking in. I scroll down to see Layla’s name, the same message that was there this morning—as it’s been for days. I debate sending a message, urging her to come, but honestly, it feels pathetic and like a waste of time.

I want her to want to come. Not feel guilted into it.

And besides, she has that new boyfriend.

Gavin, Grayson—whatever his fucking name was.

The heat in my room kicks on, a mechanical sigh that sounds disgruntled by the entire situation on my behalf. Then. Somewhere down the hall ice clatters into a bucket. A door slams. Footsteps stomp loudly past. Children running.

My stomach growls. I should eat something. I should sit.

“I should get a fucking grip.”

I rub a hand over my jaw, feel the stubble, the stubborn ache behind my eyes beginning to burn. I try to remember the last time I felt like this—out of control and floundering.

Shit, I don’t know.

Probably the day Benny was born and she lost her mom?

The bed looks too neat for the way my head is spinning, so I yank the corner of the duvet loose to make the room match how I feel inside. Petty. Satisfying. I peel off my sweater. Put it back on because leaving it on the chair feels like admitting I’m staying.

I should go.