Page 142 of Scouting the Single Dad

Sleep at the fucking airport instead of staying holed up at this lodge, gathering more shitty memories of Washington and the place where I should never have brought my daughter because then she wouldn’t have met Layla.

And neither would I.

I pick up the phone again and call Skylar.

“Hey,” Skylar answers on the third ring. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Not true. “Benny good?”

“She’s elbow deep in cookie dough,” Skylar says dryly. “Currently lobbying for more chocolate chips. I told her and Madison they’ve eaten enough to feed a small village and to save some for baking.”

The dull ache moves from my head to my heart. “Tell her I love her. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You sure?” Skylar hears more than most. “You don’t sound . . . so great.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, then make it a partial truth. “I’m waiting.”

“For?”

Nothing.

Everything.

I avoid responding, because Skylar Hansen doesn’t need to know my personal drama. I don’t need her running to all the other moms at school and spreading gossip. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

We end the call, and I return to watching the parking lot, my back to the door.

When a sharp knock interrupts my thoughts, my heart trips over itself, freaking the fuck out.

Holy shit, she’s here.

She showed up.

I blow out a puff of air. “Phew. Calm down, bro.”

Be cool.

I smooth my palms down my jeans, roll my shoulders back, and open the door, wearing a smile I don’t believe in.

The kid standing on the other side is decidedly not Layla.

He’s wearing a buttoned green velvet vest and pushing a two-tiered cart stacked with warming dishes and an ice bucket with a bottle of wine stuffed inside.

He stammers at the sight of me. “Room service?”

My brain fumbles, my chest caves. The adrenaline that had been screaming through me just—dies.

“No,” I croak, the word gravel in my throat. “Wrong room.”

He flushes. “Uh. Room 402, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me, but I didn’t order—”

From down the hall a door opens and a woman sticks her head out. “Yoo-hoo! Down here!” She steps into the hallway, wearing a hotel robe and slippers. “Thank God you’re here, my husband is starving.”

The kid looks ill. “Sir, I’m so sorry, I read that wrong.”

“It’s fine,” I manage, and it isn’t, but this isn’t his fault. “Go feed that room before the wife comes and wheels the cart away from you.”