Page 30 of Scouting the Single Dad

“It’s kind of funny,” Layla says, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling.

Benny slaps the table, nearly toppling her water glass. “See, Dad? Layla thinks you’re funny.”

The waiter materializes at the table, pen poised, professional smile in place, shooting a curious gaze toward our table guest. I can only assume they know one another. “Have we decided?”

“Yes,” I snap, desperate to move things along. “Steak. Medium rare.”

Benny leans across me to point at the menu, breadcrumbs dusting the tablecloth. “Can I get the mac and cheese? And fries? And—oh, wait—do you have milkshakes?”

The waiter blinks and shakes his head. “We have a chocolate torte.”

“Perfect!” she says, like that’s the same thing.

The waiter flicks his gaze to Layla. “And for you, Layla?”

She smiles. “The salmon and asparagus, please, Mark. And ice water is fine.”

Polite. Of course she would be easy and uncomplicated. Unlike so many of the women I’ve dated in the past, or the wives of my friends, with their overdone hair and makeup and wardrobes that cost a bloody fortune. Who substitute everything on a menu and make adjustments to basic things to purposely be difficult.

“Excellent,” Mark says, jotting it down. “I’ll put that right in.” He disappears, and for one blessed moment I think maybe—maybe—the table will settle.

It doesn’t.

“Dad, you should tell Layla about the time you went on a date with that one lady who told you she loved you during dessert.”

I choke on my drink.

Layla’s lips twitch, her fork paused midair. “During dessert?” she asks carefully, like she’s not sure if she wants to hear the rest.

Benny nods eagerly, delighted. “Yep. Halfway through cheesecake, she told him she was in love. They’d only been out twice.”

“Three times,” I correct automatically, then curse myself for taking the bait. Shit, now I’m locked into providing more details.

Another of Layla’s laughs escapes, and I swear the sound makes the back of my neck prickle as my eyes stray to the loose strand of hair catching on the corner of her glossy lips.

What the fuck am I doing . . . stop looking at her mouth.

Benny leans toward her, conspiratorial. “He didn’t call her again.”

“Obviously,” I mutter, glaring at my daughter. “Announcing undying love on a third date is—”

“Romantic?” Layla supplies, eyes sparkling.

“Insane,” I shoot back. “This is why I don’t date.”

Layla tilts her head. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in love at first sight?”

“No.” The answer is out of my mouth before she’s even finished asking. Firm. Absolute.

Her brows lift, amused. “That was fast. Not even gonna think about it first?”

“Nope. It’s fantasyland bullshit.” I pause. “Do you?”

She studies me before leaning back in her chair. “I’m not sure. I mean . . . maybe it’s not love, but there’s something to be said for instant connection.”

Benny—not to be forgotten in this conversation—whispers loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. “Dad hasn’t met the right person yet.”

Layla’s lips part as if she’s going to offer her opinion on that statement, but instead she lets out the tiniest laugh, shaking her head. Her braid drops over her shoulder, silky strands catching the candlelight, and for a second I catch my breath.