Page 52 of Scouting the Single Dad

Layla laughs, head tipping back. Airport noise drops to a hush in my ears. “I’m shocked, all right.” She gives my daughter’s hair a tousle, bag and carry-on being pulled along behind her. “I only did minimum security.”

Benny’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“No, you goof.”

Our eyes meet again.

We walk. I keep a foot between us and fail not to notice when her hand brushes mine anyway. Every accidental touch is a strike of heat; my rib cage feels one size too small.

This is not going to be good.

Haven’t fucked anyone in . . . Christ, I don’t remember how long. I gave up enjoying anything casual a long time ago—jerking off has always done the trick just fine.

Efficient.

Predictable.

The way her mouth shines after she takes a tube of gloss out of her bag and swipes it across her lips—my brain short-circuits, offering feral suggestions that do not belong within a hundred yards of baggage claim or my nine-year-old daughter.

“Was the flight okay?” I ask, because words are safer than staring.

“It was fine—short, thank God. No movie player in the back of the headrest, so I basically stared at the seat in front of me the entire time.”

I am a grown man.

I block for a living. I have discipline ingrained in my flesh. And yet with Layla walking next to me, laughing, dimple flashing like a green light, all I can think is how her T-shirt clings to her tits and how easily I could back her into my kitchen counter and bury my nose in the side of her neck—

We arrive at my truck. Benny buckles herself into the back, chattering away about her volleyball game tomorrow. School. Homework. Her favorite teachers. Bombarding her new best friend with any and all details buried in her little brain.

Chill the fuck out, I tell myself, a gentle reminder that I invited her here to make things simple. And fun. For Layla. For Benny.

Not myself.

My body, apparently, does not agree.

At the house I haul her bag to the guest room, give her a quick tour, then steer us to the kitchen, where I’ve lined up snacks in case she’s hungry and didn’t get food on her flight: salsa, tortilla chips, guac, a bowl of almonds. Olives. Pickles. Finger food I had in the fridge. Sliced cheese and salami.

A veritable charcuterie spread . . .

“It’s not fancy,” I say. “But it’s food.”

I tried.

Layla’s eyes warm. “It’s perfect.”

I glance at the sky as it bleeds pink. “It’s not that late if you wanted to swim first?”

“Did someone say ‘swim’?” Benny shouts. “I vote yes.”

I lift a shoulder at Layla. “Up to you.”

She bites her lip. The dimple shows. “I did pack a suit.”

“Yesss,” Benny declares, sprinting down the hall to change out of her shorts and T-shirt. “I’ll get towels!”

“Hey,” Layla says, a wince in her voice. “Um—apologies in advance. I wasn’t able to find a more family-friendly suit. I bought the one I packed for a girls’ trip to Cabo, and it’s the only one I own at the moment, so . . .”

What is she trying to say? That her suit is skimpy?