Page 56 of Scouting the Single Dad

Then she does the craziest thing. The hand she’s kept under the surface finds my wrist, traces the vein there like she’s reading it, then slides to my palm. She turns our hands so our fingers line up, pressing them together. “Let me hold it for a minute.”

“Why?” The words come out rougher than I mean them to, but forgive me if I’m fucking confused right now.

Her eyes lift to mine. “Because I feel like you need human contact.”

Something knocks in my chest.

It shouldn’t matter that she’s touching me—hands touch all the time—but this isn’t casual. If it was, the gesture wouldn’t have shot straight to the places in my body that stay armored. Head. Chest.

Heart.

Her thumb brushes the base of my thumb, a little back-and-forth that steadies the pulse jumping there. “See?” she whispers. “Isn’t that nice?”

Nice? “Sure.”

I lace our fingers instead of pulling away. We float like this, water cradling us, and up close I can see a wet lash clinging to her cheekbone.

The freckles on her nose, even as the sun continues to set behind Camelback Mountain.

Then I do the craziest thing: Pull our hands out of the water. Turn our joined hands and kiss her fingers, slowly, watching her above her knuckles. Her breath hitches, and the little sound she makes . . .

“You keep looking at me like that,” she says, voice dipping. “And I’m going to think you brought me all the way to Arizona so you can flirt with me.”

“I’m not kissing you,” I vow, more to myself than to her.

Her brows rise. “I didn’t think you were going to.”

Good.

Great.

“Just so we’re clear,” I repeat, because my mouth needs a job that isn’t her mouth.

“Crystal,” she whispers, and I feel her sexy voice all the way down to my dick. When she wets her lips, my self-control grinds like bad gears.

“You’re staring,” she says, but it’s almost a question.

“Nope. I’m collecting data,” I manage.

“On?”

“How close I can get to breaking my own rule.” The one where I told myself she was here to spend time with my daughter and not with me, and we were going to leave it at that. The rule where I have no room for a woman in my life.

Too complicated. I don’t need Benny falling in love with her.

So yeah—no contact would be best, but here we are, holding hands.

“How close?” Layla asks. “What’s the margin?”

“Thin.”

“How thin?”

My hand turns, sliding from her fingers up to her wrist, to the inside, where her skin is soft, sensitive, and warm. I rest my thumb there—feeling her pulse quicken. She swallows.

“Hairline,” I murmur.

“Maybe you should . . .” She hesitates. “Test your willpower.”