Page 61 of Scouting the Single Dad

Yes and yes. Too good. Like feral-good.

I want to climb him like a tree. Lick him all over.

But I don’t want a broken heart. Do not want to feel discarded once I arrive home in a few days.

Annabelle:

Quick, without thinking, what do you want? Go.

Me:

To kiss him again. To not overthink it. To not make it weird for his daughter.

Annabelle:

Boundaries, then. No PDA in front of his kid, no common spaces, yes to kissing, yes to screwing your brains out, yes to open communication.

Annabelle:

Like I said, don’t over think it. I know it’s easy for me to say, but have F U N!!!! Have fun. But also, don’t do what I did and get so drunk you get married, then have a baby nine months later Hahahahaha.

Oh shit, I’d forgotten about that, suddenly feeling like a total shit for not asking about her cute little family.

Annabelle fires off another message before I can type.

Annabelle:

I didn’t mean to phrase it like that LOL. We’d do it again, with less alcohol. Go have fun. Shower, put on something soft, and enjoy yourself. Text me in the morning, I want details.

Me:

I owe you a full debrief. Kiss your hubby and baby for me.

Annabelle:

Will do. Go be kissed.

When I pad into the kitchen an hour later, the house is quiet in that soft end-of-day way.

Benny is perched on a stool in her jammies, swinging her feet and munching on the last slice of an apple. Hayes stands at the sink, filling a glass. Bright-white T-shirt, damp hair, gray sweatpants.

Ugh! Not the gray sweatpants!

I do my best not to allow my eyes to drag down the front of them in search of a dick stamp, and pat myself on the back for being successful.

He nods at me pleasantly as I approach, leaning across the counter to address his daughter. “Bedtime in five.” He slides her water glass across the counter like a bartender. “Deal?”

She considers, glances at me standing in the doorway, then plops her chin in her hand. “Can we make spice-pumpkin muffins first? So I can have them for breakfast?”

A girl after my own heart . . .

Hayes’s brows jump. “Right now? No.”

“Please, Dad?”

He shakes his head but offers her a compromise. “What if Layla and I bake you muffins instead, once you hit the sack? Would you like that?”

“Deal,” she says, already sliding off the stool. “The giant kind?”