Page 62 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Sure.” He scoops her up, kisses her temple. “Brush teeth. Bed. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Little feet patter away, then pad up the stairs.

“I’ll help her,” Hayes says, already moving. “Back in a few.”

The house is quiet, and I glance around, taking it all in, the way I wasn’t able to when we arrived, since we went straight to the pool. The oven looks like it could land a plane—sleek steel, red knobs, shiny patina. Next to it? A narrow glass-front fridge hums, rows of wine labels lined up like yummy, delicious soldiers.

I roll my sleeves and get to work like I live here.

Big mixing bowl—top drawer left of the range. Smaller nesting bowls? Island cabinet. Measuring cups and spoons? Drawer with a soft-close I daydream about having in my kitchen someday but probably never will.

I root around some more and find cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla in the baking cupboard.

By the time his voice drifts down the hall, I have most of the ingredients laid on the counter. His perfect little sous chef.

The kitchen is ready.

So am I.

Chapter 13

Hayes

I tuck Benny in, tell her a dragon story—one chapter and a half like always—and stand for a second in the doorway, watching her breathing settle. She smells like toothpaste and pool. “Night, Benny Boo.”

A small thumbs-up floats out of the blankets as I click off her light. “Love you.”

Everything’s set out when I wander back to the kitchen—tins lined with big shiny wrappers. Cans of pumpkin, bowls, and spoons. I sidle up beside Layla, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Low-key give her a sniff.

She may be in a sweatshirt and sleep shorts, but she’s sexier to me now than when she was bobbing in my pool in that barely there bikini. Because now I know what she tastes like. How she fits when I pull her into my body . . .

My mouth remembers; my hands absolutely fucking do.

That’s in my bones now and not going anywhere.

“Ready?” she asks, not looking up, like we do this every night.

“Yeah.” I reach for the masher. Our fingers land on it at the same time and linger there. Neither of us moves.

She smiles first. “Pumpkin is yours.”

I open the cans and dish the puree into a bowl. She mashes—slow, deliberate presses that send up warm sugar. I measure flour and sugar; she levels the cups with a neat swipe of her finger.

“Cinnamon?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Does Benny like cinnamon?”

She does, so I sprinkle it into the bowl. Butter melted. Eggs cracked clean. We pass bowls back and forth, shoulders bumping. I turn to grab the whisk and catch the bowl with my elbow. A soft splat. Batter streaks my forearm, and a dot lands high on my jaw.

“Hold still,” she says, laughing under her breath. “You’re making a mess.”

Layla steps in and takes my wrist, turning it so she can see the smear. Her thumb skims over it once, slow, gathering pumpkin from the ridge of tendon. She doesn’t use a towel to clean it off.

She looks at it, then at me—heat in her eyes.

I lift her arm instead.

“I’ll clean it up,” I murmur, then bring her hand to my mouth. Lick her thumb clean, then the spot below where I know her pulse is thumping. I see her breath hitch in her chest when I kiss along the thin skin there—one, two—before I release my grip on her hand.