Page 63 of Scouting the Single Dad

Mmm . . .

We try to return to the bowls like civilized people. It lasts all of nine seconds.

My finger dips into the batter bowl for a dollop of sugar clinging to the metal side, and I dab it on the corner of her mouth at the same time she’s asking, “What should we do tomorrow while Benny is at school?”

I can think of dozens of things to do . . .

Most of them involving nudity.

“After I’m done with practice, we can hit the grocery store. Or have late lunch in Old Town Scottsdale, which is always fun. Swim. Glow-in-the-dark mini golf once the sun sets. Totally up to you.”

“So many options.” She stares at me, wide eyed and excited. “Hiking in a canyon sounds amazing. That’s something I’d love to do.”

I rack my brain, going over my schedule.

“We’d have to do that early early, though—I can have the sitter drop Benny off at school so we can leave before the sun rises.” I nod. “Beat the heat. I’ll pack water and hydration packs, you bring . . . I don’t know. Sunscreen?”

“Why are you saying it like that, you weirdo.”

’Cause I get to rub it on you if you’ll let me.

“I’m just being responsible,” I deadpan. “Host with the most.”

“In that case, I’ll put you on bottle duty,” she says, steady, cheeks flushed. “You can do my front and back.”

I’m useless. I stare, mixing spoon suspended above the bowl as I gawk at her. This is officially the first time she’s flat-out flirted with me.

Her eyes flick to the spoon, then up to me. “You okay there, Host with the Most?”

“Define ‘okay.’” I set the spoon down before I drop it. “You can’t just hand out assignments like that and expect motor skills to continue.”

“All I did was mention rubbing on sunscreen.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ll be fully clothed.”

Will we?

Will We?

She bumps my hip, laughing under her breath. The last cup domes up neat. She sets the scoop down, wipes her fingers on a towel, then turns and leans her lower back against the counter—open invitation or my wishful thinking.

Either way, I step in.

Kiss her.

She rises onto her toes and meets me, lips as soft as I remember—but warmer—a sexy little sound catching in her throat. When I angle, she answers, fingers curling in the fabric at my sides. The kiss is slow and deep and impossible to walk away from, especially with her gentle fingers slipping under my T-shirt, palms warm on my back.

Every sane idea I had leaves my brain and goes straight to my twitching cock.

I haven’t fucked in ages, and suddenly, my dick has a problem with it.

A big one.

My palm finds the warm notch of her waist beneath the hoodie, thumb tracing lazy circles I can feel in my teeth. She hooks a finger in the collar of my T-shirt and breathes me in like it’s oxygen.

A laugh bubbles out of her when I trail to her jaw. “You always like this?”

No. “I’m never like this.”

I cook but barely bake. When I agreed to muffins, I pictured a box mix—definitely not this from-scratch stuff Layla has magically produced.