Page 67 of Scouting the Single Dad

I chuckle at her fervor. “You’re biased.”

“Obviously. But look—just because it was impulsive for you to go there and impulsive for him to ask—that doesn’t make it less real or mean that he can’t catch feelings. Enjoy it while it’s yours. Be present. Don’t narrate yourself out of the moment.”

I stare at the slice of moonlight on the wall. “He is such a good kisser.”

“God, don’t give me any details. Clarke has been gone on that dumb fishing trip for seven days, and I’m so horny I wore out the batteries in my favorite vibrator.”

That has me giggling. “Then I shouldn’t tell you how we were dry humping against his counter and he came in his pants?”

My best friend gasps. “Layla Monroe, When Were You Going to Tell Me This?”

I laugh again. “I’m telling you now.”

She groans. “Clarke is getting a strongly worded text. Also: proud of you. I want to bring dry humping back in a big way. It’s so underrated as foreplay . . .”

“Please don’t embroider that on a pillow.”

“Think of how many I would sell.” Her tone is wistful as she imagines all the imaginary pillows she’d sell with her dry-humping quote stitched on it. “Did he act normal afterward? Or was he a dick about it?”

The look on his face looms in my mind. The embarrassment, the blush on his cheeks. “He excused himself and cleaned up but was joking about it.” No stamina. Too much excitement.

“Dang. If he came in his pants, I wonder what his sex life is like.”

I wonder that, too, trust me.

“It either means he’s chaste as a monk, or touch starved. Or maybe he takes too many supplements, if you catch my drift. Or the chemistry the two of you have is lethal—imagine bringing a man like that to his knees . . .”

We both sigh.

There’s a soft bloom in my chest at the memory of his sheepish smile, the way he’d tapped the doorframe of the guest bedroom, looking in on me before closing the door and giving me privacy.

Not making a move.

Not inviting me to his room.

Not asking to join me in mine.

“Are you planning on fucking him?” Faith cuts into my thoughts.

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Oh my God, you’re such a liar!” she shrieks.

“I have not thought about it!” I protest weakly, which is exactly what a liar would say.

“Puh-leaze. You’ve absolutely thought about it.” Faith rustles on the other end of the phone. “You’ve probably been doing nothing but since the second you saw him ride into Star Lake.”

I mean . . . no. “In my wildest daydreams, I would never have thought a man like that would put his mouth on me. Ever.”

“So . . . do you want to? Fuck him, I mean?”

“Faith! Could you not?”

She scoffs. “Give me a break. You’re in his guest room, he’s down the hall, his tongue was in your mouth. Don’t lie there and tell me you’re not thinking about him railing you.”

Heat detonates under my skin. “I—”

“Exactly,” she purrs. “Your pause said yes in five different languages.”