Page 71 of Scouting the Single Dad

The view punches open—wind blows over us, lifting the sweat, cooling us instantly. A curl has wriggled free at her temple, and I reach forward to smooth it behind her ear.

“Thanks.”

I nod, wanting very much to kiss her.

On the overlook we sit on warm stone, knees touching on purpose. I split a protein bar, watch her chew, watch her watch the desert landscape far below, relishing the pleasure on her face that she hiked a mountain and succeeded.

I gaze out over the horizon as we ignore the people who have also reached the summit, most of them taking photographs and selfies.

“I’ve never had anyone spend the night with us.”

Beside me, she nods. “A woman, you mean?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat. “As you’ve probably noticed, it’s because Benny gets attached. I, um—think she understands we’re friends and that you are returning home in a few days, once you’ve soaked in all the sun.”

Layla is quiet. “It’s been a relaxing twenty-four hours.”

I feel my brows go up. “Has it?” Because I’ve been a walking ball of fucking stress—nothing relaxing about having her under my roof.

“No.” She laughs. “I was being sarcastic.”

Oh.

Right.

I try again to make light conversation. “How old did you say you were?”

She turns her head to look at me. “Twenty-nine.”

“I’m sorry, was that rude?” I have no idea if asking a woman her age is socially acceptable these days.

“I’m not offended.” She bites into the protein bar, then hands it to me. “What about you, Grandpa?”

“Thirty-one.” I scratch my jaw. “Practically fossilized in NFL years.”

“Please. You’re, like, grade A prime rib.”

“Damn. I’m flattered.”

Layla rolls her eyes as if she thinks I’m full of shit and couldn’t possibly be pleased by her compliment.

“What?” I ask her. “Do you think women tell me how good looking I am on a daily basis? Because they don’t.” I hesitate. “And the last time one of my coaches complimented me on anything other than my stats, or reps, was never.”

Her hand reaches over, and she pats my thigh, fingers lingering over my hamstring. I flex my leg to impress her.

She laughs. “You did not just flex your leg muscles.”

Guilty. “Of course I did.”

“Color me surprised by the fact you’re so easily impressed by simple praise.”

“Put that on my bio,” I say. “Weaknesses: Benny. Strengths: doing the most when a pretty girl touches my leg.” I am two seconds away from shaking my leg like I have an itch being scratched.

Woof.

“Pretty?” She arches a brow, but her mouth can’t stop curving.

“Dangerously,” I say, deadpan. “I’d make out with you right now if it wasn’t already hot as fuck.”