Page 82 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Hi, Dad, bye, Dad,” she says as she skids across the hardwood floor, then sees Layla on the sofa and squeals as if she’d forgotten her guest would still be here. “Layla!”

In the doorway stands Skylar.

Huh. Weird.

“Hope I’m not bothering you.” She steps into the foyer without an invitation, a to-go bag clutched in her hand. “Benny insisted on ringing the bell.”

I clear my throat, shifting into Dad Mode before my brain can replay the last ten minutes in Dolby Surround. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Skylar says. “Dinner ran long because the girls decided to debate whether a churro is a pastry or a donut.” She lifts the bag. “We brought you a treat.”

I take the bag she’s holding out and take a peek inside at the clear container with a slice of cheesecake—then back at Skylar. “You didn’t have to bring us anything.”

“I know.” She tucks a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear, eyes flicking from my face to Layla on the couch, then back at me. Her pause feels . . . loaded?

Skylar clears her throat. “I also thought you might want a heads-up.”

My brows rise. “About?”

“So.” She steps closer. “At dinner,” she says carefully, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “Benny told Greg and I that Layla is going to be her new mom.”

Fuck.

Fuck Fuck Fuck.

My stomach sinks. This is what I’d wanted to avoid by bringing Layla to our home; this is a problem I created—false hope inside my daughter.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She said that?”

Actually I don’t know why this news surprises me. It sounds exactly like something my daughter would announce; daydreaming and manifesting things into existence seem to be her specialty.

“She did.” Skylar steps back now, giving me space. “I’m not sure what your relationship is with, um, Layla—and it’s certainly none of my business—but Benny seems to think . . .”

I scrub a hand over the stubble on my jaw. “I’m sorry she put you on the spot like that.”

“You don’t owe me an apology.” Skylar’s tone is kind. “I only came to give you a heads-up before you hear it from the rumor mill.”

“Appreciated,” I say, and mean it. I look to the living room, where Layla is half watching Skylar and me chat, half watching television.

Skylar glances her way, then back at me. “For what it’s worth, Benny wasn’t bragging. She was hopeful, you know? ’Cause that’s what little girls do.”

“Layla and I are friends—we’re not dating,” I hear myself blurt out because I’m not sure what else to say.

We’re . . .

She’s . . .

“She’s from out of state.”

Skylar nods as if she already knew this information. “Ahh. I see.”

“It would never work.” I have no idea why I’m telling this woman this information, guilt immediately taking root in my gut.

Her gaze slides toward the living room, to Layla tucked into my sweatshirt like she’s always belonged in it. “I’m sure it will be fine. Everything has a way of working out the way it’s supposed to.”

“Right.” The word tastes like acid on my tongue.

“Obviously she adores Layla,” Skylar adds. “I’m sorry I won’t get to know her better if she’s leaving soon—I’m sure a little chat between the three of you at bedtime will do the trick.” She exhales. “Well. I’ll get out of your hair. And hey, if you need a friendly adult to run interception on a very enthusiastic nine-year-old? I’m a text away.”