Page 86 of Scouting the Single Dad

Not to mention, boys didn’t like me the way they liked my friends. I wasn’t flirty or sexy, and I never let any of them put their hands under my shirt at parties.

I clear my throat. “Also, if middle-school Layla could see me now, she’d faint from joy that a handsome professional athlete touched her boobs.”

He smiles for real. “Tell her she’s crushing it.”

I wait for him to say something more, or reach for my hand. Put his arm around my shoulders. Let me know my feelings are valid and he’s not the only one reacting to this information.

Anything.

He reaches for the remote instead.

Wow.

Okay.

I chew on the inside of my cheek and learn nothing more about him or what he wants or what he’s thinking in that big brain of his. He doesn’t move closer. The space between us might as well be a Grand Canyon’s worth of space.

“I’m gonna get water. You want?” I ask, already standing and moving toward the kitchen.

“Sure,” he says, eyes on the television.

This is the Hayes Fielder they show in the media: the hardened, stubborn, broody version of him.

In the kitchen I run the tap too long, stare at my reflection in the dark window.

“Layla,” I ask it. “What are you doing?”

I swallow. I Do Not Beg Men to reassure me! He either likes me or he doesn’t. I did not suck his dick so he’d propose marriage to me. I do not hand-hold adults!

“I think I’m going to head to bed,” I tell him instead of getting the water I promised. “That hike did me in.”

He sits straight, finally giving me an ounce of attention. “Layla—”

“It’s okay.” I give him a small smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “We can talk tomorrow. Or not.” Whatever.

“That’s not—I just . . .” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, searching for words that don’t show. “Yeah, okay. Tomorrow.”

“Night, Hayes.”

“Night.”

I make it to the guest room before the hurt crests in my chest and threatens tears. Close the door. Sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my suitcase in the corner of the room.

There’s lingerie packed that I hadn’t had the nerve to wear. Too presumptuous.

Now I know how right I was about that.

Ha.

I scrub my makeup off, pat my face dry, my skin glowing. Moisturizer. Toothbrush. Pull on soft cotton shorts and a skimpy tank top. Hair down. Phone on the nightstand face down, because I am not doomscrolling through his brooding silence.

I crawl into bed. Click off the lamp. Sigh into the dark, replaying the scene down in the living room—Hayes’s careful words, the distance between us, the way he reached for the remote instead of me.

What’s he doing down there? Has he gone to bed yet? Does he want me to leave? Should I go?

The minutes pass as an eternity.

“What am I doing here?” I whisper out loud to myself.