Page 20 of Scouting the Single Dad

“We’re waterproof,” Benny tells me. “And no offense to my dad, but this is way more fun than exploring the hotel with him.”

“Gee, thanks,” he deadpans.

She grins at me like I’ve passed some secret test. “For the record, you’re handling this mini disaster with grace. Ten out of ten.”

“Tell that to my face,” I say, dragging a finger under my eye. The finger comes away raccoon. “I’m melting.”

“It’s cute.” She’s sweet for saying so, but I know I look like a freaking mess. I’m soggy, streaking, and embarrassed.

By the time we’ve wrangled the last of the hay into a bale and exiled the mini gourds to a crate, the mist has stopped at long last. My hoodie is damp, my hair is flat, and my dignity is being held together by the baling twine holding what remains of the hay bales intact.

When we’re through, Hayes leans against the truck, then turns that weathered gaze on me. It softens a fraction. “You okay?”

It’s the first question he’s asked that’s about me. The honest answer is I’m fine because you stayed, but instead, I go with my go-to:

“I will be.” My shoulders drop a notch. “Thank you for not leaving me to drown in hay.”

“We don’t leave messes.” He repeats the sentiment, punctuating it with a definitive nod.

“I’ve added you to my list,” Benny informs me. “Even with mascara rivers. Maybe especially because of it.” Pause. “Want to come inside with us?”

“Benny,” Hayes warns her.

She is nonplussed. “What? We’re on vacation.”

“It’s ambushing.”

“It’s hospitality,” she argues, palms up.

I hold up a hand before they begin arguing, and I don’t want the kid to get in any kind of trouble. “Tempting. I appreciate the offer, but I have a date with several food vendors and about six hundred feet of string lights. Also I’m ninety percent drowned rat right now.” I swipe under one eye; my palm comes away streaky and black. “If I go inside, I’ll never leave.”

Should have worn waterproof mascara.

Live and learn.

Chapter 4

Hayes

Well. That run-in with Layla was interesting.

I wait patiently as Benny taps our room key card onto the lock and pushes the door open, then disappears into the rustic space without a backward glance.

“Don’t jump on the—”

She jumps on the bed. Then starfishes.

Of course she does . . .

I make a sound that could be a laugh and could be a groan. Hard to say. The room is warm; my shirt is clinging to my skin from being in the rain.

I peel it off and hang it over the shower bar in the bathroom, then grab the robe on the back of the door and wrestle it over my large frame. It barely fits, but at least I’m covered, and damn is it toasty . . .

My eyes catch my reflection in the mirror: big, tired dude with drenched hair and straw stuck in it, with a scowl that matches my mood.

Out in our room, I hear the sound of the balcony glass door sliding open. “Dad! I wanna go explore!”

Of course she does. She’s squirrely, and we’re in a new town, and I’m sure there’s plenty to see, even though the span of it stretches less than one mile, end to end.