Page 22 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Dress code?” she asks, opening her suitcase and taking out a pair of jeans.

I nod. “Those work. Sweater. Boots.” Pause. “It’s cold.”

“Okay, here are my weekend rules,” she counters as she walks toward the bathroom to change. “If I see Bigfoot merch, I must must browse and buy at least one thing. We try at least one dessert. And you have to rate your food with real numbers, not say ‘it tastes fine.’”

“Fine.”

She levels me with a look. “Dad.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Whole numbers only.”

After she comes back out of the bathroom, she shimmies into a cute pink sweater and yanks a matching knit hat over her braids. “Okay—question time.”

I groan. Nothing is ever simple with this child. She loves drama and making me squirm, as if her soul purpose in life is giving me a hard time.

“What did you think of Layla?” A beat. “You know, from the parking lot. Did you think she was pretty?”

Yes, I know which lady she’s talking about.

I shove my feet into a pair of dry boots. “She was helpful.”

Benny rolls her eyes so hard they probably need optometric care. “‘Helpful’ is how you pat a kindergartner on the head who brings back the crayons after using them. Try again, Dad.”

Truth? Pretty didn’t cover it. Layla has the sweet kind of face you notice and then immediately pretend you didn’t, because you don’t want to be caught staring.

“Fine.” I repeat the same word I seem to use again and again. “Yes, she was pretty.”

So what? Big deal. It’s not going to kill me to admit it. Lots of women are pretty. It means jack shit.

However, Benny’s smile lights up the room. “Ha! I knew you thought so!”

I gaze at her suspiciously. “Another rule: No schemes, no matchmaking.”

“Me? Scheme? I feel offended.”

I snort. “Must I remind you about your family chat called ‘Dad’s GF’?”

She ignores my question. “Pretty how? Like librarian pretty? Or ‘I’m going to lay in bed thinking about her’ pretty?”

Uh, probably not that. The woman had mascara dripping down her face and resembled a drowned raccoon.

“Sure.” I neither agree nor disagree with either of her questions. “She’s cute pretty.”

“Oooooh cute pretty.” She’s glowing. “Love that adjective for you, Dad.”

“We’re leaving.” I ignore her statement, grabbing the room key, intending to Uber to the restaurant.

But my child has other plans, blocking the door with one small palm on the frame and all the confidence of a traffic cop. “Dad, did you also notice how she stepped in front of that guy with his camera out so he wouldn’t get our picture?”

I meet her gaze. “Yeah. I noticed.”

That part hit me in the sternum, if we’re being honest. I’m a private person on purpose—for both of us. Benny didn’t choose a dad that people point cameras at, or one everyone watches on television on a weekly basis or sees in the tabloids. That men trash talk and approach in public to argue with. Or call a loser when he loses a game.

The less she’s dragged into shit with work, the better, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. Honestly? I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t do my reputation good to be photographed with my daughter.

Show the world a softer side, my agent says: Makes you seem human and not like such a giant fucking prick.

A prick? Who, me?