Page 36 of Scouting the Single Dad

Dare I say magical?

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” I tell them. “Tomorrow all the streets will be closed for the festival.”

And I won’t have time to see either of them. I’ve put June Wilder in charge of the Fielders, given that she’s on the committee and is so organized she probably sleeps with her clipboard. Second in command and fully competent.

In fact, I hope they’ll leave me alone next year and put her in charge . . .

Chapter 8

Hayes

There are cameras everywhere.

I’m shocked. This tiny town has drawn such a massive crowd, it looks like a tailgate before a game, mixed with a seasonal market. Tents line Main Street in tidy rows; the air smells like roasted almonds and donuts and hot cider. Kids in warm layers run, faces painted with bats and goblins.

One of the vendors is selling knit hats with Shrek ears. An acoustic band is warming up inside the gazebo, the strums of the guitar warring with the bustle of the crowd.

Huh. Who knew?

Can’t remember ever attending a street carnival. Not even in my hometown, not with Benny.

I’m parked beneath a black canopy tent beneath a sign that says Meet Hayes Fielder, behind a table, Sharpie pen in hand if someone wants an autograph. There are glossy 8 × 10s I didn’t bring, and a stack of raffle tickets for a signed jersey I haven’t signed yet.

Dang. Layla has thought of it all.

June Wilder stands to my right like a general in the military, taking her job super fucking seriously. Clipboard. Earpiece. Stopwatch hanging from a lanyard to keep time.

“You are a sixty-minute commitment,” she informs me without preamble, barely giving a shit that people are listening. “We start at ten on the dot, and at eleven you are vapor. Poof. Then I march you to the east gate, and you’re free to wander with your”—she checks her notes—“daughter.”

“Benny,” I inform her.

“Benny,” she repeats crisply. “My job is to keep you moving so Layla can keep this whole place from setting itself on fire. Questions?”

I glance at the forming line. A kid in a Sentinels cap. A guy holding a football. Three teenage girls with glitter eyeliner wearing T-shirts that read Grumpy but Hot. I didn’t think this was possible, but seeing the crowd, I’m not so sure we’ll get to “wander.”

Shit. I wanted Benny to have a chill day of fun.

“Just one question,” I begin. “If this turns into a zoo—”

“It’s already a zoo,” June interjects cheerfully. “I am the zookeeper.”

I can’t help it; I like her.

I glance two booths down and spot Benny with Layla. My brows go up when I notice my daughter also has a clipboard and a headset; she’s explaining something to Layla with the authority of a drill sergeant, tapping her clipboard with a pen that has a pom-pom on the end. Layla’s laughing and adjusts Benny’s headset and smiles down at her affectionately.

Boops her on the nose.

My stomach does something it doesn’t even do on game day.

It flutters.

“Relax,” June murmurs. “She’s in good hands, and we can communicate with her with this.” She taps her earpiece. “One hour of playing nice. Think you can do that?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

One hour is what my publicist negotiated. Layla had originally requested four. Seriously, four fucking hours at a small-town festival? No.

I don’t mention that the Sentinels PR texted me at the ass crack of dawn with instructions: family-only optics, no snarling, be boring. I sent back a thumbs-up and a period. I can do boring. I’ve made a career out of it.