Page 43 of Scouting the Single Dad

My heart says, Say yes.

What would be the harm? It would be a reward to myself after these chaotic, stressful last few months of preparation and, of course, having to see freaking Blake and Paige in public since he cheated on me.

Jerk.

Looked so smug.

“I have a job,” I manage, pushing out a nervous laugh, rattling off excuses. “And tournaments to schedule and activities to put into the guidebook.”

I sound sooo pathetic.

“Totally up to you,” he says. “I know it’s a lot to throw at you five minutes after ambushing you with my face, but you’ve been so great with Benny, and I hate to admit it, but if you don’t come to visit her, she’ll never forgive me.”

Somehow, I doubt that.

“Just to visit her?” I tease, eyes trained on the back of his daughter’s head as she holds the sweatshirt up to her body to test the size.

“Yeah.”

Benny spins around, her final sweatshirt selection in her hands. “Dad! They had navy, and it’s so soft—feel it.” She shoves the sleeve at him. He taps it with two fingers, then gives her a noncommittal grunt that satisfies her. She beams up at both of us. “We should all get one so we match, then get the same pajama bottoms.”

Her dad and I make eye contact above her head, and I give him a wan smile.

“I should . . .” My sentence trails off. “Get back to work.”

Tons to do. June is at the lumberjack show, running the log splitting, but I should head over and check on things.

Yup.

I should.

“Right,” he says, reading my vibe. The scowl slots back into place like a helmet, replacing the laid-back smile he’s been wearing for the past twenty minutes. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

Benny deflates. “Already?”

“Layla’s running a whole town,” he reminds her, dry. To me: “Where do you need to be?”

“Lumberjack arena. Only to check on it. I’m sure June has it handled far better than I could.”

But still . . .

Benny rushes to me, wraps her arms around my waist, and squeezes me tight. “Come to Arizona,” she whispers into my jacket, a conspirator. “Please.”

Her hug is quick and fierce, then she skitters back to her dad, who has already put a half step of space between us like distance equals control.

The crowd swallows me up—roasted almonds, wet leaves, and laughter linger in the air. Guilt taps at my ribs with steady knuckles. Not for leaving work . . . but for leaving them. For not staying long enough to be brave and tell him Yes.

Arizona Would be Magical.

Fun. A short time away.

I’ve never been; actually, I’ve not been many places. One or two family trips when I was younger. A cruise for my high school graduation, a bachelorette weekend in Cabo with my friends before a wedding.

I walk past the kettle corn vendor, the raffle-basket tent, the hay-bale-and-pumpkin photo area where teenagers are posing. In the near distance, June’s voice crackles from a volunteer’s radio—confident, capable. Of course she’s got it.

“She should have been in charge,” I complain. “Not me.”

Don’t look back at them. Don’t look ba—