Page 117 of Scouting the Single Dad

This is not information I need to know, but I nod anyway. “Great, that place is way too dark with half the lights burned out.”

Margo wiggles her eyebrows. “Speaking of Grant . . .”

Oh, here we go. The real reason she’s in my office. “Margo.”

“What?” She shrugs innocently, taking another bite of donut. “I’m simply reporting that he asked if you were coming by the maintenance yard today.”

“When do I ever go to the maintenance yard?” Never, that’s when.

“Mm-hmm. He may have mentioned you looked cute at Fall Fest.”

I laugh. “He said that?”

“He did. The direct quote: She was running around in that green jacket, looking like a snack.” Margo pulls a face. “Men and their metaphors. Anyway, he’s single.”

“Yes, I am well aware that Grant is single.” I swivel to my screen so she can’t see my eyes roll. “It’s nice. I’m not . . . I mean, if he needs anything for the baseball field, he can email me, but otherwise, I’m not interested.” I went to school with Grant’s sister Casey, and the last thing I need is to date a guy whose entire family knows all the stupid shit I did as a teenager.

No thanks.

Margo watches me for a beat too long. “You okay?”

“Yup.”

She doesn’t believe me. “Does your sulking have anything to do with that vacation you were on?”

I am not sulking, and that . . . “Wasn’t a vacation,” I say.

“Then what was it?”

I hesitate. “I was . . . visiting family,” I lie.

Margo is the last person I’m going to be honest with. If I tell her I was in Arizona with Hayes Fielder, she will tell Angelina, and the last thing I want is a lecture about using my PTO for frivolous travel, even though it’s none of her business what I do in my free time.

In Star Lake, everyone’s business is everyone’s business.

Think: Gilmore Girls–level nosy.

Margo plants her clipboard on her hip. “Well. Now that you’re done visiting family”—she air quotes—“maybe you should consider dating. Casually! Nothing like dipping your toe into the lake. I hear from Lana Grinwold that the apps are pretty good now. She met a widower named Morty on Golden Singles.”

Yup. Exactly what I need.

Lana and Morty as my dating mentors.

“Pretty good? Since when? Last time I checked”—which was never—“it was ninety percent fish photos and guys bragging they’re six feet when they’re five-seven in boots.”

“Don’t be so negative.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t have the bandwidth to make small talk with Trent, thirty-nine, aspiring entrepreneur, who only has one blurry photo of himself from ten years ago and a bio that says looking for my partner in crime.” I huff, swiveling back to my screen before my face gives me away. “I’m working on the activity guide.”

Jeez, do I sound bitter?

Margo picks a few sprinkles off the pink donut frosting, sets them on her tongue, and chews. “You look like a person who could use a little fun. And a man who’s going to bring you flowers.”

That gets my attention, and I look at her again.

A man who brings me flowers.

“I’m not prying—and I’m trying to keep it professional. But, dear . . .” my coworker says quietly. “If you’re lonely, you don’t have to pretend you’re not. The apps are a tool for everyone.”