Page 12 of Scouting the Single Dad

“I owe Maverick McBride a favor,” I mutter, angling us toward the sliding doors and the wall of rain waiting outside. “So we’re doing community service.”

Benny nods, her sweet little face beaming at me. “I get to swim, right?”

“You’re always swimming.”

She hops twice to keep pace with my longer stride, French braids swinging. “Yeah, but not in a lake. The pool doesn’t count.”

“The pool doesn’t count?” I arch a brow, steering her around a slow-moving couple glued to their phones. “Since when?”

Benny heaves the most dramatic sigh a nine-year-old can muster and rolls her eyes, like I’m the densest man alive. “Since we’re headed to a lake.”

Truth is, I didn’t want to come.

Not to Washington.

Not to Fall Fest, whatever the hell that even means.

Definitely not to stand in front of a crowd and smile for pictures like some goodwill mascot. But when Maverick McBride calls in a favor, you don’t say no. And I owe him.

Another reason we’re here is the way Benny’s eyes lit up at the words trip. Plane. Lake. Festival.

She’s been talking about it for months. Making packing lists. Googling pictures of cabins and lakes. Asking me if I’ve ever seen a moose.

I huff a laugh and push the door with my shoulder. The rain hits us like a wet slap, and my girl squeals, tucking closer to my side, pink backpack bouncing against my ribs. I tug my ball cap lower. The brim’s useless with this downpour, and bonus, it’s probably already on some gossip account that I landed in Seattle. The internet can have the rain shot.

They can’t have my kid.

“Okay, navigator,” I say, hustling us beneath the awning where the rental cars are lined up. “Which truck do you think is ours?”

“Red one.”

The large F-150 turns out to be a beast with tires more serious than an airport rental needs to be and a front grill that looks as though it could take a pounding. Benny runs her palm along the fender like it’s a horse. “Sweet ride.”

It is a sweet ride. I thumb the fob, the lights blink, and we climb in. The engine rumbles awake; the wipers swish; garage lights smear across the windshield as we ease down the ramp and nose into the gray.

“Ahh, the open road,” I say, deadpan.

Benny snorts. “We’re still in a parking garage.”

“Details.”

She leans forward, sniffing exaggeratedly. “Already smells like fresh mountain air.”

“That’s the air freshener.”

“Don’t ruin this for me, Dad.”

I grin and merge into traffic. The rain has calmed from biblical to persistent. The city skyline blurs by in streaks as drizzle continues to fall, the GPS informing us in her soothing robotic voice that we’ll be on this road for seventy-something miles, give or take.

“Rules of the road trip,” I announce, drumming the wheel. “One: You run music, obviously. Two: No stopping ten times to pee. Three: For the first hour, no talking about homework.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Benny rolls her eyes, digging into her backpack. “Want a Sour Patch Kid?”

I pull a face. “Yuck.”

She flips through her phone. “Do we name her or what?”

“The truck?”