Page 14 of Scouting the Single Dad

Whatever.

Who knows.

Gripping the wheel tighter, I focus as the four-lane highway turns into two. The trees crowd closer, and eventually the world opens up; suddenly we’re driving along the shores of a giant lake.

My daughter breathes a loud, excited sigh.

“‘Welcome to Star Lake,’” I read out loud as we pass the giant sign. “‘Where everyone is your neighbor.’”

Hm.

Doubt it.

We pass another sign for the Fall Fest proclaiming Pies! Axes! Hay! The pumpkin on the poster is flexing tiny biceps, which, I have to admit, is pretty fucking cute.

More signs. One telling me to take the next right to The Star Lake Lodge.

“Whoa,” Benny breathes, palm splayed on the window. “It’s like a postcard.”

Her eyes are glued to the view—shoreline stitched with docks, boats parked at each one, twinkling lights everywhere like it’s a requirement.

Ketchup’s wipers squeak once and rest.

Benny points again, voice gone soft. “Dad, look at the leaves. They look like they’re on fire.”

“I rate the leaves a nine out of ten,” I say automatically. She loves the game where we rank things.

“Rude,” she says, delighted. “Ten out of ten, would look again.”

“Ach.” I tease. “You’re too generous with your points.”

A canoe noses between docks. Kayaks bob in the water. The driver of a small SUV coming the other way does the two-finger country salute off the steering wheel.

Too friendly.

Not my vibe.

“Dad.” Benny gives my arm a light smack. “You didn’t wave.”

My brows go up. “How many times are we going to have the stranger-danger talk?”

More eye-rolling from the passenger side. “This is not stranger danger. This is small-town stuff. You just lift two fingers and wiggle them like this.” She wiggles her fingers in a hello.

“I don’t say hello to strangers.” We just went over this!

“Well, you’re in Star Lake now, and I refuse to be the daughter of a man who won’t wave. It’s so embarrassing, seriously, Dad.” She taps the window as another truck approaches. “Incoming! Go! Wave!”

I sigh, lift two fingers from the wheel. The driver—older guy, cap, and red flannel from what I can tell—grins and lifts his whole palm in return.

“There.” Benny beams. “You’ve been assimilated.”

Assimilated? I glance at her. “How do you know what that word means?”

She stares back at me. “Are you being serious right now?” She huffs. “I won the spelling bee last year, remember?”

I laugh. “How could I forget when you’re always reminding me.”

“That’s called personal branding. I’m a triple threat—cute, smart, fabulous,” she says, digging in her backpack. “Speaking of which . . .”