Page 18 of Scouting the Single Dad

Dammit.

The horn behind me blasts again.

“Calm down, dude!” I shout at the offender, throwing the truck into park, then hurriedly jumping out.

“Stay!” I tell the piece-of-shit truck that I now hate, because I’m panicked and also because it sometimes works.

At the same time, a man steps out of the red truck, planting his feet in the path of the runaway pumpkin.

“Sorry!” I apologize emphatically, already hustling to the tailgate to inspect the damage. “I knew this bungee wasn’t going to make it, and I kept it on the truck anyway. I am so so sorry!”

The man grunts. Bends to grab the small pumpkin at his feet, then holds it toward me in his palm.

“Trade?” he says. “You take this, I’ll grab the hay.”

“Deal.” I cradle the pumpkin like a football that failed algebra and set it on the curb. Straw is already everywhere—confetti for a parade I did not plan. Another smaller gourd toddles past my ankle like it has errands.

“Benny, sidewalk,” the man calls over his shoulder without looking away from the mess I’ve created. His tone is calm, not sharp, and a young girl about nine or ten years old in an oversize navy hoodie appears at his side anyway, braids swinging.

She scoops up two pumpkins. “Permission to pursue orange guy under the front tire?”

“Denied.”

The child wants to argue. I can see it in her eyes.

I, on the other hand, am babbling apologies. “I knew the bungee wasn’t going to hold. Ugh! Like, hi, I’m the person your liability waivers warned you about.”

I force out a laugh and hope the man cracks a smile.

“All good,” the big dude says. “We’ve seen worse.”

Worse? In the middle of a parking lot? Not likely.

And then his face tilts up and my brain finally files him under the correct tab.

Oh.

Oh no . . .

Hayes Fielder. The actual one. The reason I begged Annabelle for help is because I’m worried my organizational skills suck and that I’m going to need saving, and this is the man who has come to do the job.

I told myself I would act normal when I greeted him. Professional and not . . . not . . . whatever this is.

He’s huge. Six-three easy, with broad shoulders hidden under a green jacket, forearms ropey where his cuffs are pushed back. That thick black hair I’ve seen in pictures, a scar through one eyebrow like a punctuation mark, his mouth set in a line that says, I am not here for nonsense, lady.

His eyes are onyx pools you only get on lakes right before it rains. Jawline has stubble.

Hasn’t smiled once.

He’s got resting bitch face and I.

Am.

Into.

It.

I know attraction when I feel it, and unfortunately . . . I’m feeling it. The flutters, the dumb little elevator drop in my stomach. Terrific. Exactly what you want while you’re creating a mess in public and shedding straw like a feral scarecrow.