Page 2 of Scouting the Single Dad

Good! Because there is!

I plop down in the seat across from her, taking my email and laying it on her desk. Give it a tap with my finger. “I received this email this morning. It says I’m in charge of Fall Fest? Which has to be a huge mistake, ’cause if you recall, I already have a full-time job scheduling the pickleball wars—I mean courts—and organizing the seasonal activity guides. Not to mention soliciting donations for the updates to the building and the after-school programs . . .”

Her lips twitch when I’m done speaking, but she keeps her expression neutral. “There was no mistake.”

I blink.

Once. Twice.

“I’m sorry, did you just say the email wasn’t a mistake?”

“You’ll do fine,” she says by way of explanation, leaning back in her chair with the kind of calm only a woman who has survived twenty Fall Fests can muster. “June can help you, and Annabelle has made herself available if you need to text her.”

Annabelle has made herself available . . .

Ugh!

“I’ll do fine?” I squeak, hope dwindling. “I’m sorry, but Annabelle ran Fall Fest like it was the freaking Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She hired lumberjacks, Angelina. Actual lumberjacks! She taught one of them how to chop wood! She made more money last year than all other years combined! She is a legend. A legend.”

Have I Mentioned She Was a Damn Legend?

Angelina’s patronizing smile is still pasted on her face. “The mayor wouldn’t have given you this task if he didn’t feel you were up for it.”

The mayor? She’s going to hold that jackass over my head? Since when does he assign tasks? The man’s job is shaking hands and taking photographs with tourists.

My mouth gapes.

Angelina sets her pen down and levels me with a stare. “You’re resourceful, Layla. You’ll figure it out.”

But I’m not done whining. “You’re asking me to recreate the success Annabelle had last year, and it’s impossible! She has NFL connections. She’s got clout.” I sigh and slouch down in the chair, grumbling, “I’ve got nothing but an ex-boyfriend who cheated on me with my dentist, who won Miss Washington three years ago.”

For the first time, Angelina lets herself smile. Not encouraging. More like the smile of someone about to twist the knife. “Are you done complaining?”

No. “Yes.”

Angelina shuffles a stack of papers on her desk to busy her hands. “Use her connections if you aren’t confident you’ll have the same turnout.”

“Excuse me?”

“You still talk to Annabelle, don’t you? Ask her to send help. Someone with a big name who wouldn’t mind spending a weekend in Star Lake. A little star power goes a long way.”

Is she talking about a celebrity?

I thought I was the delulu one here.

I laugh, but it comes out too high pitched to sound normal. “You want me to text Annabelle and say, ‘Hey, any chance your hot football-player husband can come judge a chili contest?’”

“Or,” Angelina says, lifting one brow. “Maybe he can send a friend.”

I blink. And then the horror sets in. “Oh my God. You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious.” She picks her pen back up, already moving on to her paperwork and ignoring me. “Congratulations, Layla. Don’t forget to put the donut truck on Main Street this year. It bottlenecked traffic last time.”

Right.

Reluctantly I rise from the chair, pushing it in to tidy the space, and go to the door. Give Angelina one last glance—one last beseeching look—before walking back to my office.

I waste no time texting the former event organizer.