Page 23 of Scouting the Single Dad

Ha.

“It made me feel safe when she did that,” Benny goes on. “Like she could kick someone’s ass.”

“Language,” I chastise, clearing my throat because my daughter staring me down has me feeling uncomfy. “And now we’re not going to be on time ’cause you’re screwing around and giving me the third degree. I’ll be pissed if we lose our reservation.”

“Uh, hello—you’re the guest of honor in this town.” She scoffs, digging a ChapStick out of her pocket as I pull on the door handle to make sure it’s locked behind us. “If she asked you to dinner, would you go?”

“She who?” I feign ignorance.

“Layla.”

I shake my head. “I already have a dinner date,” I say. “You. Me. Plus my mistress, the bread basket.”

“Is that a hard no?”

“It’s a hard no. And why on earth would that woman hypothetically invite me to dinner?”

Benny shrugs. “Stranger things have happened. Some women like taking the initiative—we live in modern times.”

“Hmm, why don’t I trust you?” My voice drops into full Dad Mode. “I told you, no scheming. Don’t even think about implying to that woman that she ask me on a date. I am not in middle school, you are not a matchmaker. Understood?”

She zips her ChapStick across her lips with a dramatic toss of her hair. “You’re no fun.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. She’s told me that a million times before.

When we step into the lobby, cool air rushes to meet us. For the first time since taking the place in, I glance approvingly at the warm wood and rustic beams and fireplace in the corner. I had not noticed when we arrived; guess I’d been too busy corralling my daughter to appreciate it.

I fish out my phone to pull up the Uber app, only to be greeted with the cheery, mocking words: No Cars Available in Your Area. There must be some mistake.

That can’t be right. I jab Refresh with my sausage pointer finger.

“Hi, excuse me.” I stride over to the concierge desk, thrusting my phone at the young man behind the counter. “It’s not showing any cars in this area.”

The kid behind the counter—skinny tie, black-rimmed glasses, deadpan expression—leans forward for a look. “That’s correct.”

I blink. “Correct as in temporarily correct?”

“No, sir.”

“Will there be cars later?” How long do we have to wait for one to become available? We’re hungry and want to go to dinner.

“No, sir.”

“Like—ever?”

“There are no Ubers in Star Lake, sir.”

I give my head a shake. “I’m sorry, for a second I hallucinated and thought I heard you say there are no Ubers in Star Lake.”

“That is correct.”

I shove my phone back in my pocket and scrub a hand over my face. “There has to be another option. Taxis? Shuttles? A bus?”

We are not driving that truck fifty yards, nor are we walking in the rain. A bus could be fun.

The concierge adjusts his glasses again. “There’s no public transportation. The hotel does not offer a shuttle because we’re so close to town.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bopping nervously. “Sorry, sir.”

Oh my God, why is he calling me sir? I’m barely older than he is.