Page 25 of Scouting the Single Dad

With a long sigh, I twist the final elastic into my braid, tugging it over my shoulder as I lean toward the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, just as weary as I feel. A baby swipe of mascara. A dab of gloss. That’s literally all I’ve got energy for.

Tomorrow the whole town will be expecting Fall Fest to look effortless, like it sprouted overnight in all its pumpkin-spice glory. They won’t see the months of scrambling, the late nights, the texts that start with so sorry to bug you But . . .

Speaking of which, my phone buzzes now, a familiar number lighting up the screen.

For a second, I debate letting it go to voicemail.

Duty wins. “Hello?”

“Layla?” There’s a pause, then a low, rough voice, all gravel and reluctance. “This is Hayes Fielder.”

Holy shit. He’s the last person I thought would actually use my number.

“Yes,” I say at long last, my voice catching to push past the disbelief. “Hi. This is Layla.”

Another pause, heavy enough I imagine him grinding his jaw. Then: “We’re stuck.”

I frown. “Stuck?”

In mud? At a stop sign? In a ditch?

“At the hotel.” His words are clipped, each one costing him his manhood to admit. “No Ubers. No taxis. No shuttle. Nothing.”

I almost laugh—except his tone makes it clear he’s in no mood. “Right. We don’t have those.”

“Yes, I’m realizing that.” A beat longer, then softer—as if it pains him to utter the words: “Benny thought maybe you could give us a lift.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Benny thought?

Of all the people in this town, my name is the one she tossed out? Not anyone at the hotel? Not Simon, the sweet kid behind the desk who bends over backward for everyone and probably would’ve chauffeured them himself with a smile?

No—me.

I’m not sure if it’s shock or nerves or the simple fact that Hayes Fielder, human brick wall, is on the other end of this call, asking for help.

My heartbeat kicks up a notch. “Yeah. Yes, I can come grab you. I’m actually next door grabbing a few things, so I can be there in two minutes.”

The silence is thick. “Thanks.”

Oh my God, this is killing him. I can hear it. Every syllable sounds like sandpaper being dragged across his tongue.

One minute later, I’m sliding back behind the wheel of Dad’s old truck, nerves creeping in at a rapid pace. I’ve never rescued an NFL player before. I’ve never had a man like him in such close proximity!

The engine roars back to life, loud enough to rattle the seat, and I wince.

As I ease the truck out of the driveway, I glance at the cab around me and groan. Every inch of space is crammed with Fall Fest overflow—boxes of napkins and mason jars, crates of string lights I never got around to unloading at the picnic area.

The passenger seat barely has a square foot of space.

This is not the impression I want to make when rescuing a professional athlete. Welcome to my circus wagon! Climb on in! If you can find room!

I shove a bundle of burlap off the seat and onto the floorboard, but it’s useless. There’s no hiding any of it—I’ll have to hop out when I arrive at the lodge and shove some of the shit into the bed of the truck.

Dammit.

Benny and Hayes stand under the hotel awning. Benny’s face lights up when she finally sees me, as if I am the most exciting development of her day. Her dad follows, broad shoulders, jaw set, expression unreadable.

I wish the truck could swallow me whole.