Page 26 of Scouting the Single Dad

I manage a weak smile as Benny yanks open the passenger-side door and I shove more crap aside. “I am so sorry about the mess, I wasn’t expecting company so soon. There’s, uh—not much room, but we can make it work.”

Benny’s grin stretches wider. “This is awesome. Way better than an Uber.”

Hayes, however, is staring at the cluttered cab, calculating how much dignity he’s willing to lose to squeeze his giant body inside. His eyes flick to me, then to the mountain of supplies.

Then to me. My hair. The fake sunflowers spilling onto the ground.

“Fall Fest is tomorrow, and my truck has been doubling as a storage shed.”

Before I can clear more space, Benny climbs in, planting herself right on top of a box of mason jars. “Cool! I can see everything from up here!”

I shove aside a mound of extension cords, trying to carve out more inches of space. “If you, uh, angle your legs a little, we can—”

“Angle my legs,” he repeats flatly, ducking his head. He twists sideways, shoulders hitting the doorframe before he finally folds himself into the cab. “You’re hilarious.”

He scowls down at the tote bag crammed at his feet.

Heat crawls up my neck as I shift the car into drive. The engine roars like a jet taking off, shaking the mason jars beneath Benny’s bum.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “It’s cozy.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Benny wiggles in place, her arms pinned to her sides, chin tipped up toward me, watching as I ease onto Main Street from the parking lot. “So, Layla,” she chirps, as if we’re not all practically breathing the same recycled air. “Are you married?”

My foot slips on the clutch, the truck lurching forward before I get it steady again. “Um, no.”

“Boyfriend?” she presses.

Hayes groans beside her. “Benny.”

“What? I’m making conversation.” She beams up at me like this is perfectly normal road-trip chatter. “You’re really pretty. You should have a boyfriend.”

Heat floods my cheeks, hotter than the truck’s rattling heater. “Thank you? But no. No boyfriend.”

Benny gasps, twisting to look at her father. “Can you believe that? Dad, isn’t that shocking that she doesn’t have a boyfriend?”

He scowls. “Can you please stop interrogating people?”

She ignores him completely. “What about pets?”

I bite my lip, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of being trapped in a truck with a running back and a nine-year-old private investigator. “No pets. I barely have time to take care of myself.”

Benny hums like she’s filing that away in a mental dossier. “Favorite food?”

“Benny.” Hayes snaps again, all warning.

“Okay, okay!” she says, though her mischievous grin makes it clear she has about ten more questions lined up. “Favorite food?”

I laugh. “Burgers? Italian food. Any pasta.”

“Agree.” The girl nods her approval. “So if you don’t have a boyfriend, what’s your type?”

I nearly miss the gearshift. “My what?”

“Your type,” she repeats patiently, like she’s explaining math homework. “You know—tall? Funny? Glasses? Muscles? What are you into?”

Heat prickles across my cheeks. “That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”