Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Hello Hayes and Benny!
Welcome to Star Lake and the annual Fall Festival. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve agreed to come and participate in the festivities, which will help make this year a smashing success! Please reach out if you need anything or have any special requests.
Tomorrow during the festival, I will have you in a special booth so you don’t have to walk among the crowd and cause a stir and possible foot-traffic pile up. We’ve assigned an assistant for you. June will be available all of Saturday. I will make introductions then.
In the meantime, here is my cell number, do not hesitate to use it.
411-555-8960
I’ve taken the liberty of making you a dinner reservation at Velvet & Vine Supper Club at 6PM—but feel free to dine elsewhere in town, compliments of the Star Lake Fall Fest Committee.
Best,
Layla Monroe
I grunt as my eyes skim it again. Before I can set the card back in the basket, Benny is up my asshole, snatching it away and reading it out loud.
“Velvet and Vine—ooh la la!” She clicks her tongue, throwing her wet self on the bed. “Sounds delicious.”
“Sounds like a place that requires shirts without cartoon frogs,” I say, teasing because I know for certain it’s a T-shirt she packed. “And shoes that aren’t squeaking from water.”
She flips onto her back, legs bicycling in the air. “Can we go? Please, Dad? I’ve never eaten at a supper club before.”
Yes, she has. She just didn’t know it.
As my sidekick, Benny has eaten in more high-end restaurants than most adults—team banquets, sponsor dinners, and the ESPY Awards since I never have a date. It’s either my daughter or my parents, sometimes all three.
“Here’s the deal,” I say, thumbing toward her suitcase. “‘Supper club’ is just a fancy way to say ‘restaurant that has small snacks,’ like pickles and cheesy beer dip. Same rules apply for behavior.”
She nods. “Got it.”
“No ordering the forty-two-dollar mac and cheese and only taking two bites because you think it’s too creamy.”
Benny clutches her chest. “I would never.”
She would and she has.
“Here are the rules for tonight,” I add, ticking them off. “Do not call the olives ‘snack marbles.’ Do not go crazy on the complimentary bread—save room for dinner. And if the menu says ‘market price,’ do not order it. Period.”
She waits for more.
“Use your manners.”
“Dress code?” she asks, opening her suitcase and taking out a pair of jeans.
I nod. “Those work. Sweater. Boots.” Pause. “It’s cold.”
“Okay, here are my weekend rules,” she counters as she walks toward the bathroom to change. “If I see Bigfoot merch, I must must browse and buy at least one thing. We try at least one dessert. And you have to rate your food with real numbers, not say ‘it tastes fine.’”
“Fine.”
She levels me with a look. “Dad.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Whole numbers only.”
After she comes back out of the bathroom, she shimmies into a cute pink sweater and yanks a matching knit hat over her braids. “Okay—question time.”
I groan. Nothing is ever simple with this child. She loves drama and making me squirm, as if her soul purpose in life is giving me a hard time.
“What did you think of Layla?” A beat. “You know, from the parking lot. Did you think she was pretty?”
Yes, I know which lady she’s talking about.
I shove my feet into a pair of dry boots. “She was helpful.”
Benny rolls her eyes so hard they probably need optometric care. “‘Helpful’ is how you pat a kindergartner on the head who brings back the crayons after using them. Try again, Dad.”
Truth? Pretty didn’t cover it. Layla has the sweet kind of face you notice and then immediately pretend you didn’t, because you don’t want to be caught staring.
“Fine.” I repeat the same word I seem to use again and again. “Yes, she was pretty.”
So what? Big deal. It’s not going to kill me to admit it. Lots of women are pretty. It means jack shit.
However, Benny’s smile lights up the room. “Ha! I knew you thought so!”
I gaze at her suspiciously. “Another rule: No schemes, no matchmaking.”
“Me? Scheme? I feel offended.”
I snort. “Must I remind you about your family chat called ‘Dad’s GF’?”
She ignores my question. “Pretty how? Like librarian pretty? Or ‘I’m going to lay in bed thinking about her’ pretty?”
Uh, probably not that. The woman had mascara dripping down her face and resembled a drowned raccoon.
“Sure.” I neither agree nor disagree with either of her questions. “She’s cute pretty.”
“Oooooh cute pretty.” She’s glowing. “Love that adjective for you, Dad.”
“We’re leaving.” I ignore her statement, grabbing the room key, intending to Uber to the restaurant.
But my child has other plans, blocking the door with one small palm on the frame and all the confidence of a traffic cop. “Dad, did you also notice how she stepped in front of that guy with his camera out so he wouldn’t get our picture?”