“It’s a good thing you’re prepared to get dirty,” he says, clearly entertained.
“No.”
“But you have to.”
“Absolutely not, Gabe.”
“But you already agreed. I need to stay in LA, and there’s no one else.”
I grit my teeth, volcanic irritation hissing just below the surface. “I already told Zac no. Now I’m telling you. I. Don’t. Date. Ever. Say it with me.”
“It’s not a real date,” he huffs. “It’s one night. For charity,” he pleads. “And if this is about you being self-conscious over your dad bod?—”
What the fuck?
I bench more than this asshole weighs and can still cruise through SEAL Hell Week without breaking a sweat.
Dad bod, my ass.
I clear my throat. “I do not have a dad bod.”
I smack my abs hard enough to echo through the phone. “Hear that, motherfucker? Eight pack. Fully intact.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
What’s the problem?
The problem is I’m an overworked single dad of three who barely has time to choke down a second cup of coffee, let alone dive headfirst into the dating pool.
Even if it is just for one night.
Besides, from everything Mark, Zac, and Brian have said, that pool is nothing but money-grubbing women and a whole lot of pee.
Hard pass.
Desperate and grasping at straws, I scroll through the activities calendar, praying for a miracle.
Sophie’s ballet is on Mondays.
Ollie’s taekwondo, Tuesdays.
Connor cut back on gaming camp because hockey season just kicked off.
I blink.
Holy shit. Am I a slave to my kids’ social lives?
Maybe I do need a life.
Or a date.
Shut up.
I scrub a hand through my hair and glance upward. A little help down here.
I blow out a rough breath, confident I am not available at all. “When is it?”
A beat.
