Page 55 of Daddies' Little Troublemaker

No. It was real.

As real as my broken heart.

16

BIG GIRL PANTS

Lincoln

I slept like shit last night. If I slept at all. I already regret how I handled things—literally and figuratively. Literally in how I handled my cock, like it was a punishing shaft created in order to spill all my filthy, dark impulses over Evelyn. And figuratively, in the way I said it didn’t even happen.

Caleb was right—I was out of order.

Saturday finds me by the pool, audio of the Surf Rats game playing on my phone, one beer in my hand and another waiting in a small cooler at my side. And sitting like a lump on my chest is a pile of regret.

The back door swings open and Evelyn steps outside, carrying a giant basket, an ice chest, and a towel. But as soon as she sees me, she stops dead in her tracks. Stares. Turns around to go back inside.

“Wait,” I say. “I’ll go, if you want to be out here alone.”

She pauses. “I don’t care if I’m alone—I don’t want to, you know, bother you or whatever.”

Inwardly, I wince. I didn’t mean to make her unsure of herself. “Get out here, relax. The water’s nice. You’ll have to listen to the game, though.”

“Oh yeah, you like that football team. The Beach Bums, right?”

I stare at her in horror, that she could be so far off, but then she cracks a grin. “Kidding, kidding,” she says. “It’s the Surf Rats, it’s baseball, and from the sound of it, Kurimoto just stole second.”

“Fuck,” I say, listening to the roar of excited fans at the ballpark. “I missed it.”

I was too busy trying not to ogle her breasts in that white bathing suit she’s wearing.

“Anyway, if you’re sure you don’t mind…?” she prompts.

“Not at all, make yourself comfortable. It looks like you’ve brought half your room out here.”

She sets down the basket with a snort. “I don’t want to track water inside every time I want something. So here I have an ice chest filled with hard lemonades and bottled water.”

With a flourish, she opens the top.

“I see,” I say.

“And in this basket, I have chips which I am not sharing—get your own, old man.”

“Old man?” I grab my heart as if wounded.

She talks over me, continuing, “As well as cherries which I might be persuaded to share, and red licorice.”

“What’s your stance on sharing red licorice?” I ask.

“Only with my best friends.” She gives me a side-eye. “I don’t think you qualify.”

“Ouch,” I say. Then, quieter, “Hey, I need to say something.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Last night—I’m sorry. I was an asshole.”

Shrugging, she says, “You still can’t have my licorice. But it’s fine.”

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