Page 95 of Strictly the Worst

“Yeah. And the tip. All good.”

“I thought you told Zoe to never let a man buy her dinner,” I say, trying not to smile because is this man for real?

“I wasn’t buying her dinner. I was buying her and her friends dinner. And Maisie’s mom.”

“Are you expecting Maisie’s mom to put out?” I ask, feigning horror. “Because she’s a married woman.”

He hands me the pizza boxes and opens the door for Zoe, who’s too busy checking the messages on her phone to listen to us, and then for me.

“Smooth,” I say.

“I like to think so. And no, I wasn’t planning on calling in favors with Maisie’s mom.”

Our eyes catch.

“Zoe’s mom though,” he murmurs in my ear. “She’s definitely my type. I’d like to try my luck with her.”

“Holy shit,” Zoe whispers as we walk into Linc’s apartment.

I turn to give her a mom-level stare, even though my reaction was just as shocked, although silent. “Excuse me?” I say, unable to really take it all in with my arms full of our pizza.

“Sorry,” she says. “But this place is huge. You could fit our whole house into this room.”

Yes you could, and we’re only in the hallway. Linc closes the door behind us and carries our bags in. “Want the tour?” he asks Zoe.

“Absolutely I do.” She claps her hands together. “Do you have a swimming pool?”

“No. And I wouldn’t let you near it if I did. You and water aren’t a good combination.” His voice is teasing. She hasn’t stopped smiling since we picked her up from the pizza place.

“Tell me you at least have a hot tub.”

“I have a spa bath.”

“Seriously?” Her mouth opens.

“Yes, and lucky for you it has no faucets. Just buttons.”

She sighs. “We need to get a spa bath.”

“A working tub would be nice,” I say.

Linc puts our bags down on the floor as we step into the living area. There’s a huge L-shaped leather sofa dominating one side of the room, along with the biggest television I’ve ever seen. The sofa faces the window that gives a floor-to-ceiling view of Manhattan.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Zoe says, running her finger along the back of the sofa. “Can I watch movies in here?”

“If you’d like.”

“You’re going to your dad’s tomorrow evening,” I remind her.

She wrinkles her nose. “Can’t I stay here?”

“No, you can’t.” Because Jared would probably kill me.

“The kitchen is right there,” Linc says, inclining his head toward a sleek, perfectly proportioned kitchen. He takes the pizza boxes from me and puts them on the white marble countertop. Then he opens the top and takes out a slice.

He already ate two in the car. The man’s an eating machine.

“Guest bedroom number one at the end,” he says, swallowing a mouthful of pizza. “You can have that one, Zo.”

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