Page 8 of Sexy Bad Daddy

“Hopefully, since her dad does it for a living. And happens to be damn good at his job.”

He’s a professional golfer? I stare at him, at the dark hair curling over the collar of his polo, er, golf shirt. There’s even a logo on the left breast. Safeway Open. And now that I’m looking closely, I can see a faint tan line around his eyes, like he wears sunglasses and spends a lot of time in the sun.

I’d caught his mention of being a professional athlete, but hell, based on the size of his arms, I would have pegged him for a minor league ball player. Or maybe hockey. His shirt outlines pecs I bet look pretty damn hot without the cotton barrier. Not that I’m interested in looking at his bare chest. Okay, not that I should be interested in doing so.

“I didn’t realize golf was such an athletic sport,” I say, and I immediately want to take the words back because now it’s damn obvious I’ve been checking him out.

“Besides keeping you in shape, know what else golf does for you?”

“What?” I ask warily.

“Gives you stamina. A lot of stamina.”

I did not need to know that. Only one person knows that my colossal fuck-up was my first time, and since then, I’ve stuck strictly to screwing guys who are my own age or younger. Let me tell you, younger guys are the reason for the term “minute man.”

Clearing my throat, I say, “Okay, well, back to scheduling a time for me to meet your daughter.”

He shakes his head. “Fine. Meet me at Ridgemoor at ten tomorrow. I’ll leave your name at the front desk. Now, can I go? My brother’s girlfriend gives me hell when I’m late.”

“Okay. Cool. Ten tomorrow. Great.” I slide out of the car and close the door, suddenly nervous. But I don’t think he notices as he gives me a flippant wave before pulling away from the curb and bullying his way into traffic.

Shit. Now I have to find something appropriate to wear to a golf club so exclusive, membership is by invitation only.

***

“Hang on a second. You invited me to go to a golf store to buy clothes? For you? In what parallel universe am I living?”

Rolling my eyes at Danny, I head toward the back corner of a speciality store that smells like testosterone and plastic.

“Okay,” I say to my BFF, the golf-lover, “which outfit should I choose for my interview tomorrow?”

“Is this for your latest nanny gig? You said you had your interview today.”

“Yes, but tomorrow is a follow-up. I get to meet his daughter. And I need to impress the hell out of him. Out of both of them.”

“You’re going to look like an idiot if you show up in golf attire yet know nothing at all about the game.”

Gritting my teeth, I say, “He already knows I know nothing about golf. But we’re meeting at a country club, and I looked them up online. They have a crazy strict dress code.” I pull my phone out of my purse and Google the club’s website, then shove the device at Danny. “See? Read that.”

He pauses so he can look at my phone, and then he sighs. “Fine. But for the record, this is stupid. Why didn’t you suggest meeting at a park or something?”

“Because I could barely get him to agree to this. Now, which top?” But I’m distracted by the skirts. No, skorts. I lift the front flap of one of the garments. “Holy shit, I thought skorts went out of style when I was a toddler.”

Danny strokes the snow-white material. “This is what lady golfers wear. Hot as fuck, if you ask me.” He glanced at me. “Which means you should definitely not wear it. Here, try this.” He pulls a gray, sleeveless dress off the rack. “Conservative, not sexual, yet acceptable. Especially if you pair it with a cardigan. It screams, ‘I want to be your nanny’ rather than ‘I want to be the next golf groupie in your bed.’ I wish I could go to the interview with you. Man, I want Garrett Frost to sign my balls.”

“You want him to do what?”

“Golf balls,” he says, gesturing at a nearby display. “I have a couple I consider my lucky balls. Bet they’d be even luckier with Garrett Frost’s autograph on them.”

Shaking my head, I grab the garment and look for the dressing room. Ever since I mentioned Frost’s name, Danny hasn’t shut up about him. Apparently, in the golf world, he’s hot stuff. And he has a reputation off the links, too. When I begged Danny to help me shop for a suitable outfit, he droned on about Frost for so long, I actually considered cancelling my meeting and letting the agency know I want to keep looking.

Except that, based on what Garrett said, Abby’s mom took off, and now I’m desperate to meet this little girl, to make sure she isn’t suffering. To see if she needs me as much as I need her—rather, this job.

“Only if I nail this interview,” I point out to Danny before shoving my purse and jacket into his arms and heading into the dressing room.

“Promise me you’ll introduce us once you get this gig,” he calls out while I shed my jeans and T-shirt and pull the dress over my head. Glancing in the mirror, I smooth the front of the stretchy material. It isn’t half bad. Not my style, not even remotely, but I can tolerate it for a couple hours if it helps me become employed again.

I step out of the dressing room so Danny can approve. “That shouldn’t be a problem, since I told him you and I are dating.”

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