Page 9 of Sexy Bad Daddy

He spews the slug of Coke he’d just taken, and I jump to the side to avoid a direct hit. The brown liquid splatters across a rack of previously pristine white golf pants.

“Oh shit,” I say, trying not to laugh. Danny glances around and then places the bottle on a nearby shelf.

“Get changed,” he says, shooing me toward the dressing room. “Before someone sees this mess. I can’t afford to pay for all those pants.”

I hurry to do so, and when he wants to leave without buying the dress, I insist otherwise. He’s sweating and glancing over his shoulder the entire time I’m conducting my transaction, and by the time we leave the store, I’m laughing so hard there are tears streaming down my face.

“You’re just plain mean,” he accuses, which makes me chuckle even more.

“Come on, I’ll buy you dinner. Hopefully, with this dress, I’ll be employed again by tomorrow.”

That, at least, appeases him, a little. And when I notice our waitress making eyes at him, I subtly let her know we aren’t dating. By the time we leave, Danny with her number programmed into his phone, he’s completely forgiven me.

“I hope you get this gig, Erin,” he says while we’re brushing our teeth side by side in the tiny half-bath off the living room in the house we’re sharing with what feels like a bunch of pledges from the local university.

“The idea of getting golf tips from Garrett Frost makes me as hard as the idea of banging that waitress does,” Danny says after he spits toothpaste.

“No jerking off while I’m in the bed with you,” I warn him.

“Then get the hell out of the bathroom already.”

Ugh. I cannot wait to move out of this dump.

***

Because I usually don’t have to pay room and board and often I have three or more children under my supervision who need to be schlepped to various school and extracurricular activities, my disposable income gets dumped into my vehicle. I drive a newer model (thank you, lease options) Nissan Rogue, so I’m only slightly intimidated as I cruise along the tree-lined, winding brick path leading to the exclusive, private country club. There’s a bored-looking valet attendant hovering near the entrance to the clubhouse, so I veer to the left to self-park.

No one questions me until I step into the lobby. A cabana-boy type who’s probably my age gives me a full-wattage smile and says, “Can I help you?”

Darting around a nervous glance and ignoring the lint on my jacket, I say, “I’m Erin Sanders. A guest of Garrett Frost.”

The smile wavers. How many guests has Frost brought to this particular club, and exactly what sort of guests are they? “Of course. He’s on the driving range. Right this way.”

Shoulders slumped and feet dragging, Cabana Boy leads me through the lobby. I touch his shoulder and say, “We aren’t, you know... I’m interviewing to be his nanny. That’s it.”

“Oh. Cool. That’s a relief. Because he’s kind of, well, you know.”

“No, actually, I don’t know. What’s he like?” If he’s a golf pro and this is his preferred country club, it stands to reason the employees would be familiar with any quirks I need to be aware of.

Cabana Boy motions for me to hang a left at the end of the hall. “He’s all right, other than he hits on every hot, single woman in the vicinity. Which is mostly the staff. Like my ex-girlfriend.”

“Oh. Ouch.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t like I was planning to marry her. I was just hoping the good time would last a little longer, y’know?”

Sure. I suppose.

“But otherwise, he’s pretty cool, I guess. Management hates the way he dresses, but he’s currently the number one golfer in the world, so they aren’t about to say a damn thing about it.”

Number one golfer in the world? What have I gotten myself into?

We exit the building and take a sidewalk that winds behind the golfers practicing their, er, putts? Crap, I really need to read up if I’m going to nanny for this guy.

“He’s down there at the end.” Cabana Boy points at a lone figure wearing white shoes, a white belt, a blue shirt, and blue and black plaid pants. Plaid. I can see why management grits their teeth every time he walks through the door.

As we stand there, he adjusts his stance, shifts his hips, and places the golf club on the ground before turning his head and staring out at the vast green lawn dotted with blue signs with big white numbers on them: 50, 100, 150, 200, 250. After a few seconds, he swings the club, sending the little white ball soaring past the 250 sign.

“He has the longest drive of all our members,” Cabana Boy whispers reverently.

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