Page 6 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

“Oh my,” murmurs Misha.

The firstbangis followed by another, then athwack,athunk, and asnap.

Thundering footsteps clamber down a staircase—carpeted, by the sounds of it—and a feminine voice calls out, “One second!”

“Ah, so sheishere,” mutters Misha, crossing her arms against her chest. “She likes your knocking more than mine.”

I smirk at the older woman. She pouts at the door.

“Shoot!” exclaims the feminine voice within. “Darn it! Crap!”

The stranger continues cursing, accompanied by a chorus of scrambling sounds, then the slick tapping of heels, and a very loud exhale.

At last, the lock clicks and the door swings open.

For a moment, all I can do is stare.

The woman on the threshold is younger than I expected. Definitely still in her twenties. She has sleek, platinum-blonde hair, which is tucked neatly behind her ears, the lobes of which twinkle with diamonds. With large, bluish-gray eyes, a pert nose, and pouty lips, she looks like a doll come to life.

Not in a creepy way. It’s just… she’sverypretty.

But then I see what she’s wearing: a pink satin robe, which is modest enough, I suppose, and a matching pair of kitten heels adorned with feathers. She looks like Malibu Barbie.

I rack my brain, trying to think if I’ve seen her face before. If she’s a model or a popstar or an actress. I come up blank.

Still, there’s no denying it. This girl walked straight out of Hollywood.

“Oh mygoodness,” she says, tossing a lock of blonde hair over her slender shoulder. “I amsosorry. I’m still on Pacific time, and so is my phone, so when I set my alarm, it still thought we were in SoCal. I’m, like,soembarrassed. Whew! Anyway, come on in!”

With dainty hands adorned in more gold and diamonds—does she sleep in her jewelry?—Poppy Minton ushers us inside her cottage. Her heels click-clackon the glossy pine flooring as she leads us further into the large, high-ceilinged front hallway.

With glimmering confidence, she turns to me and thrusts out her hand.

“Let me guess,” she croons. “You must be Misha, my interior designer.”

I blink at her in surprise, then glance at Misha, who is gazing at this flawlessly tanned creature with pure amusement.

“Uh, no—” I begin.

Ms. Minton bursts out laughing. “Kidding! I obviously know you’re Joseph Mansfield.” Numbly, I shake her hand, and then she smiles at Misha. “And Iknowyou’re Misha Roklov becauseI follow you on Instagram and you are way too gorgeous not to recognize immediately.”

“Oh, hush,” murmurs Misha demurely, shaking our client’s hand as a blush rises to her cheeks.

Seriously? She’sthatsusceptible to empty flattery? She’s usually the one doling it out, so I figured she’d be immune.

Ms. Minton’s smile is too bright and cheerful to be genuine. It has to be fake. Just like her blonde hair and her tan and her thick eyelashes.

“You can call me Joe,” I tell her, finally regaining my voice.

For some reason, she laughs. “Well,Joe, you can call me Poppy. And I hope you’ve got an army behind you, because I desperately want to change, like,somuch about this place.”

Even though it bodes well for me, financially speaking, I find myself frowning at her. “Really?”

“Oh yeah.” Poppy nods emphatically. Her skin is glowing. Literally. As in, I think she fell asleep in a puddle of glitter. “Like, for example, these stairs—they have got to go. They’re so… suburban. Way too soccer-mom chic, you know?”

I didn’t realize soccer moms coincided with a particular kind of staircase.

Misha, thankfully, jumps right in.

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