Page 42 of Wildly Inappropriate

Me

How did it get out, then?

Sam

My guess? Penelope. She called from your dad’s office asking about the photo. I didn’t tell her anything about the donations.

Sam

But also, anyone who knows you would know that you were going to donate to that nursing home.

Sam

So I assume she made the leap. The articles do just strongly suggest that the donations were made by you. They don’t conclusively say it was you.

Me

My mom thought it was you.

Sam

Penelope likely didn’t fill your mom in.

Sam shared his theory that my dad was banging his assistant exactly one time with me, and that was enough for both of us. I can’t imagine my dad would do something like that. Not because of his relationship with my mom, but because it could seriously hurt his career if it got out. Well, it could hurt his career, or it would bring him even more firmly into the old boys’ club that he runs with.

Entirely disgusted with society as a whole by this point, I shift my attention to someone with ethics—pirates. I pick the book Lila and I are sharing, and warmth spreads through me as I realize she’s started her annotations again. I know I should be focused on winning that money for my parents, but right now, all I want to do is let myself fall into a story with Lila.

Chapter twenty-one

JT

“Hey, Pipsqueak,” I sayas Lila walks into the house a few days later. She and Kelsey have been out golfing the par three with Izzy and Becca this afternoon. Unfortunately for my game, the main course is still too banged up to play on.

I would normally have picked her up from work, but she caught a ride out with her officemates. The extra space in my schedule is making me feel a bit off my game, and for some reason, my mind kept slipping to Lila the whole afternoon, wondering how her day was. I know she’s excited about the proposal she’s working on for Kelsey, though, based on the way her shoulders tighten any time she talks about it, I think she might be struggling with it more than she is letting on.

Lila slips her shoes off with an exhausted sigh before joining me in the kitchen.

“Hey, Pretty Boy. Whatcha working on there?” she asks, pointing to the pile of chicken I’ve been cutting up for fajitas for the last ten minutes.

“Chicken,” I say with pride.

“Are you sure? It looks like a pile of mush.”

“Oh, I’m sure. It’s for fajitas. They always slice it like that.”

I look at said pile quizzically, and—damn it—she has a point. Why is it so mushy?

Her lips are pinched together, clearly trying and failing to hold back a laugh. “You know most people cook the meat and then cut it into strips, don’t you?”

“Only people who are terrible cooks,” I reply. Except I didn’t know that. Makes sense why it was so fricken hard to cut. I’m not much of a cook-my-own-food kind of guy.

“Or anyone who wants their meat to be edible.”

“Trust me, no one has ever complained about having my meat in their mouth. Especially the women.” I give her a quick wink for good measure.

She stares at me for a second, her eyes alight with surprise before she lets out a strangled sound. “Oh God. That was the douchiest thing anyone has ever said to me.” She’s laughing now, so hard she’s bent double. I start to move back to my cutting, but she holds up her hand to stop me.

I wait patiently for her to get it together, but Lila doesn’t seem to be able to stop her laughter. As I turn away, she chokes out, “Do the men tend to complain?” She’s laughing again. “About your meat in their mouths?”

---