Page 34 of The Play

Dad isn’t my favorite person, but I don’t typically complain about him to anyone. My whole life, I just went along with the cookie-cutter perfect family thing we’ve got going on. Anything else would’ve felt self-indulgent. I mean, I’m a rich dude who grew up in Greenwich and attended elite private schools. Other people have it worse. Some of them suffer from actual physical abuse, which is farworse than simply being unable to meet the unrealistic standards of an egomaniac.

Nevertheless, it is fascinating to describe these events of my childhood from Dad’s point of view. I don’t know if I’m hitting the right notes, but more research on the subject will probably help me zero in on specific thought patterns.

“I’ll see you next week,” I tell Demi. “But I don’t think I’m available on Monday, though.”

“How about mid-week?”

“I should be around on Wednesday night. But not the weekend—we’re playing three games.”

“Okay, possibly Wednesday night,” she says, “but that’s usually my gym day.”

“You go to the gym?”

“Of course. Why do you think I look this good?”

Naturally, my gaze is pulled right back to her tight, petite body. She can’t be taller than five-three, but, man, her legs seem endless. Long and tanned and bare in her tiny denim shorts. I bet her ass is taut and perfect, a perfect little handful.

Oh shit.

It’s happening.

I’m fantasizing about her.

Abort, dude, abort!

“Anyway.” I wrench my gaze away, but not before she catches me.

“Oh my God, stop it. You’re not allowed to look at me like that,” Demi orders. “You’re a monk, remember?”

“I wasn’t looking at you like anything,” I lie.

“Bullshit. You were giving me the Penis Eyes.”

“I was not. Trust me, smoldering looks aren’t my go-to move.” I smirk. “If I was making a real move on you, you wouldn’t be telling me to stop.”

“You have an actualmove?” A delighted smile lights up Demi’spretty face. Her skin is incredible. Glowing and flawless, and I don’t think she’s even wearing makeup. “Show me!”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No,” I growl. “You’re not allowed to see my move.”

“Why not?” she whines.

“Two reasons—you have a boyfriend, and I’m a monk.”

“Fine. But for the record, I’m betting your move is lamer than lame.” Grinning, she opens the top drawer of her desk. After some fumbling, her hand emerges with another lollipop. Cherry, this time. Or maybe strawberry.

“I think you’re a sugar addict,” I inform her.

“Nah, I just like having things in my mouth.”

“Nope, not even touching that statement.”

She glares at me. “It’s called an oral fixation, Hunter. It’s quite common.”

“Uh-huh. If you say so.”

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