Page 13 of Who's Your Daddy?

He leads me inside and it’s even more beautiful than the outside. All the furniture is white or a blend of neutral colors, making the whole place look pristine and sophisticated. Yet the light wood of the floors and walls gives it a cozy, homely feel. There are very few exterior walls. Most of the house is enclosed in glass sliding doors, so there’s a view of the beach from almost every room.

He enters the kitchen and heads straight for the fridge. “Do you want a beer? I think I may even have wine. I need to check, though.”

I’m not even the legal age to drink yet. “Soda’s good for me.”

He takes out two sodas and elbows the fridge door shut, then walks past me to the staircase. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Upstairs?”

“Yeah. To my bedroom.”

“Your what?”

It must be my flabbergasted expression that pulls a laugh out of him. “Relax. There’s just a better view from up there.”

I nod and follow him upstairs. He wasn’t lying. The view that greets me when I enter his bedroom takes my breath away. He opens the glass sliding door that leads out to his balcony. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The clean, sophisticated style I saw downstairs carries over to the outdoor area, complemented by the light gray stone and white furniture.

A mini-garden and a small roof-top pool are on the left. On the right is a plush white, round rattan outdoor sofa bed in front of a gas fireplace. The setting sun eases the oppressive July heat and transforms the sky into a vast canvas of cotton candy clouds, streaked with bursts of peach and lavender.

“Wow.” I inhale a deep breath as I take in the beauty in front of me. “You must watch the sunset from up here every day.”

“Nah. I actually live in Pasadena. This is more of a leisure home. I come here when I want to surf...or getaway to relax.”

I have to bite my tongue to not make a comment about that. He’sunemployed! He has no business living like this. Life is so unfair.

“This smells amazing.” Peter sits down on the sofa bed, stretching his long legs across the cushions as he opens the pizza box. “Have a seat.”

The sofa bed is large enough to accommodate about four people, so there’s still sufficient space between us when I sit down. I make myself comfortable leaning against the backrest and stretching my legs out as well. We chat as we eat our pizza and watch the waves crash against the shore. The topics change effortlessly, without any stilted pauses, though there’s still a moderate amount of verbal jabs between us.

“Sometimes I think I would’ve been amazing in a boy band,” he says.

“Nope,” I reply, still chewing. “Members of boy bands are usually sweet and...loveable.”

“Not all of them. The band needs variety. I would be the broody one with the sexy smolder.”

“Let me see the smolder.”

He pouts his lips and lifts an eyebrow. “Sexy, right?

I’ll admit, it’s pretty damn cute, but I’m not going to stroke his already inflated ego. “Meh. It’s okay. And I guess you need the smolder to compensate for your lack of talent. I bet you can’t even sing.”

“Of course I can. And I can play, like, three musical instruments.”

“Oh, crap!” I look down at my shirt. “What a mess.”

“What’s wrong? Cheese grease?”

“No, you just got your bullshit all over me.” I pretend as if I’m trying to wipe it off. “That’s gonna leave a stain.”

“Some baking soda and vinegar will lift that right out,” he fires back. “But fine. If you want the truth. I can’t play any instruments, and my singing voice is mediocre at best, but that’s all you really need to be in a boy band.”

The conversation takes a weird turn from there, and we end up debating whether real talent even exists in a world when everything is so fake. He believes AI has made us lose respect and appreciation for natural ability. As the evening progresses, I realize that he’s not just fun to talk to, he’s fascinating. Being unemployed has afforded him time to learn a lot about a wide range of random things. He seems to have the memory of an elephant because he’s stored all this information and is able to regurgitate facts and statistics on a whim.

We speak about movies, and he tells me about which year it was produced, the actors who won Oscars, and how much it made at the box office. We speak about art, and he tells me which pieces came from the Renaissance era and how much they would sell for now. He’s just a treasure trove of fun facts, and he sprouts these out in such a natural way that he never dominates the conversation, nor does he come across as a know-it-all. If anything, he downplays his intelligence by throwing in silly jokes. It’s kind of charming.

He’s also earning points by being a perfect gentleman. There’s some occasional touching, and I’m not totally convinced they’re accidental. But apart from a light brush against my thigh or the caress of my forearm, he’s maintaining a respectable distance.

Somehow, this makes me feel more comfortable around him. I get so engrossed in the conversation that I lose track of time. Every twenty minutes, I tell myself that it’s enough and I need to leave, but then I just sit there and continue talking.

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