Page 28 of Who's Your Daddy?

5. Lia

The distant sound ofa flushing toilet stirs me from sleep. My eyelids weigh a ton, and it takes a few tries to pry them open. The sight of the unfamiliar room startles me before memories of last night slowly creep to the fore.

Despite my better judgment, I came here with Peter last night. I still don’t fully understand why, but there’s something about him that puts me at ease. Maybe it’s because he’s so relaxed about everything. Nothing seems to faze him. He just seems to have it all figured out. Honestly, he’s not the guy I assumed he was.

Last night made me re-evaluate my opinion of him. He’d been plaguing my every thought since the night we first met, but no matter how many times I tried to suppress the image of his smile or the feel of his mouth or every delicious feeling that came with those memories, he just kept popping back up...like a fungus. I was constantly trying to convince myself that he was just a fuckboy who in no way deserved to live rent-free in my mind like that.

But my eyes took on a different view of him yesterday. He was thoughtful and considerate. I would even go so far as to say he was...sweet. I mean, he listened to my drunken ramblings for almost two hours with no complaint. He gets bonus points for that. And he didn’t even do it to get into my pants. I think he took that option off the table before we even got into the limo.

And most importantly, he saved me from myself. I was on the verge of doing something so incredibly stupid last night. I wasn’t lying when I told him I was desperate. I was. So desperate that I was willing to overlook everything Teddy did to me and go back to beg for one more chance. How pathetic! But I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to pull myself up by the bootstraps and just soldier through life like I’m made of steel.

My parents died before I was barely an adult, and Teddy took me in just a year after that. I never developed life skills or any kind of coping skills. It’s all just too much sometimes. But even though I don’t have a cent to my name, I can at least have some self-respect, right?

I’m so grateful to Peter for coaxing me off that dangerous ledge last night, but at the same time, I’m still ashamed that I walked away from one man, only to drop straight into the bed of another.

I’m naked under the covers. There’s a hickey on my shoulder. A box of condoms is toppled over on the nightstand with some sealed packets strewn across the floor. It’s like we couldn’t reach for one fast enough. It looks like we had one wild night and yet I don’t remember much of it. All I remember was that I kissed him first and the heat of his mouth sucked me into a hazy realm where all I wanted to feel was his skin against mine.

I gave in to him, and I’m sure it must have been amazing, but my drunken brain didn’t hold on to any of the vital information. I can’t believe I’m becoming this person. I had sex repeatedly with a married man twice my age, then jumped straight into bed with another guy not even two weeks later. And I did this while being completely wasted. I don’t even recognize myself. Maybe this is the skill I’m developing to cope with a lonely life and a tragic past.

I try to sit up and immediately grip both sides of my head to stop the relentless pounding. “I’m never drinking again,” I say with a muffled groan.

“Spoken like a true lady,” Peter quips as he emerges from the bathroom looking like he just escaped from a 2019 Wattpad novel.

It was a great era, an iconic moment in our history where the literary world gave us strong jawlines carved by Leonardo himself, rippling biceps that glisten with moisture, and smiles that could melt glaciers. This man is giving meallthat this morning.

He’s already had a shower, his black hair wet and disheveled. He’s wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, clouds of steam emanating from every sculpted muscle on his body. This is a good cope, right? Sleeping with someone as hot as him instead of actually dealing with my issues should be worthy of a few points. Especially because I now know that I am capable of so much worse.

So, if I do a quick tally in my head, the scoreboard currently stands at:

Life: 7 454 638

Lia...1.

Actually, I’m gonna take 2 because he’s not just a snack. He’s a whole meal with dessert.

“Do you feel as bad as you look?” he asks.

I toss myself back against the pillows. “Worse.”

He chuckles, crawling across the bed before he drops over beside me. “I’m just kidding. You don’t look bad.” Propping himself up on his elbow, he drops a quick kiss on my lips. It’s a little awkward, almost obligatory, probably because he has very limited experience regarding the etiquette and proceedings of themorning after. “In fact, you’re killing this smeared mascara look. It’s very...” He puts on a very bad French accent. “How do you say...raccoonesque.”

“Shut up!” I laugh (even though I should be mortified) and slap his arm.

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