Page 32 of Who's Your Daddy?

“It’s massive.”

“I know. And it can be a lot of work. That’s why I have a management company that keeps them all running smoothly for me. It costs me a small fortune, but I’d rather have more time and less stress. And that’s how I can live this kinda life even though I’m unemployed. I think I can take a tiny bit of credit for where I am today.”

“Ouch!” I suck in a sharp breath, pressing my hand against my side.

He reaches over to touch my arm, concern evident in his expression. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah...I’ve just got this pain here. It feels like...like some kind of growth. Shit, I think...I think I might be developing some respect for you.”

He cracks up, laughing so hard it echoes through the kitchen. “You had me going there. Are you sure you’re a model and not an actress?”

I’m neither, so I deflect and steer the conversation back to the original topic. “So, now that we’ve established that you’re only partly a second-generation rich kid, let’s get back to your love life. Are you planning on being single forever?”

“Not single. I might consider dating in the future. I think I’m gonna be like Leonardo DiCaprio and have some kind of a rotation system going. Date a chick for a few weeks, then swap her out for a younger model.”

I slam my hand against my mouth, making a retching sound at the back of my throat. “Sorry. I just gagged a little.”

“Many girls have that problem around me.” He winks to make sure I get the sexual innuendo, and I slap his arm.

“Pig! You’re repulsive. Do you honestly see yourself as some pervy fifty-year-old with wrinkly, sagging balls, hitting on a twenty-three-year-old waitress at the country club?”

“Of course not. For one, my balls wouldn’t be wrinkly or sagging. I would’ve kept them in shape over the years. And two, due to aforementioned aversions to gold diggers, I wouldn’t date a waitress or anyone who didn’t already have some level of wealth to her name. She needs to come from money so I can be sure of her intentions.”

“But then why not just date a woman your own age? Why go for someone so much younger?” Somewhere deep down inside, I know the real reason I’m asking this question.

“Younger women don’t have much life experience. Their expectations are low. They’re naïve, so they believe whatever bullshit you tell them. They don’t question much of anything. You can’t try that with an older woman. She’s been deceived so many times, she can spot a lie before it even leaves your mouth. If I’m looking to avoid commitment, the younger one is just the easier option.”

My heart plummets into my stomach. It confirms that Teddy was just using me. He saw me as foolish and naïve. The only reason he kept me around was because I was convenient. He got what he wanted, and I never questioned him. I believed every bullshit lie he told me. He was never going to commit to me. He intentionally chose me to avoid exactly that. I decide to distract myself in case I end up in tears.

“Hey, do you want some juice?” I offer, standing up.

“Sure. Glasses are on the top shelf of that cupboard over there.”

“I know. I saw them when I was looking for the plates earlier.”

Walking over to the fridge, I take out the carton of orange juice, then cross the kitchen to the cupboard on the other side. I’m quite tall, but I still have to lift onto my toes to reach the glasses.

“Fuck,” Peter curses under his breath.

I spin around to face him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah...uh...I just...” He looks down at his plate, shutting his eyes as he rubs his temples. “I bit my tongue.”

“Ow. I hate when that happens.”

I pour two glasses of juice, then carry them back to him and sit down. He groans, shutting his eyes again. He clenches and unclenches his hand, blowing out slow, even breaths.

I almost roll my eyes. “Oh, c’mon. It can’t be that bad, you big baby.”

“You don’t understand.” When he opens his eyes, his gaze drops to my thighs, and it stays there for a while before it slowly moves back up to my face. “I’m in the worst kind of pain right now.”

It’s a little hard to take him seriously because a naughty grin curves on his lips, and he chuckles to himself as if he knows something I don’t.

“If you’re trying to get sympathy points from me, it’s not working,” I say.

“Yeah, sympathy is what I want.”

The golden oldies continue to float through the speakers, and he’s right. Those songs are upbeat and chirpy. They do make me feel happy inside. We continue chatting as we clean up the kitchen. Well, mostly me. He doesn’t know the first thing about cleaning. After the dishes are packed away, he grabs a pint of ice cream from the freezer, and we return to our respective stools.

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