Page 9 of Who's Your Daddy?

He’s right. My plan was to go back to my motel room and wallow in despair and regret. I was just going to lie there on my dust-mite-riddled covers, staring at the ceiling as I ponder all the poor life choices I’ve made to get me to this point. Compared to that, a coffee with Creepazoid over here doesn’t seem so bad.

“Will you behave?” I ask.

“Will you?” He winks at me again, and I give him an eye roll. We only take a few steps before he steps in front of me, blocking my path. “Before we leave, I need to ask you something. Don’t take offense, but you look kinda young, and I just want to make sure I’m not doing anything illegal when we leave here. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four.” The lie comes out naturally. I’ve said it so many times, I think a part of me believes it. “I mean, I’m twenty...” After a nanosecond of internal debate, I backtrack on the truth because it’s easier than explaining why I’m in the habit of lying about my age in the first place. “Uh...four. Yeah, twenty-four.”

His eyebrows draw together, and a puzzled expression wrinkles his forehead. “That’s what you said the first time.”

“I know.”

I don’t leave an opening for him to ask a follow-up question and continue walking. Bayview Country Club is massive, so it takes almost fifteen minutes for us to trek through the parking lot and across the street to the café. It seems like we missed the lunch crowd because it’s relatively empty. It’s a lot less posh than the country club, but still gives off that elite sort of feel with its vintage furnishings and nautical décor. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. This is an extremely upmarket area, which is why Teddy set up a golf course here.

We request a table outside and the waitress leads us out onto the wooden deck to a semi-shady spot. She leaves us with menus, and Peter opens one up as soon as we sit down.

“So, what are you having, dollface?”

“A vanilla latte. And why do you keep calling me dollface?”

He sits back in his chair and allows the sun to beat down on his face. “Well, for one, you haven’t told me your name yet. And two, you have the face of a porcelain doll. Smooth skin. Rosy cheeks. Perfect symmetry. Your features are flawless...like a doll.”

I’m not sure why, but I find anything that comes out of his mouth offensive. Maybe that was supposed to be a compliment, but I just can’t take it as one. “Is that your way of trying to hit on me? Because my interest level is below zero.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was simply making statements that are obvious and observable. If I werehitting on you, you’d know it.”

For some reason, that statement intrigues me. I sit back as well, crossing my arms over my chest. “You sound so cocky, but I bet your definition ofhittingon someone is just feeding them sleazy pickup lines. And with the sheer lack of judgment women have these days, they probably work too.”

The waitress comes to the table to take our order, and after requesting a vanilla latte and a plain black coffee, he resumes the conversation. “Oddly enough, sleazy pickup lines are not in my arsenal, but yes. I have some tried and trusted methods that...work.”

“Ballpark percentage...what’s your success rate?”

“Maybe between ninety and ninety-two percent.”

He’s drop-dead gorgeous, so that percentage doesn’t shock me. “Okay, talk me through your modus operandi.”

He laughs as if my request is outrageous. “You make it sound so clinical and strategic. I’m not trying to manipulate the woman or the situation, so I don’t have amodus operandi. If someone captures my interest, I just walk up to them and strike up a conversation.”

“And it’s that easy for you?” The waitress returns with our order, and I take a sip of my latte. “You don’t have a game plan? First, compliment her eyes, then mention an interesting fact about yourself, and once she’s hooked, you—”

“That’s the kind of shit you find in men’s magazines that help the shy guys come out of their shells, but if you’ve been in the game long enough, you know that stuff like that doesn’t always work. That’s a generic plan meant to encompass all women, but it doesn’t take into account how beautifully unique each one is. A woman who’s reserved and shy has to be approached differently to someone who’s an extrovert.”

He explains these various approaches, and it’s amazing how much thought and effort he’s put into analyzing different women and how they would react in a situation. Somewhere in the middle of this discussion, we order another round of coffee, and by the time the waitress brings it to our table, I’m confused at my reaction to him. Part of me is appalled and enraged by how flippant he is about being a womanizer. But the other part of me is disturbingly fascinated by every word that leaves his mouth.

“Wow! You are the Chad of all Chads. An absolute Giga Chad.”

“Why, thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I scrape the foam off the top of my mug and lick it off my spoon. I only realize how sexually suggestive that gesture is when his eyes zone in on my mouth. There’s no subtlety. He makes it known that he’s staring at me, and his lips quirk up with amusement when he notices my discomfort.

That smile is so cute, so sexy that it actually flusters me. My cheeks heat up and a bolt of heat runs right through me. I shift in my chair, crossing my legs to ease the tingle that just zapped me there.

“Uh...” I ignore the sudden spike in my hormones and continue as if my face isn’t on fire. “So, tell me how you would do it with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean...if we hadn’t met the way we did, and you saw me at some bar...hypothetically...how would you approach me?”

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